#vincent x reader

You opened your mouth to answer—

“Director!”

Alastor’s eyes snapped to the entrance, irritation flashing bright and instantaneous beneath the courteous veneer.

Vincent leaned in the frame, one hand on his hip, "I need you,” he announced, “We’ve got an issue in Studio 4. Something only you can fix.”

Alastor’s jaw tensed so sharply you heard the tiny click of his teeth grinding together.

You tried to keep your voice neutral. “Oh— um… okay. I’ll see what’s wrong.”

You grimaced apologetically. “Alastor, I’m so sorry. I should check that out. If his show misses broadcast time, corporate will yell at me again.”

He forced a small wave. “Of course, my dear. Duty calls.”

Vincent stepped aside with exaggerated politeness, hand near the small of your back. “Thanks for coming,” he murmured to you. But his eyes flicked past you to Alastor, taunting him silently.

*

The conference room was too small for the amount of tension inside it.

You sat at the middle of the long table, folders and production notes spread before you. To your left sat Alastor — tidy, composed. To your right sat Vincent — leaning back in his chair like he owned the place, ankle crossed over knee.

Half the department was there, but it felt like only the three of you breathed. “Alright,” you began, scanning your notes. “Visual media first. Vincent, why is your show’s prep behind schedule this week?”

Alastor's grin widened. Oh, what excuse will the tv show host give? Alastor prided himself over punctuality, over how he put everything in his script until it was perfect. And you liked that; that's the reason he got along with you so well.

Across the polished table, several visual-team staff braced themselves. Vincent didn’t. He leaned back in his chair with a lazy confidence that made Alastor’s eye twitch.

“Rendering issues,” Vincent said, waving a hand. “A few tech hiccups. A few idiots.”

He smoothly pivoted. “But I know you understand the struggle. You’re a capable, independent woman — brilliant, actually, and you know sometimes the schedule just can’t keep up with your creativity.”

You rolled your eyes and let out a warm laugh. “Flattery, Vinny, will get you far… but only so far. Double your pace this week, and I’ll approve the new graphic set.”

Vincent pressed a hand to his heart dramatically. “For you? Twice the usual speed.”

“Good.” You nodded professionally, tapping your notes. “We need that if you want your premiere to stay on schedule.”

Alastor wasn’t amused.

A pet name? Since when did Vincent earn a pet name? Since when did you smile at him like that?

Vincent felt the stare and smirked a little harder, leaning back comfortably, clearly enjoying the reaction he was provoking.

You flipped to the next page on your clipboard, shifting your attention from the team to your right.

“Alright, radio division,” you announced, tone brightening. “Alastor—your last episode was fantastic, but…” You looked at him with a half-smile he instantly leaned into. “You know I adore your perfectionism, but the audience needs a little more drama. A bit more spice. Give me some razzmatazz.”

He lifted his chin and considered you for a heartbeat, “If it’s excitement you want,” he said thoughtfully, “how about we cover that serial killer who’s been making headlines? An investigative segment, perhaps. Something… tantalizing.”

Your eyes brightened. “Oh—yes. That would absolutely work.”

He hummed, smug satisfaction softening his posture.

You added, almost without thinking, “Good work, Al.”

Across you, Vincent’s head snapped up like someone had thrown ice water on him. Al. Pet name. The same kind of casual affection you had used with him.

Slowly, deliberately, he turned his head toward Vincent and smiled a smile so self-satisfied...A shit-eating grin, sharp and far too pleased.

“Why, thank you, darling,” Alastor replied, voice deliberately silky, eyes fixed on Vincent as he said it. “Always happy to provide exactly what you’re looking for.”

Vincent bristled, sitting forward in his chair as if ready to throw hands across the meeting table.

The meeting wrapped with the usual shuffle of papers and exhausted groans from the staff. People filtered out, chatting in low voices.

But Vincent and Alastor didn’t move. They both leaned forward at the same time, clearly ready to talk to you before the other could—

The producer marched in, face red with irritation.

Your brows lifted. “Sir? What brings you here?”

He didn’t answer right away. He held up a stack of papers, slammed it down on the conference table, and spat. “Our ratings have dropped.”

You blinked. “What? No—sir, our network is ranked first among all media houses this quarter.”

“And still not high enough!” he barked. “We’re only ahead by a thin margin. One scandal, one failed broadcast, one wrong creative decision—and any rival house can overtake us.” His glare sharpened. “Frankly, I should’ve known better than to hire a woman for this position.”

Your jaw tightened, but your voice stayed controlled. “I’ll do better.”

He scoffed. “You’d better. Or I’ll move someone competent into your position.”

And then he turned on his heel and left, the door slamming behind him. Both men were staring at the door like they could burn it down with their eyes.

Vincent’s jaw flexed once—hard. Vincent had met dozens of directors who cared about nothing but money, who would’ve thrown him away the moment a better opportunity came. You had taken a chance hiring him when everyone else treated him like some young, untested brat with flashy ideas. You listened to him. You trusted him. You put your career behind his show.

And this bastard spoke to you like that? Hearing someone belittle you ignited something feral in him.

Alastor, meanwhile, was eerily silent. He stared at the door the producer had vanished through, eyes darkened with something cold and ancient. He had seen cruelty. He had seen discrimination. But he had never seen a director who fought for every employee—race, background, gender—none of it mattered to you. You made the workplace better simply by being in in it.

And this man dared to undermine that? To insult you? To threaten your job? Unacceptable.

----------------------------------------

It was nearly midnight when he tossed the producer into an office chair, the metal scraping across the concrete floor. The man’s face was already swollen—one eye purple, lip split, cheekbone bruised. Vincent hadn’t held back.

A strip of cable wire bound the producer’s wrists behind the chair.

Vincent rolled his shoulders, adjusting his gloves, and casually flipped a knife through his fingers.

The producer whimpered. “P-please—this wasn’t personal—”

“Oh, I know,” Vincent purred, circling him like a shark. “You treat everyone like shit.”

The producer sobbed. “I’ll— I’ll give you money—anything—”

“Boring.” Vincent stepped around him again, bringing the knife to the man’s cheek. “I want something more valuable.”

The blade glided lightly over swollen skin, leaving a thin trail of blood.

“Tell me,” Vincent said softly, crouching to eye level, “what’s your favourite organ?”

The producer’s breath hitched. “W-What?”

Vincent tilted his head, smile growing. “Your eye? Should I take that first?” He lifted the knife, blade inches from the man’s trembling eyelid.

“No—no, please—!”

“Oh, no, no…” Vincent grabbed the producer’s jaw with one gloved hand, fingers digging in until the man cried out. “I’ve decided.”

The knife tapped the corner of the producer’s mouth. A cruel sparkle lit Vincent’s eyes. “I should take your tongue first. For dishonouring our sweet, beautiful director.”

Vincent swore under his breath the second the cable snapped.

The producer twisted violently, the chair tipping. Vincent lunged for him, but the man ripped free, shoving Vincent hard enough that he stumbled backward into a desk.

“You little—!” Vincent hissed, regaining his balance.

But the producer was already sprinting down the hallway of the abandoned building, blood dripping, breath ragged.

Vincent straightened. “Shit—”

He stalked after him. The producer didn’t get far. A strangled scream tore through the building.

Vincent rounded the corner and stopped. The producer was sprawled on the concrete, clutching his shoulder, blood pooling beneath his palm. Above him stood Alastor, coat pristine… and a hunting knife embedded in the man’s shoulder.

Not a fatal strike, just enough to stop him.

“Well, well,” he purred, turning toward Vincent, “someone’s new at this.”

Vincent blinked then choked out a low, incredulous laugh. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

He stepped forward until he and Alastor stood shoulder-to-shoulder over the trembling man.

Alastor lifted the producer’s chin with the tip of his knife. “But it seems we are… like-minded in our intentions tonight.”

The producer sobbed, trying to crawl away. Blood smeared under him.

A feral grin spread across Vincent’s face. “Alright then, Al.” His voice dropped, dark and hungry. “How about you show me how you do it?”

Alastor’s eyes gleamed with vicious delight. “Why, my dear Vincent,” Alastor murmured, “I would be delighted to.”

*

You had almost reached the elevator when you froze.

Your stomach dropped. Your bag. You’d left it in your office. Your keys, your ID, your entire life was in there. “Great,” you muttered, rubbing your temples. “Just great.”

The building was mostly empty now, lights dimmed for the night. You walked back down the hallway toward your office. A faint crackle echoed from deeper in the building. Then you turned the corner. And your heart stopped. The world tilted.

Vincent and Alastor stood over a body. Blood pooling beneath him.

All three of you froze. No one breathed.

“Sweetheart,” Vincent began, hands half-raised as if trying to block your view. “It’s— it’s not what it looks like—”

Alastor snapped his head toward him. “That is the lamest excuse,” he hissed, voice low. “It won’t work on her.”

You turned and ran.

You didn’t think. You sprinted down the hall, shoes slapping the linoleum, heart punching your ribs, the image of them over the body burned into your skull.

*

You had spent the entire day carefully avoiding both men. You moved through the hallways with calculated precision, taking different routes to meetings, sipping coffee at odd times, and slipping in and out of rooms so no one could catch sight of you.

By the end of the day, you were exhausted. Relief washed over you as you packed your things into your bag, exhaling shakily. I can’t do this every day, you thought. Maybe I should just look for another job.

You were so absorbed in your thoughts that you didn’t notice the soft click of the office door closing behind you.

Your spine prickled, and instinctively you turned around. “Vincent,” you breathed, startled.

He was leaning against the door, his hands in his pockets, his eyes sharp and unreadable.

“H-Hey,” you stammered, trying to steady your voice. “Um… did you want something?”

He pushed off the door, closing the distance between you with slow, deliberate steps. “Tsk,” he said, his voice low and amused, eyes sweeping over you, “Pretending everything is fine?”

You instinctively took a step back, your hip hitting the edge of your desk. “Stay away from me,” you said, forcing steel into your voice, though your pulse thundered in your ears.

Vincent chuckled softly, a sound that slid under your skin and made your body tense. “Why? Are you afraid?” he asked, stepping even closer.

“I’m not,” you said too quickly, and the honesty slipped out before you could stop it.

Instantly, his smirk widened, sharp and knowing. He placed one hand on your waist, firm and possessive, yet not hurting you. He leaned in closer, his lips brushing the side of your neck.

First came a slow, warm press of his mouth, and then another kiss. He trailed a delicate suck across the pulse point of your neck. Your breath hitched, and before you could stop it, a soft moan escaped you.

Vincent hummed against your skin, his voice vibrating softly. “So you weren’t lying,” he murmured. “Your pulse is fast… not because you’re afraid, but because you want me.”

Heat rushed to your face, and your stomach twisted. You hated that he was right. Vincent’s eyes sparkled with cruel delight as he leaned closer, his lips grazing your ear. “Look at that,” he whispered, voice low and teasing. “So pretty when you get all shy.”

You pull back only an inch, indignation caught tight in your throat. “You—”

But the protest dies as something shifts behind you — a familiar presence, a familiar warmth, those unmistakable arms sliding around your waist like they belonged there. Your breath stutters.

Alastor.

He steps out from the darker corner, as if the shadows themselves had been holding him. Had he been hiding there from the beginning? So… they planned this.

Your pulse jumps.

Alastor’s fingers curl around your hips as he gently turns you toward him, sharp eyes softened with that theatrically polite guilt.

“My dear,” he murmurs, “forgive us if we startled you yesterday. We simply… disliked how that man spoke to you.” He exhales a laugh that doesn’t touch his eyes. “You will forgive us… won’t you?”

Before you can even shape a reply, he leans in.

His mouth claims yours — warm, coaxing. His hand cups your jaw, guiding you closer.

Then Vincent’s lips touch your neck. You jolt, breath catching sharply. His grip tightens around your waist, pulling you flush against him, with every slow kiss he trails down the column of your throat.

His hands glide upward, teasingly slow, fingers tracing beneath your ribs as if savoring every inch. Then they rise higher, cupping your breasts through your clothes — reverent, hungry, palms warm and deliberate.

You gasp into Alastor’s mouth.

Alastor smiles against your lips, amused at how they unravel you between them. His thumb strokes your cheekbone as he deepens the kiss, guiding your mouth to open wider, inviting him in.

Behind you, Vincent unbuttoned your blouse, massages your breasts in slow, claiming circles — his thumbs brushing your nipples until they tighten under his touch.

Your breath shatters the moment Vincent’s hand slides lower — past your stomach, past the edge of your waistband until his fingers slip beneath the fabric.

Al leans in, lips grazing the side of your neck before sealing around your skin. The first slow pull of his mouth is deliberately sinful — hot, wet, claiming. He sucks hard enough that your knees weaken instantly, and his hand tightens on your waist to keep you upright.

“Oh, she likes that…” Vincent breathes behind you, as his fingers find your pussy.

You gasp — loud, involuntary — head tipping back against Vincent’s shoulder as his fingertips slide through your slick folds, stroking you like he’s mapping every reaction.

“Fuck…” he mutters, low and delighted.

Alastor’s chuckle vibrates against your throat. He shifts, sucking a deeper mark just below your ear, lips dragging lower, teeth grazing lightly before he closes his mouth around your skin again. He takes his time — each hickey bold, deliberate, like he wants you painted in him.

Vincent sinks two fingers inside you. You choke on a moan, body jerking, clutching at Alastor’s chest to stay upright. Vincent’s other hand locks around your hip, pulling you tighter against him as he pumps his fingers slow, deep, purposeful — curling just right, hitting that spot that forces your thighs to tremble.

“That’s it,” he purrs, fingers thrusting faster now, slick sounds growing filthy in the quiet room. “Take it. Give it to me.”

Alastor nips your neck, humming with pleasure at your every sound. Your hips start moving on their own, chasing Vincent’s rhythm — shallow, desperate little rolls you can’t control. Your breath comes in sharp, needy bursts, your body tightening with every curl of his fingers.

Your moan rips out of you, your entire body seizing as the orgasm hits fast and violent — heat rushing through you in a pulse that makes your vision blur. Vincent holds you firmly as you shake against him, fingers relentless until you’re gasping, overstimulated, clinging to Alastor like he’s the only thing keeping you upright.

Alastor’s lips finally leave your neck — several dark bruises already blooming there and he tilts your chin up with a wicked smile.

“My, my…” he murmurs. “Already so undone.”

Vincent withdraws his fingers slowly, deliberately, and you feel the wet slide of it. You shiver.

“We’re not even close,” Vincent whispers against your ear.

“Not yet,” Alastor adds, smiling like he’s about to ruin you in the most patient, elegant way.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Augh—are you kidding me?” The whine slipped out before you could stop it, thin and exhausted as you kicked your feet against the mattress like a frustrated child. “This dev sucks so bad. How the fuck am I supposed to unlock the mystery love interest when your route is so goddamn convoluted?”

The 1950s blues track of Fly Me to the Moon looped in the background, scratchy and cheerful in a way that made you want to fling your phone across the room.

You’d spent the entire day sunk into this adult-rated retro-styled dating sim, your fictional life as a horny bright-eyed assistant at a bustling broadcast station during the golden age of television. The game dangled options like candy: the broad-shouldered news anchor with a secret soft spot, the velvet-voiced late-night entertainer who loved too recklessly, the charming producer brothers with their easy grins and complicated baggage.

And beneath the flirting, the explicit sex scenes, the swooning jazz?

A murderer stalking the station, thinning the cast one by one. Catch them, and you’d earn your fairytale ending: wedding bells, more sex scenes, and sepia-toned bliss.

It wasn’t even a mystery anymore. Of course, it was Vincent Whittman, the eternally overlooked weatherman with the limp handshake and overeager smile. He hovered like a fruit fly anytime your affection with another love interest spiked too high, always offering to “help,” constantly trying to wedge himself into your path. The moment you chose an answer he didn’t like—instant Game Over.

And now, after spending your week of vacation hunched over your tiny phone screen, eyes dry and brain buzzing, you’d finally reached the true route. The final gauntlet before the elusive secret character. But the choices were nonsense. Left or right in an alley—both bad ends because apparently eight choices ago you didn’t squint suspiciously enough at Vincent’s awkward little compliment.

This game sucked.

This game sucked so much.

But your pride was louder than your exhaustion. And your wallet definitely had opinions. You’d already sunk $345.76 into keys, DLC, exclusive outfits, and those stupid loot boxes you swore you’d only buy once. Then once more. Then “just this bundle because it’s discounted.”

It added up faster than your sanity was declining.

At this point, you weren’t just playing—you were invested, emotionally, financially, spitefully. Your vision blurred, but you refused to put the phone down. Not after everything. Not after all this time.

You’d win this cursed game or die trying, sleep deprivation and dignity be damned.

“Fucking goddamn shitty—fuck—fuck…” You muttered the curses under your breath, each word tumbling out harsher than the last as your fingertip jabbed the replay button like it had personally betrayed you. The cheerful fanfare chimed again, that tinny, too-bright melody you’d heard so many times it felt like it was drilling through your skull. And then the unskippable intro rolled in—mocking you, taunting you.

You would have hurled your phone across the room if you didn’t still owe twenty-four months on the payment plan.

The room filled with the frenzied rhythm of your tapping. You hammered at the screen, desperate to fast-forward the dialogue you could probably recite in your sleep. The intro played for the hundredth, maybe the thousandth time, soaking into your bones like a curse. 

You wanted to quit so badly your hands shook, but your pride had its fingers around your throat, insisting you keep going. And your brain, fogged by exhaustion, tried to spin the whole thing into some bargain: maybe beating the game would make the nearly four hundred dollars you’d swallowed feel worth it.

Another sharp pang stabbed behind your eyes. Fatigue pressed down on you like a heavy hand. You groaned, rubbing at your face as the edges of your vision pulsed and darkened, colours smearing together. The screen doubled, then tripled. You blinked hard. Once. Twice. Trying to pull yourself back into focus.

Then the world tilted.

Your eyes snapped open and your breath hitched.

Instead of your popcorn-pattern ceiling, a floating pop-up box hovered just inches from your face. Crisp borders. Bright colours. A painfully familiar font.

Your expression soured instantly.

Are you kidding me? Vincent? Vincent?

The limp-noodle weatherman?The worst murderer in video game history? The loser?

A groan tore out of you as you pushed yourself upright. You weren’t in your room anymore—you were in a cramped, dingy little office that smelled like old paper and damp carpet. The furniture sagged like it had been donated by someone who hated the recipient.

Wow.

You’d played the game so long your subconscious had trapped you inside it. Perfect.

You sighed, shutting your eyes for a moment.

Please, brain. If you’re going to hallucinate, at least make it a cool dream. Wings. Magic. Something sexy. Anything but this.

But when you opened your eyes again, another pop-up flicked into existence.

Your brows knitted. “What the—” you tried to say, but the sound didn’t leave your throat. Your lips moved, shaping the words, but nothing emerged.

A cold spike of fear ran down your spine. You touched your throat, fingertips trembling, trying again to speak. Still nothing.

You knew, rationally, that this had to be a dream. But you had never slipped into one with this much clarity before. You could feel everything: the chill of the room biting into your bare arms, the damp heaviness of the stale air settling in your lungs, even the faint ache in your legs as you shifted your weight.

Your nerves buzzed as you pushed open the office door. The hallway beyond was instantly familiar, a backdrop you’d stared at countless times through your phone screen… except now you stood inside it. You walked forward slowly, hyperaware of every echoing footstep.

It was empty.

Too empty.

An eerie, hollow version of the station you knew in the game.

Was this the beginning of Vincent’s route? Usually, the game made you pick after the prologue. None of this matched anything you’d played before. And certainly not like this.

You swallowed hard and kept going, each step slightly unbalanced, as if your mind couldn’t reconcile seeing the world without a frame or UI around it.

Beyond the station doors, faint glittering specks shimmered along the sidewalk—like scattered stardust. A trail. A lure. You followed it with a tight, uneasy throat.

It led you to the mouth of an alley.

You leaned in, peering through the shadows—

—and froze.

Vincent Whittman stood there, his posture rigid, his hand moving with a horrifyingly casual ease as he slashed the anchor’s throat. Blood arced in a brilliant, violent sweep across the brick wall, splattering the ground in a wet, dark spray.

Holy… fuck.

Your body locked. You had never seen murder like this…raw and unfiltered, inches away from you.

But this wasn’t real. It couldn’t be real.

And yet, the metallic tang of blood coated the air. The humidity pressed against your skin like a damp hand. Vincent turned toward you, glasses catching the dim light, and the reflection made them look like empty, glowing eyes.

You should run. You should scream. You should do anything except stand there like you were bolted to the ground.

Then another pop-up appeared in front of you. A large dialogue box with a timer ticking down in the corner. The timer you’d always cursed.

Five seconds.

Your pulse thundered.

Stay still? In front of a murderer? What kind of idiotic option was that? Obviously, you should pick the first one—

Four seconds.

But the earlier warning flashed back through your mind: You only have one life.

Three seconds.

This had to be a dream… didn’t it?

It felt like a dream.

But everything was so vivid, so sharp.

Two seconds.

The box flashed red, pulsing with urgency. If you didn’t choose, what then? Would Vincent kill you? Would you wake up? Or… worse? Your heartbeat stuttered wildly as you stared at the two choices, your mind spinning between fear and disbelief.

This was insane. Completely unhinged.

One second.

Your breath seized in your chest.

And you chose—

You stayed still.

Perfectly, utterly still.

As if your life depended on it. No, your life did depend on it. 

Vincent Whittman stepped toward you, each footfall soft but unbearably deliberate. The metal rod in his hand—sharpened to a brutal point—dripped with thick, dark blood that pattered onto the concrete. The sound alone made your stomach twist.

“You’re that annoying assistant who keeps hovering over him,” he said, his grin stretching too wide. One of his blue eye gleamed with sharp, predatory interest while the other, the green eye, looked almost dead. The contrast made your skin crawl.

You tried to force out a word, anything, but the invisible grip around your throat only tightened. The game refused to let you speak.

And then—of course—another dialogue box popped up in front of you. A new set of choices.

With a timer.

Again.

A spark of pure, exhausted rage flared in your chest.

This creator.

This fucking game.

What kind of pacing was this? Who thought these were reasonable options? Were they drunk? High? Actively trying to torture players?

Five seconds.

The first choice was obvious. Anyone with common sense would pick it. You should pick it.

Four seconds.

The second option made you sound like some delusional idiot. Attention? Seriously? Who would say that to a murderer holding a blood-soaked weapon?

Three seconds.

Maybe you could test it. Maybe dying here just meant waking up in bed.

But what if… what if it wasn’t that simple?

No. No, this was still a dream, right? It had to be.

Two seconds.

Vincent’s rod glinted red as it caught the faint light, droplets sliding down the metal. Your pulse hammered. The box started flashing red, demanding a choice.

Your throat burned as your voice finally rasped out, rough and unsteady—

“It’s… be-because I wanted your attention.”

Vincent’s shoulders went rigid.

Silence dropped like a stone.

Holy fuck.

Holy fuck holy fuck holy fuck—

Did you just pick the wrong choice? Was this it? Were you about to die in a dingy alley because of a dialogue tree? In the real world, would your obituary read: Local woman suffers cardiac arrest after investing irresponsibly in a predatory dating sim?

You couldn’t even squeeze your eyes shut. The game wouldn’t let you blink away the fear crawling up your spine.

Then—

A bright cyan heart materialized above Vincent’s head, locked tight.

A click echoed through the alley.

The lock shattered.

Sparkles burst around it.

...and you gained 5% affection.

Your eyes flew wide.

Holy shit.

That… actually worked?

“Y-you… wanted my attention?” Vincent’s voice cracked on the first word. He winced, cleared his throat, tried again, but the awkwardness clung to him like a second skin.

You stared at him, stunned. Not just by the question, but by the sheer absurdity of what was happening. This man had just slit a coworker’s throat. Blood still clung to the rod dangling at his side. A corpse lay cooling on the pavement. And yet here he was… blushing. Like a schoolboy caught passing notes, not a murderer standing in a gore-slick alley.

Also…where the hell was everyone?

You were in the heart of New York City. Not a single scream. Not a single witness. Not even the ambient rush of traffic. Just you, a killer, and an alley that felt boxed in by the silence.

Your stomach lurched when two more dialogue options blinked into existence. And, of course, another five-second timer.

This route was criminally underdeveloped. The dev hadn’t even tried.

You cursed silently. Both choices were practically identical, and both were disgustingly embarrassing. You wanted to groan, maybe curl in on yourself, but the game held you in place like a puppet.

You forced your foggy mind to skim through everything you knew about Vincent from previous routes. Especially the producer route—that one had dug deepest into his psyche. The bad ends there had revealed more about him than any romance scenes ever did.

Pathetic.

Unsatisfied.

Obsessed with climbing the hierarchy, no matter who he had to step on.

A desperate man clawing for validation and attention because he never felt like he had enough.

Men like him—no, people like him—were frightening in a way that didn’t require a weapon.

Anger flared in your chest, simmering with a strange clarity. You already knew which option he wanted. Which one he would swallow whole.

Your expression softened into a sweet, saccharine smile. Your hands clasped together like some bashful heroine straight out of a vintage romance flick.

“Yes! I've always fancied you, but was too shy to talk to you.”

You lifted a hand to your cheek, looked off to the side, and let a faint warmth bloom across your skin.

A soft chime rang behind you—a mechanic you knew too well.

You whipped your gaze upward.

Another five percent.

Ten percent total now.

Just from two ridiculous lines.

Geez. This was almost too easy.

“Oh, I… I didn’t know that,” Vincent murmured, his voice small. The corners of his lips twitched, tilting upward in a shy, almost boyish smile. His cheeks darkened into a deeper shade of red.

If this were the real game, this would be the perfect spot for a CG illustration, the kind they would charge you $0.99 to unlock. A sweet image, soft lighting, blushing faces.

Except…

A dead body lay inches from your shoes.

The alley walls were dripping.

And the air reeked of rust and fear.

“Cute” wasn’t exactly the word you’d use.

A new dialogue box blinked into existence, bright and celebratory in a way that felt deeply inappropriate given the corpse you’d just helped create.

Your left eye twitched, well, it wanted to twitch, but the game wouldn’t even allow that tiny release of emotion.

Two identical options.

Two identical yeses.

Why even pretend there was a choice?

Suppressing a groan, you selected the only option available.

Yes.

Light flared around you, the colours sickeningly bright against the blood-stained alley. Then a new command materialized, accompanied by a sharp chime and a timer that immediately began counting down.

Your stomach dropped.

Witnesses?

Now?

You looked from the dead body to Vincent, then toward the mouth of the alley, where faint city noise finally seemed to seep in. Were people going to start walking by? Right now? Of all times?

“We should hide the body!” you hissed, the words stumbling out in a panic. Your voice worked again—finally—but this was hardly the moment to celebrate.

Vincent blinked at you, startled by your sudden urgency. Then he nodded quickly, too quickly. “Oh, yea, right, right,” he muttered, flustered. He looked genuinely unsure what to do next, as if killing someone had been the entire extent of his plan.

Honestly?

Worst murderer ever.

If it weren’t the 1950s, forensic science would’ve eaten this man alive.

Your gaze darted around the alley until you spotted the green dumpster tucked behind Vincent. Risky, yes, but this game was still in its early phase. Surely, it wouldn’t be cruel enough to have witnesses check the dumpster, right?

“You take his shoulders, I’ll take his legs, and let’s… just… put him in the dumpster.”

Your voice spiked sharply, cracking under mounting panic. If someone showed up before the timer ran out? What then? Did you get a bad end? A death scene? A real death?

Vincent swallowed hard but nodded. “Okay… okay…”

He grabbed the anchor—Dale Stuckless—beneath the armpits while you clutched his legs, forcing yourself not to think about the limp weight or the chilling softness of a body without tension. On the count of three, you both hefted him upward, swung him once, twice—

And dropped him into the dumpster with a sickening thud.

The sound echoed against the alley walls like a drumbeat.

You immediately checked the timer.

Three minutes left.

Where had the other two gone?

Had time really moved that fast?

Heart pounding, you scanned for anything else out of place. Blood stained the ground in dark splatters, but the night was deep and the alley poorly lit. Maybe no one would notice. Maybe.

You slammed the dumpster lid shut with a metallic clang that rang far too loudly in the quiet hush of the alley.

“We should get out of here,” you breathed, your pulse still stuttering from the scene you’d just fled. Instinct overrode every scrap of rational thought. You seized Vincent’s hand and dragged him out of the alleyway, desperate for distance.

But when you glanced over your shoulder, the sight nearly ripped a yelp from your throat.

Vincent, this absolute fucking disaster of a man, was soaked in blood. Not a few droplets. A constellation of crimson splatter across his white shirt, stark and horrifying under the glow from the street lamps.

“Holy…” The word collapsed on your tongue.

Vincent blinked, brows knitting tight before he muttered under his breath, “Ah, fuck.” He swiped at his shirt with the heel of his hand, as if he could casually buff away evidence of murder like it was dust.

How in God’s name had this man survived an entire game after killing over fifty people? How had no one spotted this?

A harsh beep snapped your attention upward—the floating timer flashed an angry warning. Ninety seconds until “witnesses” appeared. Whatever the hell that meant.

Your gaze snapped toward the station. Empty last time you’d checked. Maybe spare clothes. Maybe a miracle. Panic surged in your chest like a tide.

“Come on,” you hissed, gripping Vincent’s hand and tugging him into a sprint. He matched your pace unquestionably, feet pounding against the pavement.

Sweat trickled down your temples as your eyes darted between the hallway ahead and the ticking countdown. Forty seconds. Your heartbeat thrashed in your throat.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

You pushed harder, legs burning as you shoved open the nearest door and scanned the corridor. Left. Right. Then you bolted—back toward the place you’d woken up, back to the first cursed dialogue box that welcomed you to this artificial nightmare.

“Get in here,” you snapped, breathless. The timer flashed a furious red, each blink a punch to your anxiety. Ten seconds.

Vincent slipped into the staff office without a sound. You followed, slamming the door shut behind you.

You made it. You actually—

“Hello?” A voice, male and unfamiliar, cut through the stale air.

You froze. So did Vincent.

Slowly, your eyes drifted to the bloody mess smeared across his chest. The timer above you read time’s up. And yet, the world… hadn’t shifted. Same soft-toned light palette. Same environment. No cutscene. No sign that you’d cleared the stage.

“Is someone in there?” the voice called again, closer now, the doorknob rattling violently. A shadow moved behind the frosted glass—a silhouette, unmistakable.

Your stomach caved inward.

If you failed… what then?

If it was game over… what did that mean here?

Death? Erasure? Something worse?

You clenched your fists, every muscle in your body trembling but braced. You refused to let this stupid, malicious game snuff you out. You refused to die cornered and helpless.

Not today. 

Not in hell.

Vincent’s eyes flew wide as your hands seized his collar and shoved him backward. His spine hit the desk with a dull thud, papers shifting beneath him. You didn’t give him a second to ask what was happening—you swung a leg over his hips, settling over him, feeling the sharp inhale that punched out of his lungs as your weight pinned him.

Then you kissed him. Hard. Desperate. A messy, urgent collision of lips meant to hide the rising panic clawing at your throat.

Just in time for the door to swing open.

“Oh, Jiminy Crickets!” a voice squeaked.

You snapped your head toward the intruder—the janitor, wide-eyed and horrified.

You let out a startled cry, pitching your voice into something breathless and flustered as you buried your face against Vincent’s chest, praying the blood splatter was shielded from view. His shirt was warm against your cheek, his heartbeat hammering like he was as shocked as you were.

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” the janitor babbled, then slammed the door shut so fast the frame rattled.

Silence swallowed the room.

You lifted your head. Vincent’s face was scarlet, his gaze darting anywhere but at you. His glasses were crooked, his hair a tousled mess from your hands—and God, he actually looked… good like this. Unsteady. Breath caught somewhere between his ribs and throat. His hands were still at your hips, as if he’d forgotten how to let go.

Before you could process the sight of him, fanfare music blasted in your ears, garish and victorious. A floating dialogue box appeared with an obnoxious sparkle.

You swore the universe was mocking you. You hated this game. 

Truly. Deeply. Intensely.

Then another cheerful chime sounded.

You gained another twenty-five percent of affection.

You stared. One single in-game night and Vincent shot up to thirty-five percent affection, something that normally took entire in-game seasons of grinding, dates, dialogue options, and sanity.

“S-so…” Vincent coughed weakly. His voice cracked around the word. He shifted under you, trying to adjust his position—

And then he froze.

Something firm pressed against you. Not his wallet. Not keys. Something undeniably alive, straining, hot even through layers of clothing.

You shifted your hips the slightest bit. His breath hitched sharply, almost a gasp, as your body nudged against the unmistakable hardness trapped beneath you.

You exhaled slowly and waited.

Any second now… yes. There it was. Another dialogue box flickered into existence, shamelessly glowing.

You stared at the options, incredulous.

You knew this game was smutty. You knew the marketing had oversold the “rich plotline” and “emotional depth.” But dear god—couldn’t it at least pretend to be subtle? The summary promised an intricate, sensual narrative.

Instead, the game was porn with extra steps. Pretty art. 

Zero restraint.

But…

That was on you, wasn’t it?

A reluctant, painful little truth slid into your chest. You knew what kind of game this was. You had cleared the first route. Then the second. Then the third. Each one had practically clubbed you over the head with the same pattern: a thin drizzle of plot, a puddle of angst, and then—whiplash into sex scenes written with all the subtlety of a brick.

You shouldn’t have expected depth.

You shouldn’t have expected pacing.

You shouldn’t have expected anything remotely resembling emotional buildup.

But still… you had hoped. Somewhere in your naive, stubborn heart, you believed there had to be more than blowing someone after three choices. Surely, the developers had ambitions. Surely, they wanted something more than “press A to suck cock.”

Surely.

Except… no. 

No, you had absolutely been delusional.

And now that you thought about it—really thought about it—

How many choices had you made so far?

Your gaze drifted back to the floating dialogue options in front of you, the ones glowing pink and suggestive like they were about to sprout little devil horns.

Oh.

…oh.

Your stomach dipped. An embarrassed, knowing heat crawled up your neck.

This was it, wasn’t it?

The moment every route sprinted toward with shameless enthusiasm.

The first smut scene.

You had triggered it.

Your choices—your frantic improvising, straddling Vincent to hide the blood splatters, kissing him in panic—had launched you headfirst into the exact territory the game always wanted to drag you into.

A resigned breath left you.

Of course, it was the first smut scene.

Because why would this game ever wait for something as trivial as plot, or pacing, or sanity?

"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…”

"Isn't my Margaret just adorable??"

"My little Timmy is such a talented artist!"

If they asked Vincent for his honest opinion (nobody will), he'd say your Margaret ain't winning any beauty contests, and little Timmy should learn that sharks don't have bright purple fins. How stupid is that? Someone needs to tell Timmy to pick up a book before drawing such inaccurate, ugly depictions of sharks. Those beautiful creatures are interesting enough the way they are. No need to give them such a gaudy color change that doesn't even make sense. Honestly, Vincent had half a mind to-.

The train of thought going full speed in his head derailed. Vincent inhaled, held his breath, and exhaled. If he wanted to go on an hour-long tangent about the public's perception on sharks, he'd have to wait. There was a different matter at hand to focus on. It being, when did everyone in this network have kids?

Typically, during work hours, the topic of children was minimal. Vincent could count on one hand the number of times someone droned on and on about their brats. That number, however, had increased dramatically this week. All of a sudden, every rando in the studio had a picture, shitty art, or graded homework to show off.

"Isn't Susan just darling in her Sunday best!" (Hopefully, Susan has a nice personality.)

"You know, they say Ben could be a lawyer some day. Just look at those straight A's!" (Your son is in kindergarten. It's not hard to get an 'A' in "art".)

"I have to frame this drawing Robert did of our family! How cute is it?" (Wow. Turns out, it's not easy to get an 'A' in "art" after all.)

After some careful thinking, Vincent discovered the culprit of this kiddy takeover. The water. It's hotter this week, hotter than normal, and everyone has been drinking that poisoned water more than usual. The real truth was he just never paid attention to anyone but himself until now. But the nasty water made more sense in his mind.

"Vincent! Come and take a look at this!"

Both of his producers were waving him over. Vincent's shoulders dropped, his tense muscles finally loosening. Finally, a conversation that didn't involve whether or not he thought someone's sweet Betty would make it in the entertainment industry (she wouldn't). Standard talk between his producers involved ratings and a reminder to keep up the steady rise in viewership. It was predictable, nothing he wasn't prepared for. With a chuckle he walked, his leisurely stride was as cocky as ever.

"Let me guess. Viewership increased by 5 percent again, huh?" That question was purely rhetorical. Vincent was fully aware of the steady increase in his numbers ever since he took William's job. That guy was never gonna make it in the late night talk show scene. Too boring. He did the studio a favor.

As Vincent approached close enough to peer at what he expected to be the newest ratings in one of his producer's hands, he blinked a few times and readjusted his glasses. His eye twitched as he bit back a groan threatening to spill out. This had to be a prank the studio was playing on him.

A picture of a little girl, no older than 5, playing in the sand was in his producer's hand. Steven, the one holding onto the photo, chuckled, fully unaware of Vincent's growing exasperation. "Ain't she a cutie? Wife took the picture while I was at work last week." He tucked it away in his breast pocket, but not before giving it a kiss. "My Nancy's gonna be a knockout one day. Breakin' all the hearts on the block."

Joseph, his other producer, clapped Steven on the back. "Did a nice job, makin' that," he commented, taking a drag from his cigarette, "I know my boy Dennis is gonna be all over her one day." Both of them laughed their asses off at the prospect.

Any word that came out of Vincent's mouth was not going to be a kind one. He did what he forced himself to do every time a higher up said something ridiculous and pointless, smile and nod. Worked like a charm every time.

Steven was satisfied with his lackluster response and clapped him in the back. Vincent stopped himself from stumbling forward and held onto that signature smile. "So, how about you?" Steven asked, glancing away for a moment to snap his fingers at an intern. Said intern came running in seconds with a full cup of water in hand.

If it was possible to burn a hole in that crappy paper cup, the water would've spilled out from how hard Vincent stared at it.

Joseph rose a brow and followed Vincent's gaze. "You alright, Whittman? Need some water?" He offered, raising his hand to snap his fingers.

Vincent flinched and coughed into his fist. "No. No, absolutely not." His lip curled at the thought of drinking that water.

Neither one of them commented on his odd behavior. "As I was saying,-" Steven took a sip of that poison - "you and misses thinking about having any kids?" He inquired.

The same charm that landed him on every TV screen, amongst other things, slipped on. "Oh, well, you know how it was with a growing career." Vincent shrugged nonchalantly. "Me and the Misses agreed that it would be better to wait until everything settles down." Just another one of his skills coming into play, his silver tongue.

Neither one of you actually wanted kids. The topic had been broached before, but then never again after both of you shared your respective reasons why. You were petrified of childbirth. Just the thought of being all alone, surrounded by medical staff you barely knew sounded traumatizing. Not to mention all the complications that could come along with it. Vincent's reason, though he'd never admit, was more superficial.

He didn't want some snot-nosed brat stealing all your love and attention from him. Babies need love and care 24/7. He hated the thought of a pesky rascal monopolizing all your time and leaving none for him. You were his beautiful, amazing wife, and all of your focus should be on him. Always. No, that trail of thought was not obsessive. It would just be odd to say it out loud. Saying he didn't want kids because he is needy for his wife's attention would damage his brand.

Joseph scoffed, a sly smirk on his face, as he handed an unlit cigarette into Steven's outstretched hand. "That so?" He asked, giving Steven a quick light. "Poor woman is gonna be waiting a long time." The two of them laughed at Joseph's little quip.

Steven took a drag and blew the smoke out. "Don't take too long. Don't want her to dry up, huh?" He nudged Vincent with his elbow and absentmindedly flicked the end of his cigarette.

"He's right!" Joseph added in between laughs. "You know how it is with women. Time is ticking. And your wifey ain't getting any younger."

Vincent bit his tongue and forced out a strained chuckle. He was just forced to listen to these stale men insult him, his wife, and idly flick cigarette ash onto his shoe. The two walked off without another word, not even a wave of their hand. That charming smile that enchanted millions morphed into a scowl the moment those two were out of sight. "Bastards," Vincent mumbled while kicking ash off his shoe.

Those two outdated bastards had some nerve, but Vincent refused to dwell on it. He had a show to put on, and their days were numbered anyway. He chuckled and let his gaze fall onto the mic sitting on his set desk. Despite the excitement tickling his skin, something was gnawing at the back of his mind.

It was normal for a husband and wife to have kids. More than normal, it was expected. Vincent's brows furrowed as he watched everyone around him continuously gush about their average kids. An unpleasant feeling he hadn't experienced since upgrading from nerdy weather man to loveable late-night host returned. Alienation.

Why should all these faceless nobodies get to have all the fun? Most of the men here who had kids didn't even come close to being half the man he was, and they were still the patriarch of their respective households. They couldn't command a room like him, fat chance they're able to command their family. If Vincent had a family of his own, he was sure they would sing his praises. Why shouldn't they? He was on every television screen in this country, breaking barriers and pioneering the industry into a new era of entertainment.

Vincent's head shot up like a lightbulb shined bright over his head. A smirk slowly spread over his lips. Now, that's an idea that would boost his public image. He could picture it now, his darling housewife, swollen with his child with him by her side, attending to her needs. The public would eat that up.

"Oh, what a swell husband."

"Wow, look at the wife. She's glowing!"

"I hope I have a husband that sweet one day!"

There was just one hurdle he had to jump over. His wife. Fortunately, the hurdle wasn't too high, and there was an easy fix to this predicament. It might involve some deceit if you didn't comply, but you'd understand. He's your husband, after all, he knows what's best.

꒰ঌ♡໒꒱

"Oh, hon~ey! I'm home~!"

Vincent stepped through the threshold of the lovely home his wife cared for and breathed in the delicious smell of her cooking. What a doll you are, coming from the kitchen to the door to greet him. If everything he planned in his head came to fruition, little footsteps would be joining you.

"Welcome home, darling. How was work today?" You asked, helping remove his coat to drape it over your arm and take his briefcase. You pecked his lips, turned away to hang his coat up, and placed his briefcase right under it.

A comforting warmth bloomed in Vincent's chest. His beautiful wife was so good at caring for him. It would be a disservice not to provide such a nurturing woman with children of her own.

Vincent grabbed your hand and pulled you in for one more kiss. You giggled and stepped away from him. "Tell me about your day while I finish up dinner," you said, grabbing his hand to lead him into the kitchen.

This sight in the kitchen was something he should've been accustomed to by now. You, in your beautiful dress and cute apron, working around the stove to provide him with a nutritious meal. The expression you had was so sweet and carefree. Vincent could only imagine how much sweeter you would look with his child sitting on your hip. He was determined to make that imagination a reality.

"It was an interesting day," said Vincent, walking to stand behind you and wrap his arms around your waist. "Something must've been in the water, I swear. Everyone was showing off pictures of their rug rats every five minutes." He rolled his eyes as he listed off every picture, report card, and shitty drawing that was shoved in his face.

You giggled when he finished his rant. "Really?" You asked, grabbing a spoon at the side of the stove, "Ben is in kindergarten already?" You dipped the spoon in and slipped it into your mouth.

Vincent blinked and stared into the side of your head. "Wait, what? Since when have you ever paid attention to that stuff?" He inquired.

You hummed and smacked your lips together after your taste test. You scooped the spoon in again and held it up to Vincent's lips. "How could I not? John tells me about him every time I visit you," you explained. Your tone read like it was common knowledge, and Vincent was ridiculous for not knowing.

Perhaps it truly was safe to drink the water, and Vincent was just too full of himself to notice until now. He didn't dwell on that. The thought immediately escaped his mind when your food hit his tastebuds. Amazing as always. His future children were going to love your cooking the same way he does.

"Yeah, sure." He brushed it off and stayed wrapped around you. "Hey -" he placed his head on your shoulder for a better view of your face - "you ever think about what our own kids would look like?" He asked. His tone was soft and slow, like he was approaching a spooked animal.

It didn't matter how nice and sweet he sounded. He still felt your muscles tense under his touch. You had been plating dinner like normal until his words had interrupted the flow of your movements. "Um, I-I don't know." You shook your head and resumed busying yourself with dinner.

Vincent chuckled and readjusted his hands to rub his thumbs into your hips. "Come on, I bet they'd be pretty cute, right?" That question was purely rhetorical to him. Of course, his children would be cute. They would be a perfect mixture of both you and him.

The laugh you let out was strained. You didn't say anything else and pulled away to walk the full plates into the dining room. Vincent followed right behind you. "Don't ignore me like that, doll. It was just a simple question," he defended, walking with his hands raised.

You didn't meet his eyes or even acknowledge him as you set the plates down and organized the utensils. He watched as you frantically circled the table like a shark until you were satisfied. When you slowed to a stop, you cleared your throat and finally met his eyes. "Come and eat. We don't want it getting cold." You took your seat and said nothing else.

Vincent, after a moment of processing your actions, sat down beside you and took your hand before you could grab your utensils. "What? Did I rattle your cage over a silly question?" He lightly scoffed and rubbed his thumb over your knuckles.

The hand nestled in his remained stagnant. You stared into your plate. "Vincent, stop it." You ripped your hand away and grabbed your utensils. "We've had this conversation already. We don't need to have it again."

Vincent sat back in his seat and laughed. "Okay, okay. No need to flip your lid. Just an innocent question." He rolled his eyes and began to eat.

You smiled at him, a forced one. "It's okay. Let's just eat," you said simply.

The rest of the meal was consumed with small talk. The two of you spoke of your respective days, sans the irritable talk of children from Vincent's work. Despite the easy conversation, there was a lingering tension in the air. That tension settled deep in his gut along with your cooking. He had tried to be considerate and do it the easy way, but clearly, you weren't receptive to it. You'll understand in due time.

꒰ঌ♡໒꒱

Patience is a virtue. That specific phrase had been burned into Vincent's brain since he began his career. Everyone has told him at one point that getting what you want takes time, but Vincent wasn't one to wait around for fate to give him what he desires. If he wanted something, he would take charge and grab it.

Typically, his plans moved along fairly quickly. Sure, the planning was meticulous and fairly detailed, but it usually wrapped up quickly. This current plan was a different kind. There was no need to stalk his victim and find the right moment where they're isolated. He knew his current victim intimately.

"Oh, fuck! Vince!"

There was a delicious arch in your back as he hit that sweet spot inside you. This position, you in his lap with him thrusting up into you, worked like a charm. Whenever Vincent needed you delirious and off your guard, he just had to coax you onto his cock like this. "Feel good, baby?" He asked rhetorically, knowing you weren't in the right mind to answer. He pressed open-mouthed kisses to your neck, pushing himself deeper into you with an arm tight around your waist.

With how deep in pleasure you were, you could only moan his name and futilely attempt to match his rhythm. "Feels fuckin' good, huh?" He moaned into your skin, "gonna feel even better after I fill you up." He stopped your movements and held you tight against his chest while moving you to lay back on the bed.

Your legs were wrapped around his waist until he grabbed you by your thighs and pushed them down into a mating press. Your soft walls constricted his cock at the feeling of this new angle. "O-Oh, shit..." You moaned breathlessly, hands clenched into the sheets.

"I know, baby. I know," Vincent whispered, his thrusts short due to how tightly you gripped him. "Almost there. I can feel it." He grit his teeth, jaw clenched as your pussy sucked him in deeper.

"Ah! Vincent!" You gasped, head thrown back with your hands still holding onto the sheets as you reached your peak.

Vincent's hold on your thighs faltered as your pussy pulsed around his cock. "Oh, fuck!" He cursed, falling forward with his arms braced on either side of your head. With one last half-hearted thrust he cums deep inside you, each flutter of your pussy milking him and surely pulling his cum deep into your womb.

Both of your bodies shudder against each other simultaneously. You raise your arm shakily and tap Vincent's shoulder, a quiet signal for him to pull out. Vincent laid himself against your chest and assaulted your neck with kisses. "Not yet, doll," he whispered in your ear between kisses, "just a little longer."

You could barely muster a small noise of acknowledgment, you nodded and went limp. Vincent smiled at you and continued with his kisses. "Thank you, baby," he whimpered.

Any other regular person would feel immense guilt. Maybe a small part of him should. In your mind, Vincent is staying inside you for comfort after a long, hard day. In reality, he's trying to keep any sperm he can deep inside you in hopes it reaches your womb. But if it doesn't this time, it's fine.

It was bound to happen at some point. There was nothing stopping your body, not after he had replaced your birth control with prenatal vitamins that appeared similar. Plus, he hasn't been keeping track of your cycle for nothing.

He would just have to wait for the next opportunity. All he had to do was bid his time.

꒰ঌ♡໒꒱

A full month has passed. A whole month of Vincent staring at the calendar, fucking you practically every night (not that he minded), and watching your every move afterwards. He was watching you now, sitting at the small kitchen table with a fresh cup of coffee in hand as you cooked breakfast. He mulled over the calendar in his mind. If his calculations were correct, your period was about a week late. But that's nothing to be excited about. Apparently, that can happen to women all the time.

Vincent grumbled under his breath and kept his eyes on you. Nothing about you had changed as of late. He went over the list of symptoms the older women in the studio spoke of. No nausea, no weird hormones, your boobs clearly weren't sensitive (he would know). No point in asking you, you would start to suspect something if he asked that unprompted. All he could do was wait.

The sizzling sound of bacon hitting a hot pan dominated the quaint silence in the kitchen. Vincent breathed in the savory smell and leaned back in his chair. He supposed there was always next month.

"Oh, shit-!"

A hot pain scraping over the stove caused Vincent to sit up straight in alert. His eyes followed you as you ran out the kitchen with your hand over your mouth. He stood from his chair, mug clattering loudly against the table when he put it down. "Honey! You alright?!" He asked, stumbling behind you.

The bathroom door shut loudly behind you with the lock clicking right after. Vincent was left standing outside, jiggling the handle and knocking on the door. "Hey, honey? What happened?" He demanded. He pressed his ear against the door.

The only response he got was you, most likely hunched over the toilet, heaving. If he pressed his ear harder onto the rough wood of the door he was positive you were crying too. A heavy pit weighed on his stomach at the noise. "Doll, come on." His tone was low and soft. "Open the door. Let me help you." He tapped his knuckles against the door.

The inside of the bathroom went quiet. After some brief silence, he heard a flush and then the sink running. You slippers shuffled against the floor, the shuffling became louder the closer you came to the door. Finally, the lock clicked and the door slowly swung open to reveal you. A sharp pain stabbed his heart at the sight of you.

Your face appeared sickly and sweaty, arms limp at your side with red-rimmed eyes.

"Oh, baby." He pulled you into him. "What happened?"

You appeared unsteady in your feet as you lightly swayed. You laid your forehead to rest against Vincent's shoulder. "Probably just a bad stomach bug," you mumbled, rubbing your forehead into his soft robe.

Vincent rubbed your back and held you tightly. "You should go to the doctor, doll face," he suggested, "want me to come with?" He pressed a kiss to the side of your head.

You immediately lifted your head up and shook it. "No, no. The studio needs you right now," you answered and laid your hands to rest on his shoulders, "after what happened to your producers it's important for you to be there."

Vincent hummed as if thinking it over. "If you're sure..." He shrugged and nudged your head to rest onto his chest. What a sweet wife you were. Caring more about your husband's livelihood than your own wellbeing. He would be sure to make this situation worthwhile for you.

Thank goodness you couldn't see his expression at the moment. You'd see the wide, giddy smile on his face. He looked like a child would on Christmas morning. If his personal theory on why you were sick was correct, all of the puzzle pieces he had carefully laid out were finally falling into place.

꒰ঌ♡໒꒱

A week has passed since your visit to the doctor's office. Vincent had attempted to ask how it went many times, but you had given the same vague answer each time. It didn't matter how many times he questioned you, your response and tone remained the same.

"Oh, it was nothing to worry about."

You never looked him in the eyes when you responded.

Vincent continuously mulled over your recent, strange behavior as he sat at his new desk. His new work load as a producer and television personality kept him at the studio later than normal. Due to this new schedule, it was difficult to discern how you were truly feeling. From what he could gather from the limited time he spent at home, you were most definitely different.

You had tried to hide your recent changes from him, but he was a perceptive man when it concerned you. In the early morning, when you assumed he was asleep, you would run into the bathroom to throw up. Along with that, your mood had shifted. You weren't outright rude to him, he was your husband after all, but you had gotten snippy with him.

"Ugh, seriously, Vincent?! I told you to clean that up!"

The final nail in the coffin to him, were your sensitive boobs. You had been refusing to get intimate with him for that reason. As much as he respected and loved you, that was pissing him off.

"No, not tonight, Vince. I'm a little sensitive. My monthly must be starting soon."

Vincent scoffed to himself. There was absolutely no way all of these sudden changes were due to your "upcoming" monthly. He went over that same list of symptoms he had been given mentally.

Nausea, specifically in the early morning. Check.

Mood swings. Definite check.

Sensitive boobs. Unfortunate check.

A hefty sigh escaped Vincent as he slouched down in his chair. He undid his intricate bowtie and glanced over to the stack of paperwork waiting to be completed. Who knew once two producers "mysteriously" kicked the bucket the workload of both would pass to the next? In hindsight, that was obvious and there was no point in bitching about it now. They were already dead and buried. Lazy bastards.

The sudden tight clench of his jaw from a forming snarl placed pressure on his teeth. It was impossible to focus on this meaningless work when his wife was hiding things from him. At this point, enough was enough. He was going to get to the bottom of this mystery, even if had to call the doctor and demand answers. You're his wife, you shouldn't be hiding things from your husband. He was the man of this house. The one who provided. What would you be without him?

Those thoughts stayed swirling in his head as he drove home.

The moment Vincent finally stepped into his home, he expected to smell the delicious, familiar smell of your cooking. However, there was nothing. There was no noise, just an unsettling silence. As he walked through the home, there was no sign of you anywhere. The last place to check was your shared bedroom. The only time Vincent has found you laid in bed at this odd hour was when you were sick.

Vincent's eyes widened as he rushed into the bedroom. Laid on the bed, faced away from the door, was you. He walked to you and kneeled down by your side. Your eyes were closed and your breathing was evenly spaced. Your slumber seemed peaceful, but Vincent could see the tears staining your cheeks.

"Hey, doll. I'm home," he whispered as he rubbed your arm to coax you awake.

You didn't respond positively to his gentle caress. You grumbled and pressed your sleeping face into your pillow.

Vincent could only chuckle and kiss your head. "Hey, come on," he mumbled, "I wanna see my darling's beautiful face." He continued moving his hand up and down your own.

You released one more adorable noise of discontent and finally gave Vincent the pleasure of seeing your beautiful eyes. You appeared slightly groggy for a brief moment, but immediately sat up after processing Vincent was the one who woke you. "Oh god, I fell asleep, didn't I?" You drawled, voice rough with sleep.

Vincent sat at your side and wrapped an arm around your shoulders. "It's okay, honey," he reassured with another kiss to your head. "But, are you alright?" His brows furrowed as he stared down at you.

You stared up at him, confused, but your expression quickly shifted. It was as if everything you had been feeling before your nap hit you all at once. Your nose scrunched and tears filled your eyes. "Oh, Vinny," you whimpered, looking down at your lap, "I don't know what to do."

Vincent tensed as you began to cry. He loathed seeing you cry. He had always said you were too pretty for tears. "What are you talking about, doll?" He asked.

The question remained unanswered as you cried harder. "P-Please, don't- don't leave me." You spoke those words in between sobs from behind your hands.

"Hey, dollface, calm down-" Vincent wrapped both of his arms around you- "That's not gonna happen." Several kisses were planted onto your head. One of his hands came to rest under your chin to nudge your head up gently. "Come on, talk to me," persuaded Vincent.

The tears streaming down your cheeks became heavier as you focused on his eyes. "Vinny, I'm so sorry," you sobbed and hiccupped, "I-I'm..."

Vincent felt his heart begin to beat a mile a minute at your hesitation. Any excitement, no matter how small, was smothered and kept in check. But, despite not wanting to get ahead of himself, goosebumps born from anticipation spread over his skin. Was this it? Were you finally going to say the words he had been dreaming to hear all month?

"I'm pregnant."

Every single living being on the planet stopped moving. Somehow, after you let out those words for the universe to hear, everything froze. His expression turned vacant, stoic. This wasn't a dream. The feeling of your warm skin under his hands felt real. It helped ground him. It was real. It was finally happening. Do dreams really come true? Were those fireworks going off?

You interpreted Vincent's stillness and silence in a negative way. Your cries were directed into his chest. "Please, please. Don't leave me, please," you begged as you held onto his blazer.

Vincent shook his head to snap himself out of his trance. He held you tightly against him and slowly rocked you from side to side. "Hey, baby, it's okay." He rested his head atop yours. "I'm not leaving."

You curled into him, nuzzling your head into his chest. "Bu-... But-" you sniffled- "you said... you didn't want this. And now, I ruined everything," you blubbered and gestured to your belly as you spoke.

Vincent whispered comforting words into your hair and continued rocking you.

"I don't even know how this could've happened." Your expression turned pensive. You were probably mentally checking back on all the pills you had taken until now, wondering if you had somehow missed a dose.

Vincent forced his body to remain relaxed. If he let anything show now, that could possibly tip you off. He pressed a kiss into your hair. "Well, you must have forgotten a dose, you goof." He chuckled lightly. "But don't worry, it's gonna be okay, baby."

One of his hands drew a soft line down your body until it reached your stomach. "I'll always take care of you." Those words were said with his warm hand resting your belly. A silent promise to care for the new life forming in there.

꒰ঌ♡໒꒱꒰ঌ♡໒꒱꒰ঌ♡໒꒱꒰ঌ♡໒꒱꒰ঌ♡໒꒱꒰ঌ♡໒꒱꒰ঌ♡໒꒱꒰ঌ♡໒꒱꒰ঌ♡໒꒱꒰ঌ♡໒꒱

he pretends to take his time for a while before he starts to go downwards bit by bit, kissing your jaw, suckling a hickey in the opposite side of the one it's already adorning your pretty neck, tongue darting out to lick right above your clit, but missing it on purpose for a few inches so he can hear you whine.

vincent is laughing at you by the way your thighs shake, and you start questioning yourself if you're gonna survive the night at all. the amount of teasing makes you wetter and more desperate by the second.

"crying already? i know you can do better than that, doll," you thrash around the bed, desperation sinking deep within your bones as you listen to him. vincent looks like he's in a trance, staring at you as if you're a prey.

and when you roll your hips back, he takes both hands and presses your legs open as far as he can get them, spreading your pussy out across his lips for him to take full control of. he nips at your clit this time before licking down, pressing the pointed muscle into you and only then does he release your legs. he's sliding both hands under your ass and rocking you against his face, angling his head so that he can lick inside of your walls to truly taste you.

"nothing but a good little mouth that's gonna make me come, aren't you?" he still manages to be so loud despite being muffled between your legs— pathetic little whines and whimpers, the occasional throaty groan when you call him a particularly scathing word.

you lose it, even if you don't want to. you'd think the way he's moving his mouth is enough to get anyone to take advantage of it. he just knows you a little too well.

he also knows how to make your back arch and your eyes roll far enough you thought you blacked out for a moment. and it's when you fall on the bed again that you realize by a slight pain in your throat you have been moaning very loudly through your orgasm.

and just as soon as it started, you blink, and his face is right there. you would have let out a shocked sound, but you moan instead, because he hovers over you with a smirk and an arm between the two of you, his fingers instantly sliding into you as he attaches his lips to yours with little more than a moan of his own.

"fuck! i, ah— vince, wait!" you manage to get out, legs kicking everywhere and body writhing on the bed.

"you're doing so good for me; it would be a pity to stop now."

vincent lies when he says just one round.

but then your eyes are prickling with tears, and it doesn't take long before you feel them running down your face; the first one goes reluctantly, but after that they start cascading on your cheeks uncontrollably.

"don't go quiet on me now, dolly" vincent chuckles and you feel your face heating up with pleasant shame. his patronizing tone makes you go even further into this familiar, yet unusual headspace of yours "or are you too fucked out to make a sound? that won't do. you have more spunk than that," vincent groans when you tighten around him in response to his remark.

you want to say something, but the words are stuck inside, and you can't seem to form a coecive thought about anything other than this is so hot, this is so hot, this is so hot—

he grabs at your cheeks with one hand, the other squeezing your hips hard.

"what is that, hm? cumming for me again?" he says and you whimper. you can never understand how he always get to you so easily.

you moan louder now, movements getting faster, shameless. fuck, fuck.

you think before he starts pistoning his cock inside you again. your arms lose the rest of their strength as you fall onto the bed, your lower body only up because vincent is holding you tightly.

"putting on a show for me, huh?" vincent grunts out, voice ragged with effort. "fuck, gonna fuck you stupid on my cock. gonna fuck you hard until you scream my fucking name—"

and that's it for you.

and vincent lies when he says this time he will pull out.

he always makes sure to work you up so the moment he doesn't relent his thrusts you're already too high to notice.

you are babbling his name like a solemn prayer, the muscles of your cunt starting to spasm around his cock. you can't even see him anymore—eyes blurry with moisture because of how goddamn good vincent is giving it to you.

he hushes your quiet sobs, kissing the tears from your eyes as his hips slam against your ass.

"that's my girl," vincent coos with a gentle laugh, and it gives you a bit of whiplash how quickly he switched from merciless beast to caring lover.

"yes, yes, yes," you sob, wrapping your arms around him in a feeble embrace. "i want it. i want you."

"yeah? want me to fill you up with my cum?" vincent questions, and you nod aggressively at that.

you don't even know what you're begging for, lucky vincent can unwrap it for you.

"y-yes— ah! hmm shit—" you mumbled unintelligibly, struggling to get words out. "inside..." you whimper, strength escaping your body as you see him in the same state as you. "w-want— need your cum."

is all vincent needs to hear.

"always so willing," vincent murmurs as he braces his hands on your ass, massaging your supple flesh with reverence that should be reserved for gods alone. "i'll never get tired of seeing you so depraved for me."

"gonna cum," you tell him desperately, reaching a hand to clutch at him where he grips your hip and squeeze it tightly between your fingers, to which he replies with a pleased hum. he drills faster, fucks into you until you hear the bed squeaking. " fuck! vincent—"

"don't'cha worry, gonna fill you up just like you asked, doll."

“are you two married or something?”

the question popped up out of nowhere and the way aerith just dropped the question, paired with a cute smug face, was not helping the situation at all. the young woman seemed ready to dive into your personal life and learn all about the 30 years of long history between you both, eagerly awaiting an answer while tifa sighed and shook her head in the background.

when vincent first joined avalanche with a personal grudge in mind, he was the most silent person around besides him. sitting at the far back, in the corners, hiding away whenever he could and only holding a conversation with barely handful of words used. and yet when you decided to tag along for “the shits and giggles” as you said, vincent had been more… social.

mostly with you or cid, but the fact vincent valentine started to hold conversations more, not linger in the background and even actively stay in the main room to share drinks together after an ass-kicking was undeniably present. the broody man seemed to just hover around you, perpetually hunched hunk of a mass lingering near you like a shadow, always ending up reminiscing of your old days of working for shinra.

it was a surprise to the team to find out you were once a soldier for shinra around the same time vincent was a turk. someone who was as wild, carefree and rebellious like you bending to the will of a greedy corporation just felt… out of character. peculiar. unlikely. but the faded black and white photo you pulled out from your wallet proved it. you and vincent, side by side, much younger and softer without the cold glare life had planted in your eyes and certainly breaking the rules by not wearing the standard issued uniform.

either way, the second most silent member of avalanche had noticed something else on the two of your persons. a red piece of cloth — eerily similar to the material and color of vincent’s bandana — wrapped around the handle of your ōdachi style sword, and three headed dog keychain jingling from the butt of vincent’s gun.

the red cloth around your weapon handle, that could be explained by the simple “you being you” and your love for eccentric, popping bright colors. but the keychain on vincent was one that was hard to explain. the man was as dead as a corpse rotting away at the nearest hole in the earth and perhaps even as cold as one, if not colder, yet here he was donning a charm on the end of his threatening weapon, letting the weirdly cute thing jingle around whenever he whipped the weapon out to twirl it in the air with a dramatic flourish before firing with a loud BANG!.

there were just small pieces of you two on each other so much to the point that a drunk cid had accidentally mistaken one of you for the other at the bar. not so surprising considering the both of you enjoyed wearing a seemingly matching shades of red, long outer wears. something aerith and cait sith cooed out about it being ‘old couple cutesy-dudesy’. words vincent grunts loudly at while you merely grin and play along, goading the younger ones into believing you could very much potentially be an item and not just some old work buddies. the younger ones eat it up every time.

standing atop the roof of the chocobo farm, you enjoy your privacy as the thin cigarette in your hold warms your cold fingers. the sky was clear this night, indicating a good clear, sunny day all day tomorrow. it would be a good day to head out in your opinion. to make way towards the next town. even with the door leading to the stairs that took you down to the second and first floors of the farm house was closed shut, you could hear some of the music blasting, the loud cheers and calls for singing along to the party song. they sure as hell had a lot of stamina when it came to partying, you have realized. something good ol’ vinnie and you can’t exactly seem to keep up with now that you were both pushing your 60s.

“i thought i told you to drop that bad habit of yours” the low timbre of vincent’s voice scared you for a moment, making you jolt where you had been leaning against the rails.

”by the dead, make some noises when you’re creeping around next time, will you? nearly made me drop my cigarette and start a fire” you complained under your breath, leaning back away from the railings so at least you won’t be dropping the lit ciggy to the grass. the fright left quickly, replaced by some anxiousness and the need to defend yourself filling its spot as vincent raised a brow at you, staring at the cancer stick in your hold and to your face. there was slight pink on your cheeks — either from the alcohol you’ve chugged earlier when competing against barret or from the chill winds, he doesn’t know — a pink that he uncharacteristically found endearing.

”a whole decade of scolding your ears off about your stupid habits and yet you still have yet to let it go. are you really this dumb or should i scold you for a few more decades as well?” the former turk grumbled, clearly disappointed to see you with a lit cigarette in hand. and yet he reached out all the same, taking the stick from your loose hold to take a slow inhale himself. the warm orange glow lit his face in warm colors, giving more eerie colors to the lone red glow of his right eye. but the effects of hojo’s doings or chaos being infused into his body never scared you. in fact, you liked him even more with the eerie eye glows and uncontrollable growls and rare purrs.

”you say that yet look at you, doing the same mistakes as me” huffing at the unfairness he brought to you, you wait as he puffs out the smoke in one slow exhale, taking the cigarette away from you when you held out a hand expectantly. his refusal to hand you your cigarette back left you huffing at him, the petulant look on your face making vincent grin as he dodges your attempts to take the tobacco back. sooner or later, you would start ranting about the unfairness of his long limbs and stealing things that were not his.

4, 3, 2 —

“vinnie, i swear by gaia” ah, there it was. that little grumble of a ’threat’ you give him before full on out throwing your body at him to get back whatever it may be that you had lost to him.

”you’re going to ask for your cigarette back, and if i say ‘no’ — which we both know that i will — you’ll throw yourself at me?” and there it was again, that little twitch in your brows and the way you run your tongue over your fangs in hopes of holding back your words. he had you all figured out, after all. a whole 30 years had passed since you went your separate ways and yet you still act the same way. nothing about you had changed except for the few strands of grey from stress of shinra and having to deal with the young ones at avalanche now, and the smile lines around your eyes and lips.

you had already gotten grey hairs and yet he wasn’t around to witness them, vincent realized, feeling a sense of failure at the way he had just seemingly left you out of nowhere to deal with life and shinra all alone by yourself. what good was there to him in the first place? first failing to keep lucrecia safe, then failing to keep her son safe and now failing you. he always failed those closest to him, didn’t he? choosing to run and hide away because he was dealing with some shit, forgetting that those around him were dealing with their own demons too.

such a failure—

“vincent” blinking, shaking his head to clear out his thoughts at least for this night, the lone glow of his eye turned to look at you. you had your cigarette back in hand, but the tobacco roll seemed to be the least of your worries as you stood by his side, holding him by the arm as if to stabilize him. or had you heard his inner turmoil? that would be embarrassing. you were already dealing with the drawback symptoms of mako injections and yet his selfish idiocy would force you to look after him as well. no, this time, he’ll be the one to look after you. this time, you can lay your head on him and rest.

gloved hand grasping at your bare one, his bigger hand wrapped like a protective embrace around the scarred and marred one of yours. burnt from years of handling lighters and zippos, scarred from the decades of serving under shinra, left calloused from the countless battles. squeezing your hand as if to convince himself, vincent took his time to drink in your visage.

ah, how much you had changed and yet how so little as well.

there was a certain heaviness in your gait now, a droop to your shoulders that did not fit someone as bright and confident as you, and shadows that seemed to cling even with the full moon shining down just for you. you have changed, but vincent wanted to be by your side all the same.

”i’m fine, [name]” grumbling low at the back of his throat, the former turk’s gaze never leave the sight of you in all your current glory, taking his time to stare at every stress lines, every laugh lines, every strand of hair that was on the process of going grey greedily for he had not seen you for the past near 30 years. and he had remembered with a sudden start that yes, he had missed you. he had missed his closest friend, his companion, the only one who had been the one constant in his life.

vincent valentine had missed his [name].

”just… reminiscing” another squeeze to your hand, but this time, you returned his shy touches back at him, holding his hand tighter in your hold as if he would leave you again, just like that day 30 years ago.

”mmh.. either way, i’m glad to have you back here with me, vinnie”

”…i’m glad to be back by your side too, [name]”

“you know that you don’t have to do this unless you really want to, right? i wouldn’t want you growing uncomfortable around me just because we’re a little tipsy and ditzy right now”

“i know that, [name]” vincent muttered against your lips when you pulled back just enough to make sure for the nth time that he was okay with doing this, chasing afterwards to silence your charming drunk rambles. you would have never guessed how touch starved your idiot was until now, with him climbing up to straddle your lap, the golden claws of his gauntlet leaving bits and pieces of tears in your shirt, right where they fisted at the collar of your clothes.

”i’m just…” mumbling against your lips, the chapped lips of his stole a few more kisses before reluctantly puling away from your lips, looking down at himself where the clasps of his cloak had been undone to give you more skin to gnaw at. fingering one of the many buckles that held the leather skin tight around himself, vincent hesitates about what to do or say to you.

of course, you had already seen the horrors hojo had left behind on his skin; the healed autopsy scar with its thick stitches and bunched up flesh, inner elbow of his where the old scars of hundreds or so needles had pierced to keep him tethering to life while his body is cut open again and again to force chaos and protomateria inside him. you held no qualms about the scars he carried, saying that you had your own scars too and all didn’t matter in the end because vincent was still vincent to you. scars and all.

but, he still felt a sense of reluctance when it came to taking the leather off. something about baring himself whole to you again, in such a vulnerable state, made him feel… something. anger at having shown you marks of his weakest moments? shame for letting your sharp mind realize that he is still yet to come to accept the changes chaos made to his body? embarrassed because he was so desperate to feel your touch on him?

vision spinning and rolling around, vincent didn’t realize his bigger physique had been successfully flipped around so that he would be the one to lie on his back atop the soft cushions of your room until he saw your stupid grinning face shining down on him. ah, he had let down his guard again, and you had taken the chance to make a fool out of him. but if this happens every time only when he is with you, vincent held no complaints.

”how about we take it one step at a time, v? let me take the lead this time and we’ll figure out what you like, yeah?” leaning over him, you pepper kisses on his flushed cheeks, making chaos rumble deep in his chest like an overgrown spoiled cat under your care.

humming instead and telling chaos to shut up in his consciousness, vincent helps you takeoff his pants when your finger tugged at its hem. lifting up his hips, allowing you to take off the leather clothing, followed by his boxers that had an embarrassing small spot of wetness on the front, valentine hid his face behind his hands at the look on your face. one filled with so much love and tenderness, it made his stomach grow warm and mind grow dazed. he couldn’t bring himself to look down at you, not when you were peppering old gun shot wounds on his thighs with such care.

“you’re so pretty, vinnie. it makes me jealous sometimes, looking at your gorgeous figure and handsome face” mumbling words against his skin, dragging your lips over the new and old wounds, there was heat on his cheeks and ears. he knew he was flushing red like some idiot, swayed by some few words that you whispered against his flesh as if carving your convictions of his beauty into his soul.

”don’t—“ breath hitching, the former turk curses himself out in his mind at how whiny his words came out just now. you were a disease to him, did you knew that? even worse than chaos or the materia in him, like some tiny sentient liquid of poison that traveled into his heart whenever you wanted.

”don’t say useless things like that” swallowing down the moan that threatened to escape, vincent fists his hands into his hair, hoping the tugging pain into his scalp would distract him from the shameful feeling of his cock slowly twitching to life.

”but i’m being genuine here, vincent. you’re beautiful to me and i appreciate every moment we’ve spent together. and i would never regret anything that is between us” trailing kisses down his rising and falling stomach, he could feel you paying closer attention to the end of the autopsy scar there before turning to kiss the tip of his cock. the embarrassment he felt could be enough to kill him at this point, and vincent low-key wished it would choke him to his early grave right here and now.

”i will never regret you”

a sharp gasp tears through the tortured man’s mouth, letting go of his hold on his hair to look down at you between his legs, mouth swallowing his now hard cock slowly, inch by inch until he could feel his own tip nudging your throat all the way inside. choking on his saliva, vincent wanted to push your head off of himself. too tight, too warm, vincent was sure he was losing his mind and that his cock was melting into a puddy in your throat if it hadn’t been for the small outline he could see through your hollowed out cheeks.

”d-don’t! speak with your mouth full you-oughh.. mmhg ffffuck—!” throwing his head back, the soft bounce of the mattress made his head swim. paired with how you hummed around his dick, making his legs twitch violently, vincent was already growing short on breath as he panted like a dog. the choked out groans and the occasional breathy whimper that left him didn’t sound like him at all. vincent sounded like a stranger to his own ears.

“nnngh.. ha-aaagh [n-name], sloouwwh.. slow down a-a bit..♡︎~” whimpering, he hadn’t even realized that he was letting out the most pathetic sounds of his life when your hand patted against his own, lacing your fingers together. he could only choke on his noises, briefly raising his head up to look down at where you had gotten yourself so comfortable between his thighs. that soft look in your eyes while you damn near milked his soul dry made his ears burn up again, hiding behind his free arm just as quickly as he had peered up to stare at you.

vincent can’t bring himself to look again, in fear that it would be the last push, making his already weak will against you crumble entirely and cum down your throat. in shame, the old friend of yours tries to hold himself back as much as he could. stomach rising and falling in quick repetitions, the hand you’ve laced together squeezing around your fingers tightly, tugging and legs jerking in threat of closing around your head. a strange tasting pre dripped down your mouth, leaving behind trails of himself inside you already. had he known he was already breaking in your hold, you’re sure your idiot of an old co-worker would have made a sweet noise that did not fit his image.

trying to speak his name, to try and comfort him that it was okay to lose himself, you caress the inside of his thigh with your free hand. the constant vibrations your mouthful of talking made around his cock was the last straw. pulling his leg away, feeling himself sweat under his leather top, the red eyed man choked on his own moan when he felt his tip nudge against your throat, spilling himself down your mouth with a weak, pitiful whine that could be mistaken as your name.

perhaps it had something to do with him not longer being a human, but when the former turk came, he spilled a good amount of load. enough to make you pull away without being able to swallow all of them. cooing out some words of encouragement, your tight fist strokes him through his high, making his legs shake under the sudden strain.

”e-enouughh.. [n-name], that aagh hagh.. that’s enough..” pawing weakly at your wrist, you hum at his words before eventually letting goof your grip around his softening dick that spurted out the last few drops of his cum.

”feel better?” you ask him quietly, lying down on top of him with your full weight, knowing that he liked the heaviness that helps to ground his mind to reality. vincent’s breath was still jittery, yet to truly come down from his orgasm high. until he does, you decide to just wait for him, peppering more kisses on the small slip of skin where his top clasp that was undone.

”..y-yeah… uuhmg. all go-ood”

“has everyone packed everything? we will not be coming back if one of you forgot something behind, y’all know that right? gasoline is expensive around these parts” cid does his own little version of a roll call, standing on the top of the stairs that led to the inside of his aircraft.

some of the group called back out full of energy, some merely grunted groggily, their last night party hangover still yet to leave. some dug through their bags, mumbling under their breaths about making sure everything was indeed packed. you were of the last group, brows furrowed as you felt that empty feeling in your head that just screamed you forgot something. whatever it may be.

”uhhh, i think i might be missing something. let me just check my room real qui—“

”your gloves” vincent called out from behind you, the pair of old, worn out leather pair in his own gloved hand that he held out for you. ah, you probably left it behind while packing your things in your early morning haze. the leftover alcohol in your system clearly didn’t help.

”ah, right. sorry” holding your hand up, you feel the slight weight it gives as vincent places it in your grasp, his hand wrapping your fist around them and lingering for a moment bit too longer.

”if you leave it again, i’ll find them for you” the glow in his eye seemed to burn just a bit brighter when he said his promise, gloved hand pulling away from yours with the warmth left wrapped behind yours still.

□ Vincent didn't know how long he had been staring for. It was long enough that his "companion" had disappeared into tho shadows. Long enough to remember the pattern of his heartbeat in his ears. Long enough that he nearly took a sip of an already empty glass.

□ How could he lose everything in the span of 3 minutes? His future career with his best mate by his side. Both ruling hell with so much power it was impossible to overthrow them. Alastor didn't even show remorse after pushing him from cloud 9. Disappearing after the harsh argument that Vince had started. Or "tantrum" by Alastor's words.

□ With a heavy sigh, he placed his hand on his screen while leaning his head down. How could he have been so stupid? Feeling his shoulders weakly shake, he held back the tears of a long friendship being thrown away like it was nothing. The sound of something sliding across the mahogany bar snapped him out of it.

□ Glancing up, Vincent saw a freshly made drink of brandy infront him. The glass had steam on it from the ice that was floating in the drink. His eyes met yours, tilting his head slightly at you.

"I couldn't help but overhear the whole fight and I thought you'd need a drink. I normally take brandy when I need to think."

"Oh! Uh- thank you. How much do I owe you?"

"No need. Its on the house."

"Really? I dont mind paying-"

"Im sure. I haven't taken advantage of my employee discounts, so its really no issue."

□ He gave you a small smile and looked down at the glass infront of him fondly. There wasn't many kind people in hell but it always was nice to meet one. The silence stretched on as Vincent took this as a chance to finally breathe.

□ You had been busy cleaning a few glasses from previous customers. It was during the time that there weren't many at the bar. Just a few regulars enjoying the cozy atmosphere. You couldn't help but steal a few glances at Vincent, still wondering what had happened between the two.

□ After a while Vincent caught your eye, raising a digital eyebrow when you looked away immediately.

"Im guessing you wanna know what happened?"

"Was I that obvious?"

"Very."

□ Sighing softly, he looked away at the jukebox while his finger trailed along the rim of his glass.

"Its a long story. I doubt you'd care.."

"I'm a bartender sweetheart. I've heard it all. I dont think anything you tell me could shock me. Plus, believe it or not- customers like you help make my day feel less boring."

"If you say so.."

□ Vincent whiped his head back at you and blinked away the feeling of his screen heating up. After clearing his throat he lazily told you about Alastor. How they met, how they became friends, how they were the perfect duo in hell. You listened through it all, even slinging your rag over your shoulder and leaning on your side of the bar to show how invested you were.

"-and that leads us to here. Where Im drinking my woes away as my ticket to being hell's greatest leader just vanished into the shadows. Such a wonderful night for me.."

"I'm so sorry to hear that. If its any help, you seem like a great guy. I dont think you deserved that."

□ Vincent scoffed at that. How could you know? You just met him and now you think he's a "great guy". Your judge of character must be terrible.

"If by "great" you mean pathetic and weak then your right."

"I think "handsome and dreamer" fits you better."

□ Your boldness made Vincent glitch. His screen displayed a pretty blue flush as he looked away. He'd never been flirted with so spontaneously. Especially by such a pretty person like yourself. He nervously chuckled, pretending to shrug it off.

"I-I don't know what you mean by dreamer."

"I can see you have a goal- a vision in mind. Your the type to work for what you want. You dream big because of your confidence and flair for show business. I respect it. I think it makes you interesting and unique. Most of hell is just lazy people that never took a chance at advancing high in life and instead take the easy way. You earned your place here."

□ You gestured to the room with overlords just having an easy day.

"I think you should give yourself a little credit."

□ Vincent met your eyes and felt his shoulders relax. The way you looked at him made him feel valuable. As if he was the only guy in the world that was important- that was special. His hopeless romantic heart skipped a beat while he struggled to get words out.

"I- um. You-...T-thank you. I didn't think I needed that.."

"Anytime. Glad to see your feeling better. You look even cuter now."

□ Vincent swore he was overheating with how flustered he was. His antennas sparkling when he looked down at the half empty glass infront of him. You bit your lip, trying to hold back a chuckle while examining him.

"So what's your name?"

"Oh- um. I'm Vi-...you can call me Vox."

"Nice to meet you Vox. Im-"

Awwww this was sweeeeetttt! Im thinking a part 2 where past Vox has a crush on the bartender? Maybe maybe..

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