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hi route, it’s vera (@dostoevskya) !! it’s my birthday today, and i was wondering if i could pretty please request a fic with vincent where he and reader are in a scenario similar to the portrait scene from titanic 👀 ,, yk the whole “draw me like one of your french girls” shebang (for the sake of happiness, let’s pretend he can actually draw)
HEHEHE THANK U SO MUCH
One Of Your French Girls | Vincent Whittman x Fem!Reader
ao3
masterlist.
pairing: vincent whittman x fem!reader
divider credit: @steviebbboi
content: fem!makeupartist!reader, human!vox, workplace relationship, established relationship, new relationship, non-sexual nudity, that one titanic scene, soft vox, fluff, banter, suggestive language, suggestive ending
summary: “So.” She turned on her heel, away from the crowded bookshelf she was pursuing and catching him mid-stare, rocking on her heels as she probed curiously; “How do you want me?”
Forever, his mind supplied.
“Naked?” His mouth interrupted.
wc: 3.5k
note: just a little context, Vincent and MC are already dating, but the relationship is new and they are yet to be intimate with one another, she is also his makeup artist on set
a fun little oneshot for the lovely @dostoevskya’s birthday! aka; one of my favorite Vox writers, i highly recommend checking her stuff out if Vox is your thing! Enjoy!
He’d mentioned it in passing.
Between her careful sweeps of practiced hands powdering his nose and cheeks and his declarations of the afternoon’s projected weather. In the thirty minutes between a peck of lips, quick and greeting, and a kiss of temporary departure after she’d applied his lip balm, slow and lingering, epilogued by a playful chastisement of his insatiable mouth as she reapplied the shining balm to the outline of his mouth and pushed him out of her proximity and into the spotlight.
That his hands were good for more than cheeky wandering. That the subtle, little dip in the upper bend of his middle finger had presented itself after years of habit and incessant practice, not from some birth defect or childhood ailment.
That he wanted to drag her back to his apartment for the first time that evening. Not to ease her under his sheets with witty flirtations and a bottle of wine he’d splashed the remnants of his savings on, but to etch her image between the pages of an old, worn sketchbook.
She’d laughed him off, catching his chin between her thumb and forefinger and tilting his face into the light as she swept the feathery touch of her makeup brush over the crooked bridge of his nose. She’d teased his offhanded declaration that he’d studied the art of artistry before settling into his calling at Channel 6, with a playful assertion that she’d never so much as witnessed him with a pencil in hand.
And Vincent, all cocksure and biting at the opportunity she’d unknowingly bestowed upon him, had twirled a loose strand of her hair around his index. Had snatched her attention back to the mismatched pools of color in his eyes with a gentle, commanding tug, grin sharp and untempered as he assured her that he knew a muse when he saw one.
It served only to tie her tongue and lift her eyelids slightly, flattery stilling her careful ministrations as she stared down at him for a beat longer than her usual quick wittedness allowed.
And Vincent had watched her, teeth catching on the flesh of his cheek in a fruitless effort to stave off a knowing smirk. Satisfaction filtered across his visage when, finally, after a few slow dawning blinks, she’d schooled her bashful expression and accepted his proposal with a gleaming smirk of her own and a challenging tilting of her brow.
But all of that simpering arrogance and greedy flirtations has dwindled and waned with every daunting step she matched to his on the winding walk to his apartment complex. Conversation came just as easy as it ever had between them, but he could feel it when they stepped into the looming shadow of his building.
The slight tightening of his throat as he flung his door open with a showmanly flourish and welcomed her to his humble abode.
The barely-there weight of trepidation that settled over his breastbone when she let him take her jacket with a tiny smile of gratitude before her eyes roamed over his shoulder to take in the surrounding landscape of his lonesome habitation.
The uncharacteristically nervous squeeze of his lungs as he watched her through fleeting glances, eyes twitching between the preparatory assortment of sketch supplies he was busying himself with and her curious, wordless exploration of his living room’s decor.
He wondered slowly if she felt that same anxious tingle echoing through her bones.
Part of him hoped she didn’t, that she wasn’t suffering from the same anxious, sweaty aches that sent giddy tremors through his veins. A bigger, more selfish part of him prayed that the sentiment was an unspoken and shared one. Because he already felt like a fool, lovesick and longing. He wasn’t sure if he could bear to discover that the only flame he’d ever held and cherished for another was unreciprocated.
“So,” she chirped suddenly, piercing the momentary quiet and jerking him from his musings as she clasped her hands behind her back, fingers interlocking to dissuade any tempting urges to fidget and fumble. She turned on her heel, away from the crowded bookshelf she was pursuing and catching him mid-stare, rocking on her heels as she probed curiously; “How do you want me?”
Forever, his mind supplied.
“Naked?” His mouth interrupted.
His tone remained steadfast in its denial of honesty, laced with an unserious edge as he eyed her reaction over the edge of his sketchbook, crossing his ankle over his knee with an arrogant grin at the ready when her eyes inevitably fell to find his.
He meant it, sort of. He’d happily take her bare, even if he’d imagined his first time seeing her in any state of undress was under more intimate circumstances. But he’d always been a chancer, and they’d agreed to take it slow, so he’d take whatever she was willing to give him.
But the slight pinch that tilted her brows sent a surge of panic through his ribs.
So he did what he did best. Rerouted the assumed worry in her brow into an eased arch of humored condemnation by corralling all of his own bothersome trepidation into the furthest recesses of his mind and replacing every jittery platitude with a sardonic farce.
“I said I can draw people,” he reminded, hiking the sleeves of his shirt up and exposing the lean muscle canvassing his forearms, twirling a pencil between his thumb and forefinger before making a sweeping gesture from the woolen fabric of her jumper to the hem of her knee-length skirt. His gaze flicked upward, leering at her over the frame of his glasses as a smug grin cracked across his expression. “Not clothes.”
He didn’t show it, at least he hoped not, but breath stilled as he waited for her reaction. The subtle rise and fall of his chest stalled as a contemplative moue contorted pouty lips, as eyes narrowed and eyebrows arched dubiously.
She opened her mouth to counter, but Vincent beat her to the punch.
Sucking in a sharp intake of breath, he drew his shoulders up by his jawline and cocked his head in a dramatic display of apathy, as if his heart wasn’t leaping against the column of his throat.
“Eh, worth a try,” he drawled, blasé and intentionally distant, willing and hoping that she would let him brush off his coquette bumble. He felt an uncomfortable heat burn across his cheeks and rectified the humiliation of his reddened face by sinking into himself and ducking his expression, hiding it behind the dutiful shield of his sketchbook.
He busied himself with turning pages and ignoring old sketches and doodles as they came and went in a blur. He busied himself with pointedly ignoring the tickled stare she was marring him with.
“Guess I’ll just have to use my imagination,” he crooned through a sigh, resigned and wistful and filling the quiet, brows jumping at the playful insinuation as he settled back against the cushion of his armchair. He beckoned her closer, nodding his head toward the couch as he flipped through pages of smudged lead and purposeful lines, thumbing at the frayed edges of his old, worn sketchbook until he reached the final, untouched parchment, pencil balanced between his teeth.
It was the sight of familiar painted fingernails that drew his attention back to the object of his artistic musings, blue polish shining in the setting sun’s rays as she wordlessly urged the sketchbook down, down, down until there was nothing keeping his eyes obscured from the sights of hers.
He blinked up at her, stupidly.
And she smiled down at him, earnestly.
“Or,” she started, voice laced with an unusual edge of nervousness, like she wasn’t entirely certain of her ability to finish her suggestion of an alternative. She swallowed around words that failed her, pursing her lips and letting out a small huff of self-deprecating annoyance. And Vincent could only watch with rapt awe and wondrous anticipation as a warm glow etched itself across the curve of her cheekbones, as she tossed her eyes upward before reacquainting her gaze with his, a newfound determination threading through the colors of her eyes before she urged slowly; “You could try asking politely.”
He felt the wood of his pencil splinter slightly as his canines bit down around a foolish little; “Oh.”
The flush of color dashed across his face burned brighter, dawning realization widening his eyes as his jaw hung a little slack before he snapped back to himself and sat upright, spine straight and knuckles whitening.
He gaped at her, all wide-eyed and ponderous, absolute in his admiration as a coy grin tilted her lips at his stupefied wordlessness.
And after a moment, after a shuddering inhale and a swallow of nerves, he stood up, leaving just an inch of space between their noses, murmuring into the space between their mouths; “Can I draw you naked, please?”
“Well,” she breathed, satisfaction softening her expression as she tilted her head back to peer up at him through her lashes, haloed by the golden hues of sunset as she pinched his cheek between her thumb and forefinger and jostled his head with a teasing coo; “Aren’t you a gentleman?”
It pried a rumbling chuckle from the depths of his chest, one larger hand snatching the bend of her wrist in a gentle grip. He pried her fingers from his face and prayed to whatever deity was willing to listen that she didn’t feel the flustered burn of his cheeks.
He moved past her, sidestepping her smirking visage and shrugging off her complimentary coos to draw the curtains to his living room’s singular window closed, leaving them cast in nothing more than the fiery glow of the room’s overhead lamp.
“Yeah, well, you don’t get to where I- Oh.”
The sun’s rays departed and bathed the room in cast shadows, and as Vincent turned to charm her with an arrogant smile and a cavalier declaration of his own accomplishments, he found his tongue weighed heavy in his mouth. That his jaw hung slack and his hands fisted by his sides, fingers curling tight around the fabric of his pants as breath left him, and he was faced with everything he’d ever wanted.
Because before him, naked and stunningly unfamiliar, stood the sheepish body of his lover, face burning with the heat of anticipatory timidity. Vincent felt his heart leap against the bones of his sternum, felt it as his throat tightened, as his pupils shrank and zeroed in on the outline of her body until everything else faded to an irrelevant blur. Until all he could utter was a stupid little; “Wow.”
Her lip quirked at the whispery astonishment, chin lifting slightly, shoulders rolling back as though that single syllable had imbued her joints and nerves with an assuaging confidence. Her head tilted to the side, the corners of her eyes crinkling with sparkling amusement as she watched as he raked an exultantly distressed hand through his hair, as he hooked a finger beneath the collaring tie cinched around his neck and tugged.
She let out a disbelieving laugh, and Vincent tucked the sound somewhere deep and warm inside the softest corners of his brain.
And when he failed to conjure thoughtful words, she reached forth and slipped her fingers around his, pulling him into her orbit as she kicked the discarded garments of her work attire strewn across the floorboards to the side and out of the way. She could see the subtle bob of his throat, noticed the restless poke of his tongue against his cheek, like it was lashing out in a vain attempt to vocalize his admiration.
Her thumb traced familiar terrain over the bumps of his knuckles, fingers infringing before she squinted up at him; “Pose?”
Vincent swallowed dryly, opened his mouth, and swallowed again. He shook his head, blinking owlishly and chomping a punishing bite into his bottom lip before donning his usual suave charm. He chuckled, and she noticed that the sound came a little tight, a little nervous, so unlike him that she resisted the instinct to tease him.
“Dangerous question, dollface,” he tried, clearing his throat. But, despite the suggestive drag of his low timbre, he offered a gentle squeeze to her fingers before his hands slid upward, chaste as they followed the bend of her arms as he stepped closer and urged her back. Until the backs of her knees met the edge of his couch and he was the only thing keeping her from sprawling backward in an unceremonious heap.
And, somehow, by a sheer miracle-induced dose of willpower, he kept his hands neutral and on track, settling his palm on the slight curve of her bare waist as he led her slowly down onto the plush terrain of his couch cushions. She offered little resistance to his artistic whims, letting him maneuver her legs, stretch her arms, and guide her into a slight sideways recline.
Heat erupted under her skin with each careful touch and caress, with every appreciative squeeze he offered to her limbs when he finally got each one into its desired position. And even with his pointed avoidance of bare skin that he’d never been privy to, she felt her heart stutter and her breath catch at the unique intimacy of it all.
He stood straight after a moment of eyeing her positioning, after the final, inconsequential added touch of him tucking a stray hair behind her ear only so that he could let his palm settle over her cheek for a second of wordless admiration and breath-stealing eye contact, and nodded.
“Okay. Just…” He settled in the armchair, a heavy sigh rattling his chest as he gathered his sketchbook and pencils in his lap, holding his hands out placatingly, and requested that she simply; “Stay there.”
She nodded, offering a wide grin that she quickly vanquished into a subdued tilt of her lips to maintain his desired reference.
He nodded back, again, dumbly, pencil tip already marking pivotal structures and forming skeletal base lines. And soon, conversation fell into comforting, companionable silence, interrupted only by the constant drag of graphite on sketch paper, or soft breaths and hums of watchful contemplation.
His eyes moved in a constant flutter between the sight of his muse and the mirrored image he was forging with careful hatch lines and purposeful smudges. And every time his eyes instinctively twitched to find hers, he, without fail, felt the rushing burn of boyish mystification flush his cheeks.
And though her face remained neutral and passive, even he could see the amused twinkle shining in her irises every time their stares met. Noticed the tickled wobble at the corner of her mouth every time his eyes instinctively twitched down to her chest.
“I’m proud of you.”
His brow furrowed, eyes lifting belatedly from the half-finished image of his lover to glance up at her for a few fleeting seconds, intentionally meeting her gaze for the first time since he’d set his pencil to paper. “Huh?”
“I’m here, naked on your couch,” she clarified. “And you didn’t even get handsy.”
“‘Gentleman’,” he reminded, mimicking her earlier teasing as he gestured to himself with a loose bend of his wrist and a flourishing twirl of his pencil. “Remember?”
She hummed, a skeptical smirk tilting her mouth. “You just keep that kinda behavior to the workplace?”
His eyes departed from the etched depiction of her body so that he could bare his teeth at her in a cheeky grin, providing an answer to her rhetorical question without having to further breach the relative quiet of their reverie.
With his wordless assertion came a long stretch of easy silence, interrupted only by the soft scratch of pencil on paper and the slight creak of leather as he readjusted his legs, his hands, his pants. The latter of which he realized had tightened over the course of the half hour he’d had his untouched lover posing bare and willing on his couch.
Just inches away, and yet still, she felt so unattainable.
And, despite his most stubborn efforts, he found that his eyes tended to drift to the only part of her he had yet to properly shade and detail.
That, as much as he tried to respect the gift of trust she’d bestowed upon him and keep his gaze on the subject of his workings, mismatched eyes gave in to admiring temptation more often than he was proud of.
Because suddenly, he felt like a teenager. Like a boy stealing away the foreign sight of a naked lady’s bare chest for his mind’s later recollection. Blushing like a schoolgirl and not a twenty-six-year-old with an apartment, a job, a penchant for sweet talking, and a gaggle of women willing to throw themselves at him.
And he knew that she knew. Because as much as his gaze roved and wandered, hers remained ever-present and astutely fixed to his expression.
He’d hoped she wouldn’t mention it. But alas, he’d fallen for her tenacity, and she’d never cowered from jabbing at him with teasing words and apt assertions.
“I think you’re blushing, Mister Artiste,” she purred, all of her initial apprehension long since melted away and substituted by unadulterated coquettish aplomb.
He deigned to ignore her teasing for a few dragging seconds. He chose instead to suffer the renewed burn of his face, to let his teeth sink deep in the flesh of his cheeks as his hand moved in a blur, shading curves he could only trace on paper, adding details he wished to familiarize himself with more than anything.
“It’s warm,” he justified, avoiding her unwavering stare.
“It’s November,” she corrected, the edge of her smile wobbling under the weighty effort of biting back a bubbling burst of giggles at his expense. “You can just tell me I look pretty.”
“You know you do,” he mumbled, a little pouty and entirely certain in his conviction, punctuating the remark with a sharp exhale of breath, blowing away penciled debris and dusty graphite.
She hummed, shoulder lifting slightly, just enough that she didn’t disturb the still piece he’d puppeteered her body into. “It’s nice to hear it though.”
Vincent hummed back, holding the sketchbook up and out, interrupting his view of the person immortalized in its final pages so that he could inspect the portrait’s accuracy. He nodded slowly, pencil tilting against his teeth before he jerked his head at her, beckoning her over with a challenging; “How about I show you?”
She sat up instantly, finally allowing for her lips to stretch into an eager grin.
He had to temper his disappointment when she wrapped herself in the throw tossed over the back of the couch before bare feet padded across worn floorboards and closed the distance between them. But his crestfallen moping was assuaged by the weight of her sliding into his lap, keen hands plucking the sketchpad from his grip.
“That’s- That’s just… Wow.”
Large hands instinctively found familiar curves despite the thick, woolen barrier keeping the warmth of her skin from mingling with his. His eyes remained affixed to her awed expression, lidded and starry as delight echoed across her visage and her fingertips traced the very edges of her own lead-laced countenance.
“Still think I can’t draw?” He crooned, brow arching as he tucked a loose strand of hair behind the shell of her ear, fingertips carding through the wispy locks at the nape of her neck.
Her eyes rolled, a heady sigh parting her lips before she reacquainted her gaze with his, lids low and lips pursed in a tight-lipped grin.
And, without proffering a response or acknowledgment to his egotism, she plucked the pencil from between his lips, pressing the eraser’s end to the underside of his chin, tilting his head back as she inquired with a coy tilt of tone and an amorous, coaxing tilt of tone; “Can I draw you?”
“You gonna do it naked?”
She hummed, feigning contemplation as she tapped the pencil against her thoughtful moue. Once, twice, three times, until finally, petulant and pouty, her bottom lip jutted as she playfully cooed a sulky; “My artist didn’t strip down for me.”
Vincent guffawed at her doe-eyed frown, catching her chin between his thumb and forefinger, letting the edge of his thumb glide across the glossy flesh of her bottom lip. He chased the sweeping touch with his own lips, tilting his face to bump the bridge of his nose against hers and slot his open mouth over hers. Lips moved with intimate synchronicity, tongues touching fleetingly and sending jolts of lightning hot sparks down the column of their spines as hands fell to familiar holds and breaths came short.
Her chest lifted with a wistful sigh against his, and Vincent returned the breath with a muffled sound of rapturous emboldenment. His palms slid higher, gave her arms an appreciative squeeze, and then rode higher again. Until his fingers found the strategic overlap of fabric concealing the enticing swell of her chest from view.
He kept them there, teasing and tempted, but ultimately chaste. Even as her fingers raked through his hair and she pushed her chest into his hands. Even as they pulled apart, just a few inches, lips connected by a string of saliva.
Even as boldness returned to him in a lopsided grin and an archly lilt of tone; “You just have to ask politely, sweetheart.”
@dostoevskya, here you go, my lovely! i really hope it was worth the wait!
ao3
masterlist.
comments, reblogs, and likes are appreciated, always
MULTICHAPTER FIC !
꩜ [ hazbin hotel ] vincent whittman (vox) x reader
5/6 — PART ONE, PART TWO, PART THREE, PART FOUR, PART FIVE, PART SIX
now playing... ♫ | 05. BEEN HERE BEFORE, AND WE'LL BE HERE TOMORROW.
wc: 3.2k+
-> second person pov; angst; alcohol use; drunk texts; exes to lovers; eventual smut
fire.
it’s all you could feel.
the flames weren’t just tentative licks of heat that curled like ivy around your body and mind, no—they were furnaces carved into every inch of flesh that it could find to blaze upon.
your head was no exception. in fact, the point of origin seemed to burn from there.
God, it made you want to die.
other than the free trial from hell throbbing behind your eyes and sending rivulets of sweat tracing down your limbs, you—still locked in an albeit sleepy haze—slowly become aware of the newfound Sahara replica inhabiting your tongue and just how dry your mouth feels. a deep-set ache in your muscles accompanies your present misery, almost like a little maraschino cherry on top of the very thoughtful gift basket packed and ribboned for you by the very devil himself.
huh. that’s funny. weren’t you just having drinks with him last night? you muse. an image of charlie’s father unwittingly flashes through your heat-riddled mind.
you let out a tired chuckle under your breath despite yourself, though the humour does very little to quell your pain. thoroughly sore, you settle your head back into your very comfortable pillow—only, you realise too late, it’s not a pillow at all, but rather, a chest.
a very solid, very familiar chest; one that held a heartbeat you had spent a year unlearning.
you feel your blood run cold.
with all the cautiousness of captured prey, you sit up, headache and all, only to discover with growing horror that you’re not wearing the same clothes as you did last night. you don’t even need to hold up the v-neck collar to your nose to know whose it was; the crisp scent of cedarwood you drowned in spoke volumes for itself.
you’re almost scared to look behind you.
training your aching eyes ahead, you scan the room, pointedly ignoring the sleeping body that still had an arm wrapped around your stomach like it was somewhere it still belonged. the room was recognisable, painfully so, and your suspicions are only confirmed once your gaze lands on the piece of branded, cream-coloured stationery lying upon the desk beneath the television.
how the…
the person next to you shifts, and you immediately freeze up, a prayer kickstarting in your head like you’d pulled the string to the voicebox of a child’s toy—please, please, please, please don’t let it be who you think it is—
“(name)...?” his voice is groggy.
it is exactly who you think it is.
the sheets rustle as you feel him turn over, barely awake as he runs a hand up and down your side with a touch that was probably meant to be comforting. instead, you feel your stomach churn; in confusion, in shock, in horror at yourself and what you had gotten into.
what had happened last night?
“s’ so early,” he continues to mumble sleepily against your waist, “go back t’ sleep, honey, y’ll get a headache.”
“...vincent?” you choke out.
“mmm?”
“what… what’s going on?”
his eyes flutter open at that, and he squints up at you—though you know damn well it doesn’t do shit for his bad eyesight. “wh…?” vincent blinks dazedly, before realisation and full consciousness hit him like a freight train, making him shoot up in bed. “oh, fuck.”
vincent’s arm swiftly recoils from your waist as you both stare at each other in silence, equal parts bewildered, though it's obvious that one of you held more memory of the night before. his lips are parted, and you’re sure that yours are, too. his hair sticks up in more directions than you can count, the white shirt he wears is a perfect fit that contrasts the looseness of the blue one on you, and he looks almost older than the last time you remember seeing him.
sober, anyway.
the thunderstruck quiet is broken by a small noise of pain that tumbles from your lips, and you clutch at your head, clenching your teeth together with almost as much pressure as the ache that stabs through your brain.
vincent curses under his breath as he throws the covers off of him and stalks to the desk, snatching a paper bag with a printed pharmacy logo and kicking the refrigerator door open for a bottle of gatorade and a bottle of water. he nudges it shut with his foot and pads back to you, all but shoving the evian bottle into your face after he’d screwed the cap open. “drink.”
“thanks,” you rasp, taking an immediate gulp.
he stops you when you’ve downed over half of the water.
“leave some room for the gatorade,” he mutters, refusing to meet your gaze as he holds out the second bottle. “and i can’t give you the painkillers until you eat a cracker.”
he’s right, you admit to yourself sourly, and you can do nothing but obey.
vincent refuses to look at you as you drink and as you eat, but he stays by your side all the while. it almost hurts, really—how his warmth lingers on your skin more than the heat that prickles beneath it.
once you’ve chewed and swallowed the last cracker, he wordlessly cracks the painkiller lid open, shaking it rigidly until several pills fall out. he lets you pick out a tablet yourself, and he stiffly stands back up to go to the bathroom as you get around to slipping the advil into your mouth.
it’s sweet on your tongue, though you know it would soon melt into bitterness if you let it stay any longer. down goes the pill with the rest of its sugar and what was left in your water bottle, and you hear the tap running on the other side of the wall.
you settle back into the sheets, crinkling the empty saltine cracker wrap as you squeeze it in your fist, digging through the fossils of your memory in an attempt to remember how you ended up here. in bed. with him.
oh, God. what would your friends say?
before you could spiral further, vincent emerges from the hallway, patting his face with a towel. his hair is wet, slicked back with what you assume would have been frantic fingers, and his glasses hang off the low calvin klein waistband peeking over the jeans he’d changed into. you both continue to look at each other in tense silence.
“i…” you mumble. “my phone?”
“it’s dead.” he says curtly. “it’s in the drawer of your nightstand along with the rest of your stuff.”
“where’s my bag?”
“in the closet.”
it becomes quiet again. vincent throws his astigmatic gaze to the floor, studying the carpet. restlessness crawling up your spine, you push yourself up on your elbows, scrutinising him from across the room. “vincent.”
he lets out a noncommittal grunt.
you hesitantly lick at the seam of your lips. “what am i doing here?”
vincent’s eyes snap back to you. both confusion and a lack of surprise is strewn ambivalently across his face, and the tick in his jaw becomes tighter. “you don’t remember?”
your heart drops. “remember what?”
“why am i even surprised,” he mutters under his breath, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment. “damn it.”
“vincent,” you say slowly, growing more anxious by the second. “what happened last night.”
“you texted me,” vincent concedes, throwing you an unreadable look—though the tiniest spark of emotion flickers in his eyes. “you were at a bar for angel dust’s birthday, and got yourself drunk enough to gain the guts and, frankly,” he laughs dryly, “the stupidity to text me.”
“i–” you protest.
he cuts you off, digging a thumb into the furrow of his brow. “and i picked you up. ‘course i did. i couldn’t say no.” vincent turns away from you, heatedly rummaging through his luggage in search of a comb. “besides, you were practically begging me to.”
that makes you sit up straighter. “excuse me? begging?”
vincent whirls back to look at you. “yes, (name), begging. you called me an idiot and you kept insulting me until you finally let up and started fucking crying for me to take you home.”
you blink at him in disbelief. “are you fucking with me?”
“i could ask you the same thing,” he fires back. whatever the gentleness he’d held you with in somnolence was gone, dissipated into nothing but a curl of smoke where an ember used to be. “and i have been asking. but you wouldn’t answer any of my questions last night.”
“i was drunk, vincent!” you retort, rising onto your knees on the bed as you glare at him, “you think you’d get the answers you want from someone who’s under the influence?”
“if i got an unwarranted, drunk, ‘i love you’ out of the blue, yeah, i think i damn well could have gotten an answer,” vincent snarls.
pain continues to stab through your head like brutus himself held the knife, but you don’t let up. “think you’re any better, jackass?” you glower, boiling with rage. “you can’t even say it sober!”
it’s obvious the rebuttal catches him off guard in the way that his recovery holds the slightest falter.
“weren’t you into that whole ‘actions speak louder than words’ bullshit more?” vincent demands, scoffing. he throws his hands up. “just playing off what you want, here, (name).”
“oh, don’t you pull that shit on me!” you fume, pushing off the bed and staggering over to him with a furious finger pointed to his face. your head and your knees protest their weakness, though you stubbornly ignore the pain. “by what i want? what i want? and you think that’s taking me to a hotel instead of my fucking apartment?”
vincent doesn’t shy away from the proximity. in fact, he leans close enough for you to feel the heat radiating off his skin as he sneers, “well, shoot me for playing good samaritan and deciding not to break into your—if i may very fucking kindly remind you—shared apartment–”
“so breaking and entering is a bigger crime than kidnapping in your books, now, is it, whittman?” you interrupt mockingly, an irked smile twitching at the corners of your face. “gods, vincent, do you even hear yourself?”
his mouth opens like he’s about to fire another retort, though nothing but an disbelieving scoff leaves his lips. vincent’s hand shoots up into what little space was left between the two of you as he steps back, affronted, casting his slighted glare to the foyer. “we are not having this conversation.”
you force yourself back into his line of sight, echoing his scoff with a short, offended laugh of your own. “oh, we so are!” you retaliate, jabbing your finger into his chest. “you don’t get to run away from this, vince.”
vincent snatches your wrist, eyes gleaming with fury. “no, you know what, sweetheart?” —he seethes the endearment—“this time, i do.” he throws your hand down and points his own finger back at you. “i do get to run away from an argument when i know we aren’t on equal footing, and right now, we aren’t. this isn’t just like any of my other fucking power trips, (name).” his chest heaves as he struggles to contain his anger, hand dropping to his side. “this is about us.”
“there is no us!” you scream at him. your blood slams harder against your head at the outburst, and you almost regret raising your voice.
almost as much as you regret the look that flickers across his face.
almost.
“there is no ‘us’, vincent. there hasn’t been.” your eyes prickle with tears, though you can’t tell if it’s from the hangover or from the hurt that burns wildly through your chest. “not for a very long time. you made that exceedingly clear ten months ago.”
“...have i, now?” vincent’s voice cracks. he resumes the iron clench in his jaw.
“yeah.” you curl your hands into fists when you feel them shake. “you have.”
vincent turns his head to the side as he runs both hands down his face, index fingers pressing into the corners of his eyes. he goes quiet for a moment, and you can see the way his shoulders tremble as he attempts to regulate his breathing.
your head feels like it’s swimming in molten lava. you’re feverish; hot all over—figuratively and literally speaking. you’re almost convinced that if the dam of your willpower breaks enough to let tears fall over the precipice of your eyelashes, you would cry a newfound river of fire.
“okay.” vincent’s voice is lower now, controlled, though barely so. his usually smooth baritone holds the slightest tremor. “i’m going for a drive.”
“what?” you snap, and so do your nerves—high-strung and taut as a bowstring all over again. the throbbing in your head grows stronger. “vincent–”
“i said, i’m going for a drive,” he repeats, emphasising every word. his gaze is cold as he looks back at you. “i need some air.”
you let out a humourless laugh. “air, huh? is that what they’re calling ‘space’ these days?”
“maybe they are.” vincent turns to storm down the foyer to the closet, snatches his sports jacket from the coat hanger, and throws it over his shoulders with unbridled, barely restrained anger as he stalks back to where you were next to the desk. “maybe they are calling it that.” his words are rapid-fire, so are the gestures of his hands, “maybe they’ve somehow found air in space, you know, those NASA fuckers or whoever the fuck—”
“what? vincent, you’re not making any sense!” you exclaim hotly.
“i’m not making sense?” he echoes incredulously. “look who’s– wow, i really couldn’t fucking tell, (name)!” vincent yanks a drawer open, scrabbling for his wallet keys. “not making any sense,” he mutters under his breath before his voice rises again, sardonic, “yeah, well, neither are you, princess.”
more tears well in your eyes from the sheer volume of his voice. “oh, don’t you fucking call me that.”
“i’ll call you whatever i damn well please,” vincent snarls, clawing through his hair to push it out of his face. “not like you had any issue calling me last night.”
“that’s a completely different thing!” you retort angrily, “i don’t even remember a thing from last night, asshole!”
he snaps his furious eyes back to you. “well that’s just a huge fucking shame, now, isn’t it, (name)? what a goddamn shame.”
“God!” you exclaim in frustration, digging the heel of your palms into your rapidly brimming eyes. “i’m just as upset as you are, vincent. for goodness’ sake! don’t you know how unnerving it is to wake up with no memory of the night before, in some bed you don’t remember falling asleep in, wearing clothes that aren’t yours because they belong to your fucking ex—who, by the way, just so happens to be sleeping right next to you!?”
“some original experience that is,” vincent retorts sarcastically, shoving his glasses deep into the pocket of his jeans. “pop quiz, hotshot, you’re not the only one who’s gone through this shit.”
“that doesn’t make it any less fucked up!” your head feels like it’s about to burst. “you’re just— damn it.”
“see?” he gestures sharply at your sorry form. “this– this is why i don’t want to talk right now.”
you look up at him through pulsating, bloodshot eyes. “so you’re leaving.”
“for the time being!” vincent explodes. he catches himself, taking another deep breath before he slowly speaks again. “i just– i just need to take a drive, need some time, and then i’ll come right back. you get rid of that hangover first, and if you want, if you’re still here when i come back, then we can talk. deal?”
“checkout’s at twelve,” you remind him hoarsely, backtracking until your knees hit the edge of the bed, clutching your head in your hands. “even if i wanted to leave, i don’t even know where my clothes are.”
“fucking–!” he shouts in frustration, swiping the hotel phone off its switch hook and all but smashing the number 0 on the dial before he presses it up to his ear. it doesn’t take long for the other line to pick up. “yeah, hi, front desk?” vincent effortlessly shifts his voice to that smooth-talking-public-image cadence, though his hands still visibly shake with rage. “i’m calling from room 725. is melissa still on her shift? no? okay, well, i’d like to request to extend ou- my stay for one more night. is that possible?” he impatiently shifts from one foot to the other, and you grow drowsier as time passes. the advil was beginning to hit.
“really? oh, that’d be wonderful.” his voice practically overflows with relief. “is it also possible for u- me to keep the same room? great! thanks a lot. yeah, just charge it to the same card. yeah. mhm, that’s right. thanks again, uh, travis, right? yeah, thanks, travis. have a nice day,” he finishes, before slamming down the receiver and reverting back to his earlier mood as his eyes hurl daggers at you again. “there. happy?”
blearily, you raise your head, glaring up at him through wet eyelashes. “expecting a tree planted in your honour?”
“a fucking ‘thank you’ would be nice!” he snaps back angrily. “Christ, woman!”
“fine! thank you, really–” you raise your hands toward him in mock praise. “thanks a lot, asshole.”
“would an asshole do half the shit i’ve willingly done for you in the past ten hours?” vincent scoffs, blindly shoving the rest of his things—wallet, phone, keys—into his pockets with rage-shaken hands. “think again, honey. i’ve got a five-hundred-dollar dent in my credit card statement saying otherwise.”
“fuck, alright, fine!” you cry agitatedly, digging your fingers into your temples. “get out and get your stupid fucking space and just– God! shut up! i can’t think!”
“that's the problem, (name).” each repeated utter of your name gets sharper every time. “you haven't been thinking.” vincent is standing with his back to you, already slipping into his shoes, but his voice isn’t any less scathing as it would have been if he was facing you. “not since last night, and definitely not now.”
“you think i don't know that?” it hurts. everything hurts. your head, your heart, your body—it’s almost too much for you to process all at once.
“no.” he straightens up, turning to look at you again, cold eyes boring holes into your pulsating own. “you're smart enough to.”
for a moment, nothing but the sound of your pained, ragged breathing hangs in the room.
vincent clicks his tongue, already beginning to make his way down the foyer. “i’ll send someone up for the laundry. you go back to sleep and get rid of that hangover and that goddamn… attitude of yours.” you hear him yank the bathroom doors shut. “if you wake up hungry, just get room service or takeout, whatever the fuck, i don't care, it’s fine, it’s on me, just–”
his footsteps halt by the front door. he sighs heavily.
“i need some time.”
tears well up in your eyes, and you feel a sob catch in your throat.
don’t go.
the silence that follows the click of the latch is deafening.
꩜ a/n: surrrrrprise!! six chapters instead of five—that's right, an extra chapter! all for the sake of pacing and bringing justice to the tension; just so i could execute the proper ending this story deserves. and it also kind of just felt wrong to start and resolve the conflict all in one go.
LOLLL YALL HAVENT SEEN THE LAST OF ME
i will say though, there is a chance that the next chapter May Take A Wee Bit Longer so it might not be out by the usual scheduled monday ,, i promise i will do my best to make the wait worth it!
also, so sorry i'm like 21 hours 40 minutes late hahah!! but hey it's still monday i'm technically still On Schedule
but anyways, if you're still here reading, thank you :) i love u and i appreciate u so much. see you in the next one ٩(ˊᗜˋ*)و ♡
📺. — WHEN YOU GO TO HELL, I'LL GO THERE WITH YOU, TOO.
꩜ [ hazbin hotel ] vox x reader
wc: 1.4k words
-> second person pov; fluff and humour; very minor hurt/comfort; vox and reader are married; vox is WHIPPED; slight manipulation; reader is in hell for a reason; smoking
now playing... silver lining by laufey
⤷ in queue :: maggots for brains by olivia rodrigo
vox was always very clear about one thing: never disturb him when he’s working. anything and everything else could be unclear for all he cared other than that—and, well, that he was hot shit.
the hot shit, if you will. it’s imperative to know that. company rules and whatever.
but, oh, woe is the woman who loves! you were just a girl, standing in front of an enormous pair of office doors, yearning for some love and affection from the boy (man(child)) sitting behind them.
you totally did not steal that line from a movie.
sighing heavily, you furrow your brow as you pout up at the floor-to-ceiling doors, unintentionally scrunching up your nose as you do so. it was horrifically late into the night—way later than your husband had promised he’d be—and he was taking ages.
you’d been standing at the entryway for quite some time now, silk nightgown and all, and you can’t bring yourself to believe that there was possibly any chance that vox was absorbed enough in his emails and ratings to not notice the cameras. there was literally one pointed directly at the spot you were standing in!
“oh, damn it all to hell,” you curse, finally making up your mind. “i’m his wife for goodness’ sake.”
you firmly plant both hands on either door, over the horizontal lines that intersected into a V down the middle, and throw them open with a startling amount of strength.
vox’s reaction is immediate.
he turns around in his chair fast enough to give any other person whiplash, screen flickering with fury and completely ready to incinerate who dared to disturb him—until he realises that it’s you.
“oh, honey,” vox splutters, taken aback. “i–” he looks down at his watch, before his gaze flickers back up at you with an indignant flash. “i’m pretty sure i told you not to come in here when i’m working.”
“and i’m pretty sure you also told me that you’d be back at the penthouse by 9,” you counter, crossing your arms over your chest, where, predictably, his digital eyes zero in on.
“i–” he says again, scrambling for the right words. it’s funny, really, how the smooth-talking corporate media tycoon and the face of hell’s most successful business could be reduced to a stammering mess when presented with the threat of his wife’s inevitable wrath. “look, doll, it’s just a really busy season, you know–”
“neglectful little husband,” you interrupt him, clicking your tongue. your pout deepens. “i thought you loved me.”
vox visibly deflates from across the room. “oh, don’t be like that, baby,” he complains, “you know i do.”
“not enough to come home to me on time, apparently.”
his mouth falls open, disappearing into the border of his screen as it glitches. “it’– (szzt!) not like that!”
“i dunno, vinny, it seems an awful lot like that to me,” you say plainly, walking across the narrow platform and towards him. the double doors swing shut behind you. “i’ve been waiting for hours.”
“babydoll, sweetheart, honey,” vox coaxes, obviously trying to sweet-talk his way out of his predicament. he spreads his arms open as you draw closer. “c’mere. i’m sorry,” he murmurs, which was surprising, given that he was never one for apologising. his ego was too inflated for that.
you take your rightful seat on his lap, though you don’t immediately melt into his hold like you usually did—and you can feel vox tense behind you. oh, he knew you were pissed.
“i’m sorry,” he tries again. “i didn’t mean to.”
“we both know you absolutely meant to,” you huff, arms still crossed. vox nudges the part of his bezel that replaced his chin into the junction that connected your neck and shoulder, and his own arms circle your waist as he hugs you close.
“i just need to finish this one last email, i promise, and i’ll go to bed—”
you let out another disastrously heavy sigh that’s really just meant to toy with him at this point. “there are three of us in this marriage. me, you, and work. in life and in death, huh?”
“oh, no,” vox protests, “no, no, no, no, darling, i promise– oh, you cruel woman.” his screen falls against your shoulder in defeat.
“you terrible, awful man,” you shoot back. your husband is too caught up in his distress to realise that you’ve already begun to settle against him.
“my wicked, cruel, beautiful girl,” he lets out a long, drawn-out whine of despair. “i already told you m’ sorry.”
“look who’s talking,” you huff, turning around to look at him. he looks tired—can TVs even look tired?—and thoroughly disheveled. well, as disheveled as a man with a screen for a face could look. his bowtie is loosened, his top buttons hang open, and his usually pristine blazer is wrinkled way beyond his standards.
“let me make it up to you,” vox pleads, taking your hand in his and gently kissing up the skin of your wrist. “i’ll make you feel good, promise. just let me finish this.”
you roll your eyes, though you allow him to continue showering you in affection anyway. “hmph. i think not.”
“wh- (zzt!) what!?” he halts his ministrations, appalled. “why the fuck not!?”
“you’re exhausted, idiot,” you point out, flicking his forehead hard enough to make the screen distort. “there’s no way you’ll last more than two minutes before keeling over and passing out.”
vox bristles. “i wouldn’t–!”
“but that’s okay,” you finish, smoothing your thumbs over the sides of his frame. “i wasn’t looking for that tonight, anyway. i just wanted you.”
his indignation melts into confusion, and he blinks at you. “...seriously?”
“seriously,” you confirm, twisting around to tug one of his drawers open behind you. your fingers brush against a half-empty box of cigarettes and you pull one out, fishing into your dressing-gown pocket for the lighter velvette had gifted you a few sinsmases back—which was honestly just a blatant rip-off of vivienne westwood’s saturn orb.
you slip the cigarette in between his holographic lips as he continues to look up at you in disbelief, and you unhurriedly set about to lighting a smoke. once fire catches, vox begins to inhale the nicotine out of habit, but you take it away from him before he could take a proper hit.
“hey! what–”
the only response you give him is taking the cigarette into your own mouth and taking a deep, languid drag, before leisurely blowing it into his face. you weren’t much of a smoker, you knew that he knew that, so it doesn’t come across as a shock to you to realise it’s a surprise he’s anything but displeased about.
vox cracks a grin, tilting his head as his claws slide over the silk of your nightgown and settle above your hips. “thought you said you weren’t in the mood?” he says amusedly. “is this a threat or a challenge, sweetheart?”
you take another drag, this time blowing it to the side before putting it out on the armrest of his chair. “a smoke,” you coolly reply.
his expression falters. crumbles, even.
“though,” you continue lightly, “it is definitely an invitation to get into bed with me.”
your husband’s whole face brightens up again, and you hold a finger to his lips before he could say anything. “not like that.”
vox deflates again, mourning the lost promise of sex, though you can tell he deems your offer good enough for him. “i’ll take it,” he gives in, swiping a hand through the air to shut off all his screens and CPUs for the night.
when you give him a questioning look, he merely sighs and says, “ethan has access to the shit i was working on, anyway. i’ll let him handle it.” he then presses a small peck to your temple, standing up with an arm beneath your knees and another supporting your back. “my wife’s calling for me,” he says cheekily.
“as she has been for hours,” you remind him. nonetheless, a pleased smile spreads across your lips.
“yeah, well.” vox positions himself in front of the same security camera you’d stood in front of just earlier, static beginning to buzz around the two of you as he prepares to travel through the electrical system up to your penthouse.
“i’ve got all night to make it up to her.”
꩜ a/n: everybody put their hands together and clap for tumblr user dostoevskya's first ever vox oneshot (yes VOX and not VINCENT)
i really be doing anything but finishing and posting ch5 bruh i literally locked tf in and wrote this in an hour JUST TONIGHT as in i legitimately JUST finished this . all bc i needed a fat break from writing the argument (and ended up making quicker progress with this oneshot than chapter 5) and that stupid 70 minute scenepack compilation sent me into such a state of missing vox and i greatly despise him for it
i'm so convinced maggots for brains is going to be my top song on spotify this year and it's all vincent whittman's fault
waughghhg.... what can i do.... but think of you....
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My peanut sized brain finally managed to write something 🎊🎊 Murdermedia x reader sneak peak. The writing shown here will most likely not be the final product.
꒰ঌ♡໒꒱꒰ঌ♡໒꒱꒰ঌ♡໒꒱꒰ঌ♡໒꒱꒰ঌ♡໒꒱꒰ঌ♡໒꒱
You smiled at the familiar sound and glanced back at your companion. “Something on your mind?” You asked, bending down to stroke his head. Razzle ducked away from your hand and began trotting away with another bark. “Huh? What’s wrong?” You questioned, standing to follow behind him.
Razzle didn’t respond to your question and continued his walk. With every glance back at you he took, it was obvious the dog was expecting you to follow behind. You rolled your eyes at his silly behavior and kept going until you spotted two very familiar men. The two were in the middle of a game of chess. The board was perched on an old crate. Vincent held onto his chin, a pensive expression contorting his features. Alastor, on the other hand, appeared smug with his arms crossed. From those looks alone, it was obvious who was winning.
“Hmm, checkmate?” Alastor snickered with a low drawl. He leaned into Vincent’s space, elbows on his knees.
Vincent sneered and softly shoved him. “No! Let me think, damn it!” He shouted, reverting back to his thinking pose.
Alastor rolled his eyes and leaned back, mentally preparing for yet another prolonged game of chess despite there being a clear winner. His head leaned to the side, eyes half-lidded in growing boredom. His eyes fell to his aging notebook at the edge of the board, where their respective scores in this game were cataloged.
Alastor Vincent
III I
That page of the notebook lifted with each pass of the ocean’s wind, revealing another one beneath it.
Princess Vincent
IIIII III III
꒰ঌ♡໒꒱꒰ঌ♡໒꒱꒰ঌ♡໒꒱꒰ঌ♡໒꒱꒰ঌ♡໒꒱꒰ঌ♡໒꒱
Am I 100% satisfied with it? No. Will I ever be? Also, no. Can you guess what this was inspired by? 😗
I swear constantly comparing my writing style to other amazing hazbin writers genuinely muddles my brain (MY FAULT, NOT THEIRS). But I can not help it. I try to find the words hidden deep in the crevices of my mind and never can.
Summary♡ After being declared as a lost princess by Alastor and Vincent, you were now on your way to Paris to find your remaining family. The trip was going smoothly until a schemeing force invaded your dreams in the dark of the night.
⚠️Tags♡ Everyone is yearning. Your dog is a cockblock. Nightmarish scenario. Nothing crazy.
A/N♡ Omg. No fucking way. I finally managed to write something I'm satisfied with. Sound the victory bells. This is inspired by this scene from the movie Anastasia. Idk why, but this idea just randomly came to me, and I felt the need to write it. THERE'S A REASON WHY RASPUTINS DIALOGUE SOUNDS OOC, I SWEAR.
This is dedicated to my mutual tuquoque. BABY, COME BACK! (song ref) I MISS YOU. 😭
A mighty, magnificent ship announced its presence to the sea courtesy of the large horn sitting at the top. The sound bellowing out of it so grand, it forced anyone within the vicinity of it to plug their ears. Named the ‘Tasha’, she cut through waves gifted by the ocean like a hot knife. White caps crashed into the base of the ship with every push of the ocean’s chilled wind in retaliation. Each impact did nothing to deter the ‘Tasha’ from reaching her planned destination, Paris.
A pair of hands gripped the ship’s railing whilst staring down at the large, continuously moving body of water. It was a hypnotizing sight, watching the water weaken and ripple away in surrender after every attempt to breach the hull. You refused to miss a single second of it. In all your years of living, –not even in your wildest dreams–you never thought you’d be granted the opportunity to see the ocean, let alone travel over it.
The crazy string of events that led to this once in a lifetime moment were peculiar, to say the least. It was only just a few days ago that you became a lone girl, aging out of the orphanage, waving goodbye to your friends, and wishing them luck and families of their own. You had trudged through snow-covered pathways one step at time–apprehension in your heart–, on your way to new life, whilst longing for a family of your own. Now, if everything went smoothly, your dream would be coming true.
“Morningstar…” You mumbled a last name that had been etched into your brain. Never-ending, mind-numbing studying of family history and etiquette of the Morningstar family filled your days since Vincent and Alastor discovered you in that abandoned castle. It was quite the lucky coincidence considering you would’ve never stepped foot in there had your new dog, Razzle, not done so first. If you hadn’t spotted him stuck in the snow during your trek, this wouldn’t be your life right now.
“Bark!”
Speaking of the little menace. A smile pulled up the edge of your lips. Unlike the ships loud horn, that was a sound you had grown very accustomed to. You glanced behind to see your furry companion wagging his tail. “Something on your mind?” You asked, crouching down to stroke his head. Razzle ducked away from your loving hand and began trotting opposite of you, barking again.
“Huh? What’s wrong?” You questioned, standing to follow behind.
Razzle offered no response and continued on his leisurely walk. With every glance back at you he took, it was obvious the dog was expecting you to follow behind. You rolled your eyes at his silly behavior and kept going as a means to placate him. It didn’t take long for you to spot the two men who had fashioned themselves as Morningstar experts. Judging by the checkered board perched on aging crate between them, it was safe to assume they were in the middle of a round of chess.
Vincent held onto his chin, a pensive expression contorting his features. Alastor, on the other hand, appeared smug with crossed arms. From those looks alone, anyone passing by could discern who was winning.
“Hmm, checkmate?” Alastor snickered with a low drawl. He leaned into Vincent’s space, elbows on his kness. The rickety crate being utilized as a chair leaned with him.
Vincent’s lip curled and he shoved Alastor away. “No! Let me think, damn it!” He shouted, a rosy tint on his cheeks. He reverted back to his thinking pose.
Alastor rolled his eyes and leaned back, jerking due to the uneven crate. He mentally prepared himself for yet another prolonged game of chess despite there being a clear winner. His head leaned to rest over his shoulder, eyes half-lidded in festering boredom. A paper lifting with every pass of wind grabbed at his attention. His aging notebook sat at the edge of the board, where their respective scores were cataloged in a neat scrawl.
Alastor Vincent
III I
With every lift given to it by the ocean’s breeze, another page underneath it was revealed.
Princess Vincent
IIIII III III
Alastor chuckled to himself and smoothed the page down with his fingertips. That princess of theirs certainly held a fiery wit, all of it directed towards a certain sore loser. Watching the two go tit for tat on the train ride was an entertaining sight. How unfortunate the show had come to an abrupt end when their respective train car suddenly unlatched from the rest and threatened to crash. Alastor previously pondered on what could have possibly triggered such a dramatic turn of events. Nothing ever came to mind. His only being an intangible purple mist.
The strain on his brain from thinking too hard only served to frustrate him. That anger made him lose focus on the end goal he shared with the man sitting across from him. There was no point in losing sleep over something impossible to prove anyway. “What a pain…” He grumbled, biting his lip and forcibly evicting the mist from his mind.
“Keep your pants on, Al! I’m almost done!”
Alastor rolled his eyes. His eye roll was a common occurrence when in the company of someone so frustrating, one thing he successfully deduced. He forced his mouth to remain shut. There was no reason to engage in a battle of wits along with the current game of chess. Nobody would hear the end of it if Vincent lost to both.
Something solid nudged at the side of his shoe. He turned his head downward and spotted Razzle, wagging his tail with his tongue out. “Have you found our princess, ti chen?” Alastor asked, idly scratching under the little mutt’s chin. Despite his heavy distaste in dogs, Razzle was far easier to tolerate than Vincent at times.
Razzle barked in response to his inquiry and pointed his head in the opposite direction to direct Alastor’s attention up. His head lifted–body still bent over as his hand remained attached to Razzle’s chin–and spotted you. Half-lidded eyes once filled with boredom widened, interest coming to consume them. You stood a few steps away, twirling in a new dress–paid for by Alastor and Vincent–as a means to show it off.
“My, my. What a lovely sight,” commented Alastor. He stood from the slowly rotting crate and subdued a pained groan–a dull pain had spread over his ass. He took your hand in his and lifted his arm to assist you in another turn. “You look just about ready for the ball, cher.” He bowed and pressed a kiss onto your hand.
Alastor delicately dropped your hand and clapped his own together. “Only thing missing now is dancing lessons,” he said. He meandered over to where Vincent sat–who was silently convincing himself the game wasn’t over–and grabbed him by the collar. “Vincent, be a dear and help. We both know the game is won.” With a surprising amount of strength, Alastor dragged Vincent up from his old crate.
A pair of hands reached down towards the board. “Hey! Come on!” Vincent then stretched his arms behind him to claw at Alastor’s wrist. “I almost had it!” He whined.
Alastor made no response to the preposterous claim and pushed Vincent to stand beside you. The sore loser rubbed at the back of his neck, perspiration beginning to shine on his forehead and dampen the hairs hanging over it. “I, uh… I’m not really good at this,” he muttered sheepishly.
“Don’t be shy, old pal. Place your hand on the lady’s waist and hold her hand,” instructed Alastor form the sidelines. After a few seconds of watching Vincent refuse to take charge and being entrapped by the color of his shoes, Alastor’s eye twitched. With a sigh, he delicately placed a hand over his cheek. “Oh my, must I do everything myself?” He goaded, nearing closer to where you waited.
Vincent violently twisted his head around to glare at Alastor. “N-NO! Shut it!” He sputtered with reddening cheeks. With a now rage filled confidence Vincent grabbed hold of your waist and dragged you in.
Your controlled breathing stuttered the moment he pulled you into him. Your hands lifted and instinctively placed themselves atop his shoulders. His body was pressed so tightly against your own, his chest squeezed into yours with every inhale he took. His body heat seeped through his shirt, hitting you in waves and warming your abdomen. The steady hands on your waist caused the increasing heat to spread over your face and an involuntary shiver to skitter down your spine.
Even as your body shuddered from his unexpected warmth, your mind couldn’t even comprehend it properly. You were too busy losing yourself in his piercing gaze. Those eyes. One green. One blue. Such simple colors, but on him, those two colors reflected what truly makes the earth so beautiful. Evergreen flora so vast one could get lost in it forever. Crashing waves that threatened to pull you in. Like a siren’s enchanting song, those eyes dragged you into their depths.
Every second staring into those mismatched eyes was coaxing you further into his space. Vincent felt himself succumbing to the same spell.
A polite cough cutting through the tension made you flinch away. “Ahem.” Alastor’s hand was in a fist over his mouth. “Do remember it’s one hand on the waist. The other is used to hold her hand.” He waved his free hand, pointedly stabbing one of Vincent’s own with a look.
One of the hands resting over your waist ripped itself away. “Uh, right. Yeah.” Vincent nodded and grabbed one of your hands on his shoulders.
Alastor shook his head with a sigh and perked up to begin your long overdue lessons. “Vincent, you lead. Princess, you follow,” he said, gesturing to each of you as he spoke your names. “Now, 1, 2, 3… 1, 2, 3…” He sang rhythmically.
Vincent’s brows pinched together and became tighter the longer the dance persisted. He counted along under his breath and stared down at his shoes instead of you. He stumbled over his feet trying to match Alastor’s slow count. His movements were rigid and you could feel his uncertainty with every step. Due to his, your own steps suffered along with it. Developing the necessary skills to impress your long-lost family was going to be impossible at this rate.
“Time to switch partners.”
A different hand came into the corner of your eye and swooped in to take the hand held by Vincent. A sharp gasp split your lips open as you lost your footing. You leaned in towards your new partner, resting most of your weight against as you gathered your bearings. A careful arm wrapped itself around your waist.
“Hu-Hey!”
Alastor stared down at you, paying Vincent’s protest no mind. He smiled and kept a tight hold on you. “Careful, cher. Wouldn’t want you falling on us,” he teased, softly coaxing you upright with every pass of his feet.
You silently nodded, unable to form proper words. Fingers perched on his shoulder dug into the fabric of his shirt, scrunching it and causing small hills of creases to form. That same pull you experienced with Vincent hit you again with Alastor. Your body pushed itself into his, the heat growing in your gut invaded your face, and a different pair of eyes sang the same song from before.
The dancing lessons didn’t stop until the dimming sun descended under the distant horizon and the moon rose to fill the space with darkness. Throughout your lesson, you were swapped between Alastor and Vincent every few minutes to accustom yourself to an “authentic ball experience”–Alastor’s words. Hopefully, dancing sloppily and stumbling like a newborn fawn was a common occurrence.
It was currently Alastor’s turn, one last hurrah, he had said. Despite having been on his feet for multiple dances, he remained steady on his feet and didn’t stutter over them once-unlike Vincent. “One final twirl and we’ll be done, dear,” he said, shifting away with one hand staying in yours to move you in a delicate circle.
Your eye drifted shut, allowing yourself to be fully guided by his careful hand. You were completely blind to your surroundings, unaware of the menace inching towards your feet, eager to join the fun one more time. The edge of your shoe nicked Razzle’s paw causing him to yelp in alarm and scamper off. You responded with sound of alarm of your own, eyes shooting open. In an effort to fix yourself, the heel of your shoe knocked against the toe of the other.
You flailed your arms behind you in circles to try and catch yourself before the fall on the ship’s hard wooden deck. It did you no good. You clenched your teeth and eyes tight to brace for the impact. But, instead of slamming into rough wood, a pair of sturdy arms caught you. You grabbed the forearms of whoever saved you to ground yourself.
Clenched eyes born from fear slowly peeled open, blinking a few times to dissipate a temporary blur. Those same eyes opened wider after processing both Alastor and Vincent’s scared gazes. One of their own arms was secured over your waist. You stared at each of them while both stared back at you, all of you panting from rushed adrenaline. Their grip–as well as yours–stayed even as your breathing slowed. Those feelings from before crawled back into your heart. That overwhelming need to be in their space.
That needy ache gave you the strength to stand on your feet. You called upon that strength as the two man stared at you with a deep look in their eyes. As if they wanted to taste every inch of you with no mercy. Your lips parted and you shuffled closer into their space. The heat churning low in your gut, demanded to explode and spread throughout every inch of you body. You were prepared to grant it access to every part of you as your eyes fluttered shut.
“Bark!”
A pair of tiny paws smacked into the back of your knee, sending you forward and into their chests. “Argh! Razzle!” You scolded, craning your neck back to glare at your mischievous companion.
Both men cleared their throats in perfect synchrony and helped you to your feet. The three of you avoided each other’s eyes after stepping away.
“Perhaps it’s time to call it a night,” said Alastor.
You and Vincent nodded in agreement. Not another word was spoke between you three.
꒰ঌ♡໒꒱
Yeah, that’s right… Fall asleep. There’s no escaping me in your mind, spoiled princess.
꒰ঌ♡໒꒱
As the darkness of the midnight consumed the starry sky, strong winds howled and shot heavy drops of rain against the deck. The ship rocked, fighting back against the punching gusts of wind and raging waves bullying its sides. Undeterred by the stormy gust was a tenacious purple-colored mist. It wormed its way between the cracks of the ship to where three people lay peacefully asleep. The smoke slithered and prodded at various belongings as if searching for something.
The mist–as if it caught scent like a dog–creeped up a bed post and over the sheets of a certain long-lost princess yawning serenely and shuffling in her sleep. It circled around her in delight, transforming itself into three innocent butterflies.
꒰ঌ♡໒꒱
A bothersome purple light shone over your closed lids before being completely overtaken by a softer golden haze. You smiled and opened your eyes. The sky above you was colored in the hues of the setting sun.
You placed your hands down as a means to sit up and brushed your fingertips over the field of golden-green grass you laid on. As you sat up, you took in the sight of flora stained with the same sunset colors.
Just across from where you lay stood a little girl, covering her mouth to suppress delighted giggles. She smiled at you with three butterflies flying in circles around her head. She lifted her arms and waved them out, beckoning the creatures in your direction.
You laughed, eyes crinkling as their thin wings tickled your cheeks. The butterflies flew away after circling you. You stood to follow them.
꒰ঌ♡໒꒱
Three butterflies leaving a trail of purple mist called you out of bed towards the hung open door. The door leading out of the room swayed open and closed, matching the movements of the ship. It somehow managed to click shut when you stepped out.
Razzle, after feeling an odd shift in the sheets and hearing the door, awoke to see your spot empty. He grumbled in confusion and jumped from the bed to begin clawing at the door. He barked while pawing at the stubborn door knob. After making no progress, he growled and leaped to where your “tutors” lay.
“Wha… What happened?” Mumbled Vincent, groggily sitting up and rubbing at his tired eyes.
“Razzle?” Alastor asked, confused. He sat up and glanced around the entire room. His eyes widened at the empty bed. “Where is she?”
꒰ঌ♡໒꒱
The ship was forcibly shoved from side to side with every violent, towering wave smacking into it. Harsh rain pelted you at every angle, but there was no real world feeling in any part of your body. The butterflies sang to you like a bewitching siren, luring you further out onto the deck.
You fumbled with every step, unaware the ocean’s fury was causing your uneven steps. One heavy tilt of the ship sent you down on your hands and knees, crawling up a set of stairs.
꒰ঌ♡໒꒱
You laughed wholeheartedly, grabbing onto unsteady rocks as the little girl jovially skipped ahead. “Come on!” She called out, giggling back at you. You stood upright, wobbling on two feet as a serene breeze danced over your body. You placed your hands over the skirt of your dress as the hem lifted with each gust of wind. You scrunched your hands into the fabric and lifted it to your knees to skip along with the girl. This dress was nothing like the one you had worn… Earlier? You shook the thought from your mind.
The two of you scampered over a log supplied by a fallen tree. You stood taller on it and could see two people, a man and a woman standing at the edge of a cliff. Both of them had hair that matched the girl’s golden strands. The two smiled and waved after catching sight of you, you waved back. They jumped from the cliff with an excited squeal after receiving your greeting. You ran to where they once stood and watched as they relaxed in the calm water. Something about them felt familiar to you.
“Hello, sunshine!” Greeted the man.
You grabbed onto a thin vine swinging down a tree and leaned over the cliff. “Hello!” You responded with one hand cupped over your mouth. The sound waves echoed down, rippling the still water.
He moved his arms up in a come hither motion. The woman sitting beside him copied his movements. “Jump!” They both called out. The little girl standing beside you headed their call and leaped down, subsequently splashing the two. They all laughed and showered her head with numerous kisses
You smiled fondly and placed a hand over your chest to still your excited heart. One of your feet teetered at the edge of the rock, knocking stray pebbles down into the ravine. If you took the plunge and removed any doubts lingering in your heart, you could be happy like them. Another foot scooted forward. It would be so easy to…
Jump…
The butterflies swirled around you, their wings stroked the tips of your ears. Each flap of their wings spoke to you.
Jump, princess…
All common sense fluttered away from your mind and left with the kind butterflies. You tipped your body forward, intent on joining the loving family.
꒰ঌ♡໒꒱
Two men threw open the rickety door of their room and tripped over one another attempting to climb up a set of dampened stairs. Their hands slid off the wobbly, moist railing and fell onto the steps in front of them. Razzle barked from behind, staying trapped at the foot of the stairs.
Water sent from the sky and sea splashed over the deck–soaking it and themselves. The two could barely take a steady step before sliding over puddles of water.
“Princess!” They both called out. Their shouting was swallowed by the thunderous booms of the raging storm. Their necks ached and strained with each sharp turn. A pathetic sense of desperation ate at their gut as they tirelessly searched through the blinding storm.
Your carefree laughter mixed together with the clapping thunder. Lightening spreading throughout the clouds highlighted your silhouette. That laughter was picked up and carried to Vincent’s ears by the howling wind. His eyes grew wide and he gripped Alastor’s shirt to shove him in your direction.
“There!” He shouted, pointing his finger towards a body standing atop the ship’s railing. You were pushed forward and back as if you were dancing along with the storm’s tune.
Alastor gasped and ran towards your uneven standing. “Cher, stop!” He yelled out.
꒰ঌ♡໒꒱
“Cher, stop!”
Your serene expression dropped and your brows pinched together. You looked away from the loving family to find the voice. The cadence of it was recognizable, but it was difficult to discern from where.
Yes… Jump!
The kind man sitting in the ravine lifted his hands up to you like he was trying to catch you when you finally jumped. An orange glow not born from the sunset haze licked at his body and spread all over the water, evaporating whatever it touched. The woman and little girl did not scramble or shriek in protest. They disappeared with the surging flames.
You gasped-hands over your mouth-when the flames reached you and burned away the serene meadow of wildflowers behind you. An unsteady, crumbling tower is what held you up and kept you from falling into a sea of skull and flames
“JUMP, PRINCESS!” He yelled, staring up at you with glowing red eyes. Teeth protruded from his mouth and morphed into long fangs. The pair of hands that once kindly beckoned you into the ravine became sharpened claws. Pointed ears grew from the top of his head.
You yelped and leaned away from his invite. You looked to the butterflies for answers or help. The innocent insects were split open by what truly lied within them. Their faces grew grotesque, matching the creature’s at the bottom with pointy wings holding them up. The little monster’s clawed and tugged at the hem of your skirt to pull you down.
Tears filled your eyes as you shook your head and fruitlessly kicked at them. “No! No!” You yelled, pushing them away.
The creature cackled and grew in size to reach you. “Yeah! That’s right, babe! The Morningstar curse!” He howled, closing his claws into your body.
You struggled against his old with all your might as the devil’s faces filled your vision.
꒰ঌ♡໒꒱
Vincent and Alastor worked in tandem, clenching their hands into your clothes and dragging you off from the ship’s railing. Their grip stayed iron-clad, even as you wriggled and shoved at their bodies. “No! No!” You grunted, the heel of your palm knocking Vincent’s glasses out of place.
“Princess!” Alastor cupped your face and softly pinched your cheeks.
“Princess, wake up!” Vincent commanded, shaking you at the waist.
Your eyes finally shot open with clenched teeth you panted heavily. Tears streaming down your face mixed with the unrelenting rain. “The… The Morningstar curse!” You sputtered, frantically turning your head in all directions. Your held onto their arms as your feet slipped against the soaked floor.
Vincent shook his head with furrowed brows. “What?” He probed.
“Cher, what are you talking about?” Alastor’s thumb softly stroked the apple of your cheek, soothing the red he blotched into your skin.
You whimpered and pushed yourself forward to hide your face in between their bodies. “I keep seeing faces… So many faces…” You cried, rubbing your face into their damp shirts.
Both of their wrapped over your back to keep your close. Their gazes met, a confused expression painting their features. Neither one could make up a reason for this additional strange occurrence. Their gaze down-turned back to you.
“I… It’s okay, doll.” Vincent comforted, rubbing your back.
Alastor nodded and stroked your hair. “You’re safe. It was only a nightmare.”
Lingering at the corner of his eyes, a mist stubbornly slithered at the railing you once stood on. Alastor’s neck snapped in hopes of catching a proper look at it, but it dissipated with the wind.
If you didn't guess it, I decided to make Adam Rasputin in this. That's why the dialogue sounds OOC in Rasputin's case. I hope you liked it! Tell me your thoughts! 💙❤️
Edit: I CAN'T BELIEVE I FORGOT TO WRITE THIS IS A MURDERMEDIA X READER AT THE TOP. Save me from my own stupidity.
listen i may take 4 weeks to write a 3k word chapter, and i may take 45 minutes to decide whether i should use “laugh” or “chuckle”, but at least i don’t use ai and whatever you’re getting is pure chaos from a human brain
MULTICHAPTER FIC !
꩜ [ hazbin hotel ] vincent whittman (vox) x reader
4/5 — PART ONE, PART TWO, PART THREE, PART FOUR, PART FIVE
now playing... ♫ | 04. CAN'T DECIDE IF IT'S A CHOICE (ASKING YOU TO STAY)
wc: 4.4k+ words
-> second person pov; angst; alcohol use; drunk texts; exes to lovers; eventual smut
the digital clock on the centre console reads 01:15—a quarter after one. vincent stares at it flicker a sad, electric kind of blue, practically rethinking his whole life up until this moment.
he’d had his audi parked and idling outside the bar for a good five minutes now, but he still couldn’t bring himself to turn off the engine. there was no way he would just be able to swagger inside the bar to get you without the risk of one (or all) of your friends jumping his ass. that vaggie girl never did like him much.
and, well, there was always alastor.
vincent grimaces, ultimately settling for the safest option.
“hey, siri? call… sweetheart.”
“calling: sweetheart, red heart.”
he uneasily drums his fingers on the steering wheel, scanning the faces of everyone who walked in and out of the bar. he’d punched the stereo off the moment he pulled out of velvette’s condominium basement, keeping the car heavy with contemplative silence—until he finally hears the other line pick up.
vincent immediately snatches his phone from the magnetic mount, holding it up to his ear like it held the last call left on earth. “hello?” he says almost anxiously, before wincing at the music and bass that boomed through the receiver.
“hhh- yellooow,” you slur through the phone, and vincent swears that if he hadn’t been sitting down his knees would have buckled at hearing the sound of your voice after so long. “v…vinny? s’ that you?”
“yeah, hi, sweetie,” he breathes. “i’m outside.”
he hears you gasp like he’d just said christmas had come early. “really? you-” you let out a little cough. “y’r actually here? like- here, here?”
“i’m here. i-” his pride falters, and he bows his head in defeat. “i’m here, hon.”
“really?”
“i don’t think i can come in, though.” vincent screws his eyes shut, trying to regain his composure. “can you meet me outside? i’m right outside, i promise. you won’t have to look very far.”
“why can’t you come inside?” you ask innocently.
“i told you earlier, remember? your friends won’t be happy to see me.”
“ohhhhhh,” you draw out the syllable. “okay.”
“get your things.” vincent reaches up and flicks the overhead console open to fumble for his sunglasses. “i’ll wait by the car.”
“okay.”
he decides to leave the engine running, then shoots a glance at himself in the mirror to fix his hair. “oh, and, doll?”
“yeeees?”
“don’t tell your friends who’s picking you up.”
“okay,” you say again.
vincent practically deflates in relief. “good girl. don’t keep me waiting.”
“beeeee riiiight theeeereee.”
once the call ends, he exhales sharply, pulling the collar of his sports coat higher to his ears as he exits the car. vincent leans against the door after he clicks it shut, then pushes a pair of ray-bans up the slope of his nose. he tries for a mysterious, aloof stance, going as far as crossing his arms and his ankles as he waits beneath the dim streetlamp.
to his immense relief, you don’t take too long. on the other hand, he wonders which bumbling idiot had been keeping you company and was moronic enough to let you wander out into the street disastrously drunk and alone.
but despite that, he can’t help but notice just how beautiful you look.
clothes wrinkled, lipstick smudged, eyeliner smeared into nothing but shadow around your lashes. you stagger, clumsy and uncoordinated, each step closer a breath of his taken away; somehow aglow in his eyes under the midnight city lights.
still as beautiful as the last time he saw you.
still as beautiful as the day he lost you.
you light up once your unfocused eyes fall on his face, and your steps instantly hasten towards him. “baby!” you coo happily, throwing your arms around his neck and pulling him in close. your bag clatters against the roof of his car as vincent stumbles forward to catch you, and he doesn’t miss the way you bury your face in his neck to take in his scent.
but God, oh God—he sure missed you.
“hi, gorgeous,” vincent says weakly, cradling your messy-haired head with one hand as he embraces you back. he returns your gesture in kind, nudging his nose against your collar for a whiff of your perfume. you smelled like beer and cigarettes and the club, but the familiar sweetness was still there.
familiar. it was all so familiar. even when it wasn’t supposed to be.
you pull back and cup his face in your hands, squishing his cheeks as you slowly turn his head this way and that. “why’re… why you wearin’ sunglasses, silly? it’s nighttime,” you giggle, moving to gently take them off his face. your happy grin seems to brighten up even more when you finally catch a glimpse of his mismatched eyes. “there you are.”
“had to make sure nobody else would recognise me,” he lets out a small laugh, trying not to let his voice waver. “i’m on a top-secret mission to get you, see. kind of hard to miss this face.”
“i missed this face,” you mumble quietly, tilting your head to the side as you continue to look at him, brushing a thumb across his jaw in a way so tender it almost hurt.
sometimes tender meant something left in pain, anyway.
“yeah?” vincent says softly, feeling his chest twist. “let’s get you home, baby.”
he shrugs off his jacket and carefully bundles you up in it, ushering you around to the passenger side. you were all too happy to jump into the seat, wrapping the coat tighter around yourself and snuggling into the soft fabric.
vincent rounds the audi back to the driver’s side, running a trembling hand through his hair, barely comprehending what was going on. the moment he slides back into the car, he finds you clumsily rummaging through his glove compartment, utterly unfazed by his reintroduced presence.
he bristles slightly at the sight, taken aback. “what are you-”
“there!” you announce triumphantly, clutching something in your hand. you nudge the compartment closed with your knee, and vincent doesn’t realise what you’re holding until it’s right in front of his face.
his glasses.
you haphazardly push the thick, chunky plastic frames onto his face—accidentally poking a corner of his eye with one of the nose guards, though vincent deliberately leaves it unmentioned. he blinks rapidly, squinting as his eyes adjust to the vision grade.
he hadn’t worn these in a while.
you lean back into the seat, giving him a soft, sleepy smile. “tha’s… better.”
vincent looks back at you in disbelief, feeling his heart give a traitorous flip. “i… did you drink anything else before i called you again?”
you hum noncommittally, slipping off your heels and curling up on the seat. “mayyyybeeee… kiiiind of?”
he sighs, rubbing his brow as he shifts the gearstick to drive. “how much?”
the leather chair squeaks when you push the recline lever. vincent watches you slowly descend backwards as you raise your other hand with your thumb and pointer pinched close together. “liiiikeeeeee… thi’ much.” you grin toothily at him.
“and that’s how many drinks, sweetheart?”
“uhhhh. two. i think.”
the audi kickstarts down the road before vincent settles it into a more comfortable speed, feeling his head begin to throb. goodness knows just what was in those drinks. “alright,” he sighs heavily. “settle back. you’ve had quite the night.”
fortunately, you obey without question.
vincent smooths his thumbs over the rest of his fingers, cracking his knuckles as he drives. the car is filled with a comfortable quiet he hasn’t known nor felt since the last time you were across the seat from him, curled up in his clothes just as you were now.
his right hand slides down from the wheel out of habit from driving one-handedly, and he’s met with the feeling of your fingertips gently nudging against the underside of his palm—a quiet question that his muscle memory is anything but unwilling to answer despite his hesitation.
it scares him how it doesn’t feel as wrong as it should have been.
he holds your hand as you fall asleep.
⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯
it’s about ten minutes to the drugstore, and the greatest convenience of pulling up to the 24-hour drivethrough at almost 2am was that no one else was in the line in front of him.
vincent rolls down his window to meet the eyes of a tired-eyed pharmacist, who blandly turns from his phone to stick his head out of the sliding screen.
“good evening, sir. how can i help you tonight?” he drawls.
“a bottle of advil and two gatorades,” vincent says curtly, barely giving the boy a second glance as he gently untangles his fingers from yours to reach for his wallet. you mumble a protest in your sleep, and he quietly shushes you while thumbing through a number of small bills in search for his credit card. “make it the blue ones. oh, and throw in a pack of crackers and some straws in there, too.”
the young pharmacist punches in vincent’s order, promptly checking out everything into a small paper bag with a swiftness that was surprising for the exhaustion that was so evident in his body. “here you go.”
“how much is the total?”
a flash of the payment terminal screen is all the response he gets, and vincent swipes his card with a small flourish before taking the bag and driving off with nothing but a small mumble of thanks.
you’d have punched him for having bad manners, he thinks amusedly to himself.
but then he remembers, and he sighs, trailing back to squeeze your hand with a gentleness that he knew was fated to be temporary.
vincent takes a turn that leads into another avenue—his usual route home. the cars were sparse at this time of night, but the traffic lights still blinked faithfully, shifting from green to yellow and finally red. the timer next to the stoplight begins its 60-second countdown as vincent reaches out to turn on his GPS, but he abruptly pauses before he could click on Home.
everything was already wrong enough as it is. he had no right to be picking you up drunk and alone from a bar at 1am, and much less did he have a right to be taking you back to his place. he just…
vincent tightens his grip on the wheel. he just wasn’t ready to take you home again.
it felt too soon.
“siri,” he murmurs. “set a drive to the peninsula.”
⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯
vincent has never felt more grateful to have taken velvette’s advice of keeping a spare change of clothes in the trunk. it was a bit embarrassing to have watched her pack the small suitcase herself, yeah, but goodness, was it a lifesaver now.
the valet driver had given him a strange look as he had carried you out of the passenger seat and tried shaking you half-awake so you could walk properly by yourself, though to no avail. so vincent, with your cheek still propped up against his shoulder, watches his audi glide down the slope of the hotel driveway until the tail lights disappear into the basement.
he turns to the slightly perplexed concierge, offering him a tight smile. “evening.”
“good… evening, sir,” replies the bellhop, eyes darting to your snoozing form. “do you-”
“i can handle her. it’s fine,” vincent cuts in, shifting your head to a more comfortable position. “could use a bit of help with the bag, though.”
“o-oh. yes. of course, sir.”
a crisp, air-conditioned breeze welcomes him into the lobby. the marble foyer was empty, save for a few graveyard shift staff and the bellboy dutifully rolling his navy RIMOWA behind you both. it certainly takes a while to cross the room to the front desk without dropping you.
vincent shoots a fleeting glance at the metal sunburst sculpture suspended across the ceiling dome, feeling a small twinge of nostalgia. you’d had your first date here.
and you always did like that sun the most out of everything in this hotel.
“good evening, welcome to the peninsula,” the receptionist greets him warmly, though her eyes betray the slightest startle at the sight of you. thankfully, she remains professional. “how may i assist you?”
“room for two,” vincent informs her, reaching into his back pocket for his wallet. “is 720 available?”
she runs a quick check on the computer, then turns back to him with a somehow even warmer smile. “you’re in luck, sir. it is.”
“lovely.”
“for how many nights, sir?” the receptionist asks, clicking on her mouse.
“just one.” the weight of you on his shoulder suddenly feels heavier. “...please,” he adds.
“just for tonight?” she confirms, looking back up at him.
vincent feels his mouth go dry, and the words suddenly seem stuck in his throat. “i…”
the lady holds her patient gaze. she reminds him of his sister-in-law.
“...yeah,” he finally chokes out. “just for tonight.”
“that can certainly be arranged, mister…?” she prompts, manicured nails hovering over the keyboard.
“whittman. vincent whittman.”
the receptionist gives him another gentle smile as she types in his name. “wonderful to have you here, mr. whittman. and your companion?” she glances momentarily at you, though not unkindly.
a ghost? an acquaintance? a mistake? a stranger? some girl he found on the sidewalk outside a bar and decided to play good samaritan with? he couldn’t just say ex-girlfriend, God forbid. security would have him planted against the floor with his hands cuffed behind his back in five seconds flat.
“she’s…” vincent swallows hard. damn it, where was his corporate suave machismo when he needed it most? he forces the lie—half truth, call it whatever you want—to slip past his tongue like a pill swallowed wrong. “she’s my girlfriend.”
to sell the alibi, he nudges his lips through the curtain of your hair to press affectionately against your temple just like he used to do so long ago. “right, baby?” he murmurs. “had a bit too much to drink tonight, huh?”
subconsciously or otherwise, you play easily into his act. your head falls against his shoulder, snuggling into him as you mumble a quiet, “mhm.”
vincent turns back to the front desk lady with a small, charming smile. “friend’s birthday party,” he winks. “you know how it is.”
the receptionist’s gaze softens with compassion. “oh, i certainly do.” she chuckles quietly to herself, resuming her task. “anyhow, i’ll also need to take down your phone number and credit for the deposit. it won’t take long,” she adds kindly, “i’ll make sure your darling gets the rest she deserves as soon as possible.”
it’s the greatest comfort he’s received all night. “thank you,” he breathes out, holding your boneless body closer to him. “i appreciate it.”
“of course, mr. whittman. now, i just need you to sign here…”
⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯
goddamnit, he should have booked 725 instead.
room 720 was a luxuriously familiar sight, sure, with its light carpeted floors, ivory painted walls, polished wooden furniture, and heavy blackout curtains concealing the lights of the city—but vincent halts in the doorway, staring in dismay at what awaited him beyond the foyer.
one bed.
of fucking course.
“is something the matter, mr. whittman?” the bellboy—a different, younger one this time—asks timidly, holding onto the small suitcase in a way that made him look like he was about to cry.
vincent swivels on his heel to glower at the boy, eye twitching. “wasn’t this a twin room?”
“i- y-yes, it was, mr. whittman,” he stammers hesitantly, “but we’ve recently undergone a refurnishin-”
“yeah, no. it's fine. totally fine,” vincent interrupts, pinching the bridge of his nose. “it's no big deal. nothing at all.”
“o-okay, sir,” the bellboy squeaks out. must've been an intern. “let me help you get settled in.”
“just the luggage, kid.” vincent rummages in his pocket until his fingers close around a small bill. bingo. “you can put it over there.” he gestures vaguely in the direction of the closet.
the bellboy obediently hauls the RIMOWA onto the cushioned compartment as vincent settles you down onto the king-size. you don’t budge in the slightest, and his eyes soften the tiniest fraction, brushing a stray piece of hair away from your face.
“i-is there anything else i can assist with, mr. whittman?” the bellboy asks timidly.
vincent straightens up, turning around to look at him. “no, that’s all.”
“alright, then, s-sir.”
he walks toward the foyer to escort the bellboy to the door. “thanks, uh…” he trails off, squinting at the nameplate on the boy’s uniform. “ethan.” vincent presses a tip into the young man’s hand. “have a good one.”
ethan slightly bows his head and puts a trembling hand over his heart. “e-enjoy your stay, mr. whittman.”
vincent shuts the door in his face.
well, as politely as he could. he’s had a long night, alright?
sighing heavily for the nth time, vincent trudges into the marble bathroom, rolling up his sleeves to the edge of his forearms before eventually catching sight of himself in the mirror. he can’t help but chuckle at his reflection. dashing and handsome as usual, of course, but damn did he look like he aged twenty years older. and simultaneously… five years younger.
vincent goes quiet as he studies his features, relearning the way his face looked like with glasses on. he’d switched between glasses and contacts as he trudged through his early twenties, until he finally decided to ditch the specs entirely once his career started gaining traction. it felt quite nice to look like he was back in his highschool and university days, admittedly, despite how distasteful his memories of that time were.
he shakes his thoughts away along with his head, and he takes off the black frames and folds them onto the counter.
the faucet turns on with a squeak as vincent places his hands under the running water, splashing it onto his cheeks and running his fingers over his eyelids and up into his hair to comb it back. well, at least it was a relief to know he’d still be hot in two decades. just as he should.
it doesn’t take long for his confident shoulders to sag with another lung-emptying sigh. the silence was getting harder to ignore.
so once again, vincent fills the emptiness with routine.
he pulls the large drawer below the sink open with a firm tug, taking one of the two washcloths from the folded pile. as he nudges the drawer shut again with his hip, vincent unwraps a bar of soap from the complimentary toiletry display, tossing the paper into the bin with no more than a faint rustle. his hands move on instinct—setting the faucet to a temperature warm enough to be comfortable, wetting the towel beneath the stream of water, wringing it out, running the soap over the damp fabric, before repeating the third and second steps as so to keep the suds faint.
it’s even greater instinct to walk out of the bathroom and back to where you lay sleeping. the mattress dips when his elbow presses into it; when he kneels on one knee beside the bed and gently takes your face in one hand as he holds the warm towel in the other.
vincent carefully wipes the skin over your eyes first, leaving behind a trail of glitter and mascara on the white fabric. he turns it over to the other side as he wipes your forehead, your cheeks, and your nose, before going back to the bathroom to rinse the washcloth for a final wipe over your lips and the rest of your face.
time seemed to blur as he went along.
he’d taken off your earrings, your necklaces, and the rest of your jewelry, placing them onto the nightstand next to the side of the bed you preferred. off went your heels, your jacket, your belt—until his hand pauses over the hem of your sleeveless button-up blouse.
did he have a right to?
vincent sighs again. you were gonna punch him either way in the morning, might as well have you sleep comfortably while he’s at it. he was never the caretaker type, or one for tending to needs other than his own, but for you, he would.
he always would for you.
“compromise,” vincent sings dryly under his breath, trudging over to the suitcase to zip it open. “oh, joy.”
again, thank goodness for velvette. there were two sets of clothes.
vincent takes out one of the shirts—dark blue, of course—and one of his double-layer nike shorts. he leaves the luggage open as he walks back to the bed, this time sitting down on the duvet to carefully lift you into an upright position. your head lolls against his shoulder as he sits with your back to his chest, trying to unfasten the first few buttons of your blouse before he pulls the fresh shirt over you. once the shirt was safely through your arms and over your chest, he unbuttons the blouse the rest of the way, tossing it to the other side of the bed as he lays you back down and begins to slide your ankles into the nike shorts. at least the shorts were easier to manoeuvre.
he slides the garter right over your thighs and settles them around your waist, before zipping down your skirt and sliding it off your legs. vincent snatches the blouse and folds it along with the skirt, then heads over to the closet to rummage for the provided laundry bag and tossing it in.
mission accomplished.
vincent checks his watch. it was getting late. early, technically—but it was mere semantics. he should probably get changed first.
⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯
changing out of clothes he’s worn throughout an incredibly exhausting day into a fresh, loose set is the closest thing vincent can compare to rebirth. he feels like lazarus walking out of that tomb as he walks out of the bathroom, a towel over his shoulders while he pats his face dry with one end, clad in a plain white shirt and cotton boxer shorts. his hair is combed back, damp from a quick shower and smelling of complimentary hotel shampoo made in italy.
perhaps it was a little unfair, going to bed thoroughly washed up when you barely were, but vincent does his best to push away that guilt and forces himself to remember that he had already worked with what he had. at least, he reasons, you were already clean enough rather than not.
vincent hangs his towel off the desk chair, gravitating towards the paper bag from the pharmacy. he takes out the two bottles of blue bolt gatorade, popping one in the mini fridge and twisting the other open, before taking one of the straws from the bag and walking to your bedside.
he shakes you gently. “(name)?”
you loosely mumble in your sleep.
“(name), honey, can you wake up for a second?” vincent asks softly, setting the orange cap onto the table and the clear straw into the bottle. “you have to drink this first.”
“dr… dr’nk?” you murmur groggily, barely awake. “vi…nny?”
“it’s me, baby, don’t worry.” he holds the straw up to your lips. “drink.”
you limply comply, sipping obediently as vincent uses his other hand to hold up your head to make it easier for you to drink. “that’s a good girl,” he murmurs, though you detach your lips from the straw about a quarter to the bottom.
good enough.
vincent lets you down onto the pillow again, working the heavy duvet over your boneless form and settling you into the crisp sheets. he screws the bottle of gatorade shut, placing what was left of it into the fridge with the other bottle, before walking around the room to flick off all the lights; everything except for the mood lighting over the bathroom sink.
3:21. he’d finally get to sleep.
vincent crawls into bed, a reasonable distance away from you, kicking his feet beneath the covers. he feels his neck crack, then his back, and his hip, almost like his body was a tapeline slithering back into its case as he finally, finally settles down.
he has half a mind to sacrifice his pillow and put it in the space between you two for good measure, and he’s already moving to take it from behind his head when he hears your sleep-ridden voice feebly ask, “why are you so far away?”
vincent thinks he’s forgotten how to breathe.
“wh… what?”
“you’re s’ far away,” you say again, drowsier this time. “i dun’ like it when y’r… far away. makes me sad.”
he breathes out a weak, helpless laugh. “i can’t, sweetheart. i’m not allowed to anymore.”
“why’n… why not?”
his hand reaches across the bed, finding yours in the dark. “i’m not yours. you’re not mine. this isn’t how it works.”
your fingers curl around his; weak upon skin, constrictive around heartstrings. “maybe…” you whisper, still tipsy, “we can make it… not work that way… t’night.”
“yeah?” vincent hopes you don’t notice the tremble in his words.
“yeah.”
against logic, against moral, against his dignity and pride—he finds himself inching closer to you just as you also were to him, close enough to feel your heartbeat near to his own again.
it’s like clockwork, puzzle pieces falling into place, autumn leaves upon a cobblestone path in november. your head fits into the space below his chin, your hand over his chest, his arm against your back, his leg over your hip.
familiar, his mind echoes again.
vincent dips his face down so your forehead presses against his lips rather than his jaw. you tilt your head up in response, and he can feel your slow, drunken breath warm his quivering chin, until the gravity of both your eyes in the dark finally becomes too much to hold.
“hi,” you say softly, after a moment of silence.
“...hi,” vincent whispers. he holds your hand tighter.
“i missed you.”
“you’re drunk.”
“i still missed you,” you murmur.
vincent goes quiet.
“we… really shouldn’t be doing this,” he exhales exasperatedly. “i shouldn’t be letting you- letting myself, really- it’s-”
“jus’...” you interrupt drowsily, fingers curling into his shirt. “jus’ for tonight. please. one last time.” your breath ghosts across his lips. “y’don’t… even need t’ love me.”
but he did.
he still did.
“…okay,” he swallows.
vincent finally lets himself be selfish once more—reassuming nearly everything he was until you’d called. he slowly slides his hand into the back of your hair, holding you close until you were the very breath in his lungs, even though every ounce of his body other than the muscle in his chest was screaming at him not to.
“just for tonight.”
꩜ a/n: when i got the ending of this chapter first drafted out i was overthinking the whole thing so much cuz it felt rushed so i asked @1ix1n what she thought about it and if it was okay and she very wisely said "in the words of addison rae, 'it makes me want it more'."
go check out her bllk/hq fics thats my goat i love her so much
and and and!! HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO ME !!!! YAAYAYAYAYAYAY !!
i hope u guys liked this chapter wuaheuhusfha i meant it when i said that if yall hated me for ch3 you'd hate me even more for this one <3 LOVE U ALL MWAH
also this is ur gentle reminder that the music icons on the top of each post have a link to a four-song playlist curated for every chapter ദ്ദി ˉ͈̀꒳ˉ͈́ )✧
p.s. deactivated tumblr user tuquoque pls come back ... the kids (me and haz) miss you so much......
My peanut sized brain finally managed to write something 🎊🎊 Murdermedia x reader sneak peak. The writing shown here will most likely not be the final product.
꒰ঌ♡໒꒱꒰ঌ♡໒꒱꒰ঌ♡໒꒱꒰ঌ♡໒꒱꒰ঌ♡໒꒱꒰ঌ♡໒꒱
You smiled at the familiar sound and glanced back at your companion. “Something on your mind?” You asked, bending down to stroke his head. Razzle ducked away from your hand and began trotting away with another bark. “Huh? What’s wrong?” You questioned, standing to follow behind him.
Razzle didn’t respond to your question and continued his walk. With every glance back at you he took, it was obvious the dog was expecting you to follow behind. You rolled your eyes at his silly behavior and kept going until you spotted two very familiar men. The two were in the middle of a game of chess. The board was perched on an old crate. Vincent held onto his chin, a pensive expression contorting his features. Alastor, on the other hand, appeared smug with his arms crossed. From those looks alone, it was obvious who was winning.
“Hmm, checkmate?” Alastor snickered with a low drawl. He leaned into Vincent’s space, elbows on his knees.
Vincent sneered and softly shoved him. “No! Let me think, damn it!” He shouted, reverting back to his thinking pose.
Alastor rolled his eyes and leaned back, mentally preparing for yet another prolonged game of chess despite there being a clear winner. His head leaned to the side, eyes half-lidded in growing boredom. His eyes fell to his aging notebook at the edge of the board, where their respective scores in this game were cataloged.
Alastor Vincent
III I
That page of the notebook lifted with each pass of the ocean’s wind, revealing another one beneath it.
Princess Vincent
IIIII III III
꒰ঌ♡໒꒱꒰ঌ♡໒꒱꒰ঌ♡໒꒱꒰ঌ♡໒꒱꒰ঌ♡໒꒱꒰ঌ♡໒꒱
Am I 100% satisfied with it? No. Will I ever be? Also, no. Can you guess what this was inspired by? 😗
I swear constantly comparing my writing style to other amazing hazbin writers genuinely muddles my brain (MY FAULT, NOT THEIRS). But I can not help it. I try to find the words hidden deep in the crevices of my mind and never can.
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your husband, alastor, says no, and no amount of begging, whining, or pleading can sway him.
which is why it takes you by surprise one day, when you come home and he presents you with a leash.
"i changed my mind, darling," he tells you.
"i do believe i've found the perfect little mutt for us. affectionate, loyal, eager to please... just like you wanted. "
you follow alastor's gaze, your eyes landing not on a golden retriever, a collie, or perhaps a beagle, but vincent, kneeling down on all fours before you.
he has been stripped of everything. everything but his undergarments, and a shiny new collar that gleams around his pale neck.
his mismatched eyes are cast downwards at your feet, and there is the barest hint of a tremble in his limbs.
he looks humiliated, and you would feel bad for him, if not for the way he instantly buries his face in your thigh- and the prominent tenting you spot at his crotch.
the pathetic way he whines and paws at you for affection is almost enough to make you forget that this isn't what you wanted.
but you don't have it in you to reject your new pet, either, and you tell alastor as such while patting vincent's head.
"be careful," your husband adds.
"he can be rather uncouth when excited. he might hump your leg."
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Summary♡ There are a many number of things one man must catch up on in high society after a seven year sabbatical. Like, new reading material. But how did such mind-numbing gossip become most popular amongst the ton?
⚠️Tags♡ Yearning. Very light angst. Alastor is brooding.
A/N♡ I wanted to rewrite an old oneshot I had buried deep in the gaping hole that is this blog. I originally wrote this when a friend and I were writing fake Whistledown articles based on Hazbin characters.
A new season has come upon us, attracting the ruthless ton. The once peaceful Pride Street is now abuzz with preparations for the upcoming balls this season. Every dress is to be tailored to perfection and adorned in glittering jewels to accentuate the beauty of our darling debutantes. This author shall wish good fortune upon the maids styling Lady Velvette's hair this season. Proceed with caution, for the brush is deadlier than the sword in this debutante's hand.
The anticipation that had been consuming the ton concerning the first ball of the season has simmered. For every season that comes and goes, one factor remains a constant. The first ball of the season sets the precedent for the remainder. That is to say, it must be perfect in every way. Fortunately, the lovely Duchess Rosie aims to please and exceed expectations. However, it seems Duchess Rosie relishes in keeping the ton on their toes, for she stepped away from planning festivities.
Yes, dear reader, you read that correctly. The shift came as dramatic as Lord Valentino's gaudy entrances.
The first ball of the season was newly hosted by the people's princess, Charlotte Morningstar. The apprehension was sure to swallow our fragile ton whole. A weight as heavy as Duchess Stella's makeup settled over Pride Street, quieting the talk down to a mere whisper.
Be that as it may, every family of importance was in attendance. Even the reclusive Goetia family. It appears subtly is a verbiage unknown to Duke Stolas. Though this author supposes she must hold her tongue, perhaps there are Duke's that prefer to express gratitude to their respective footmen differently.
Princess Charlotte was truly in her element. She welcomed every guest with the grace her father, our king, once possessed.
This ball was truly one of shock and awe. A mere footnote being Viscount Alastor's sudden return. Succeeding a secluded seven year sabbatical, he blessed the ballroom with his presence. The entirety of the ton had truly been lamenting the absence of the Viscount. Such riveting conversation he provided, droning on of the proper way to truly appreciate music.
It would do well not to ask Lord Vox for his thoughts on the matter.
It caused quite the stir to see him arrive arm in arm with the Viscountess. What a splendid performance from the happy couple. The Viscountess played her role beautifully. Not at all like the jilted wife the ton expected. Had she sutured her smile a tad tighter, the performance would have been perfect. We must give her grace. It's not easy to hide a scowl from behind a potted plant.
This author feels the need to propose a question to the Viscountess. What are her thoughts? Being abandoned for seven lengthy years must have been a shock, to be sure. Did a solitary sabbatical truly hold more importance than the Viscount's family?
Family ties are, after all, very-
~RIP~
Two halves of the same wrinkled paper carelessly fluttered to the floor. The title "Lady Whistledown" mocked the culprit when both halves somehow landed upright. The pair of hands that had been clutching the paper, practically punching holes into it, dusted themselves off. With a louder than necessary scoff, the culprit stepped over the mess to a nearby window.
"Do members of the ton truly enjoy such mindless drivel?" He snarled, crossing his arms behind his back. Viscount Alastor Moreau could think of numerous different pastimes, all a vast improvement over reading tactless gossip. Staring, not brooding, down at Pride Street being one of them.
From this high vantage point, he could watch members of the ton fancy a leisurely promenade before tonight's ball. Those are the mindless layabouts that partook in reading filth. That accursed thing mocked him still, even from the corner of his eye.
"Oh my! How filthy!"
A maid scurried in through the open door. She snatched the paper, not even sparing it a glance, and dusted a few tchotchkes as she rushed out. The door was left ajar in her haste to tidy the rest of the home.
Alastor took in a deep breath and breathed out the feelings that drivel forcibly stirred in him. By taking a small glance over his shoulder, he could spot four teacups surrounded by an array of sweets and other delicacies. The leftover tea had no steam curling into the air, and a few crumbs were dropped onto the saucer. He smiled. Even after seven years, the time at which his children took their afternoon tea remained a constant. Some things never truly changed.
He fondly chuckled and turned away to gaze to outside of his beloved window. The drawing room at this time of day did showcase a quaint silence. His adored peace lasted only for a brief moment as a different pair of footsteps drew closer. Through the opened door waltzed in Viscountess Moreau, both hands attached to an earring that complimented her lovely gown for the evening.
Viscountess Moreau's eyes took a turn about the room. She shut her eyes and huffed at the sight of her husband. "Viscount, if you must brood-" she released her earring to pick up a shawl draped over a chaise- "wait until after Lady Carmine's ball this evening." She strode towards a lengthy mirror and began adjusting the shawl over her shoulders.
It was imperative, no matter what ball it may be, to be perfect. This was a lesson every debutante would have hammered into their skulls the moment they were out in society. A lesson the Viscountess never forgot, even after securing a successful match all those years ago. This is why she periodically analyzed her her hair, makeup, dress, and other details before every ball.
This time before any outing was sacred, and she preferred not to be disturbed. Even as her husband carefully came into her reflection, she paid him no mind. She continued readjusting the shawl over her shoulders.
Alastor was not at all perturbed by his wife's ritual. He simply took his place behind her and placed gentle hands over her shoulders. The shawl obscuring them was shifted away to reveal the bare skin of her neck to him. He lowered his head to place a chaste kiss in the dip between her neck and shoulder. His eyes pinned her own, "what a lovely sight," he whispered.
One hand lifted from her shoulder and drew a faint line down her arm to her hand. "Truly. The loveliest sight amongst the ton." The hand spreading shivers down her arm grabbed hold of hers.
Viscountess Moreau hummed in silent acknowledgment. Her eyes drifted from her meticulous primping down to their joined hands. Her hand did not move. Had she been the same woman she once was seven years ago, she would've swooned over that smile and those warm hands. Alas, she was a changed woman. Steeling her resolve with every breath she took was a necessary evil.
"Poetry. Poetry that I longed to hear." She smiled and allowed their fingers to intertwin. The warmth of his hands still managed to seep through her glove. That hadn't changed. Memories of their first ball together pushed into the forefront of her mind. She threw her propriety to the side that night and grabbed his hand with ungloved fingers. But that night was years ago.
Enchanting memories were not able to keep a lonely woman company. They did not keep her warm in cold nights. They did not kiss her tears. They did not answer her silent wails of when her husband would return or if he was even alive. They did not reassure her confused children.
The Viscount was ignorant of how his wife aimlessly wandered in the gardens they once promenaded hand in hand. Dragging her feet through the dirt, the hem of her nightgown discolored by the ground. Tears streamed down her cheeks. The loneliness transformed her into a wailing living phantom in her home.
If she had not been given the gift of children, her weak will would've surely transformed her into a true phantom.
"Poetry I would have been gifted if you had not been absent for seven years." She ripped her hand away and left her husband alone within the reflection of the mirror.
The Viscountess continued her stroll about the room. "The children have almost finished preparing. Please do the same, and do not forget to fix your countenance before leaving this room," she instructed, doing well to avoid his watchful gaze.
Alastor rose a brow at her instructions.
The Viscount's signature wide smile was present on his face. Not a single member of the ton had ever seen him without it. An odd sight, some said. A polite gentleman, others commended. The permanent smile kept the ton guessing, allowing his true feelings to stay locked in his mind.
Until his wife became involved.
"Mon coeur, do we need to get your vision checked?" He asked jovially. "I believe the entirety of the ton would agree my countenance is quite pleasant." Alastor pushed his glasses up his nose and stepped away from the mirror.
His darling finally met his eye, but they were not filled with the love he was accustomed to. Her gaze was calculated and narrowed. "Do you think I am daft? Do you think I can not read you after decades of marriage?" She questioned. Alastor kept his mouth shut. It was clear to him the inquiry was rhetorical.
The chuckle that shook her body was hollow, her arms crossed. "Seven years did not erase how well I know you," she said, taking steps to close the physical distance between her and her husband.
A hand materialized in Alastor's peripheral. His beloved Viscountess' hand slowly began its descent towards his cheek. She stopped when it was only a mere hair's breadth away.
Alastor waited for her hand with baited breath. How long has it been since he had felt her hand upon his face in a private setting? A show of being the perfect match had to be performed in balls, but in their home, the show ceased. He yearned to feel the soft skin of her hands over his face. It had been a long time since she had done it in earnest.
With every withheld sincere touch, she stole her warm sunlight and replaced it with a chilled moon.
Her hand remained stagnant, just shy of meeting his cheek. "But seven years did change how I see you," she said. Their close proximity was a short-lived affair. She took one step away. Her eyes pulled away from his and pushed towards the four teacups that once held his attention.
"You are scowling for a reason. What is it?" She asked. Her form now stood by the table setting. A single finger began to stroke the saucer of one of the cups.
Alastor grit his teeth at the reminder of what caused his fowl mood. The shadow of where the torn papers once were sent prickles over his skin.
"It is difficult to me to understand why the ton insist on reading something so... mind numbing," He explained, his fists clenching.
The finger that had been following the design of the cups stopped. The Viscountess blinked, taking a moment to process his words. She looked at him. "You are throwing a tantrum over gossip?" She asked incredulously.
That signature smiled strained with a sharp snap of his neck. "I am NOT-!" He shrieked.
His darling wife held up her hand to cease his incoming tirade. "Enough," she sighed, her expression leaking exhaustion. "Fix that scowl. Yes, I can see it through your smile." His accursed wife was truly an expert at reading him.
"Tonight is a very important night for Amaris. The suitor she is being courted by will be in attendance." She faced him and pointed a single finger to his face. "Behave."
Now, his ire was pointed in a different direction. "What misguided soul thinks themselves worthy of my daughter-!" He growled, his cheeks aching at the edges of his growing smile.
Once more, his dearest felt the need to cease his words. "Come now, as if you hold any power in this courtship." She began to laugh, waving a hand as if wafting his opinion from the air. "So long as her suitor is unlike her father, I wager he will be a tremendous match."
"Please, begin your preparations. I do not wish to be late." With those final words spoken, she left the drawing room and shut the door behind her.
All that lingered in the stillness of the room was Viscount Alastor Moreau. His eyes moved back to the teacups, where his wife once stood. He walked to them, lifted a finger, and traced the same saucer she had. Hand painted music notes decorated the rim. His smile grew smaller, fonder.
His fingers fell, and he left the room. Leaving the cups in silence.
Yes, I am gonna be annoying and ask if you enjoyed it down here. I still don't know how I feel about my writing. Feelings of inadequacy never truly leave me. How fun.
MULTICHAPTER FIC !
꩜ [ hazbin hotel ] vincent whittman (vox) x reader
2/5 — PART ONE, PART TWO, PART THREE, PART FOUR, PART FIVE
now playing... ♫ | 02. BUT I WONDER IF I EVER CROSS YOUR MIND
wc: 1.4k+ words
-> second person pov; angst; alcohol use; drunk texts; exes to lovers; eventual smut
the room is a whirlwind of strobing lights and music that pounds your chest, pungent with the scent of alcohol and cigarettes ghosting between warm bodies.
it’s overwhelming.
you'd been out on the dance floor for who knows how long, swiped more cups off the trays of passing servers than you could count, and partied way more than you responsibly should have.
the faces of your friends were already beginning to melt into a blurry haze. you don't even know if the group was still complete amidst the dancing crowd.
logically speaking, charlie would have had tapped out after fifteen minutes. vaggie would have gone with her.
but pentious? lucifer? hell if you knew. niffty was probably out cold in some potted plant. angel and cherri were the least unlikely to have left your side, but man, you were really starting to give less of a shit about it. about any of it.
not like any of them were who you searched for in inebriation, anyway.
not like any of them was—
you feel your head start to throb.
fuck.
“th’ music’s… gettin’ too loud,” you mumble slurredly to no one in particular, bringing up a hand to clutch at your skull. your pulse slams unforgivingly against the bone. “i need some air.”
“restroom’s down the hall to the lef-” angel starts, but you were already gone.
⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯
your head was still throbbing by the time you reached the restroom. it certainly took a while, having woven through crowds of people that reeked of sweat and beer and passing by the occasional couple throat-deep into each other’s faces, but at last, you did.
or maybe it didn’t take as long as it felt. time was beginning to feel funny.
against your better judgment, you lock yourself into a stall, throw down the undeniably dirty toilet seat, and sink onto it with your knees to your chest. at least, you think numbly, you still had enough decorum to not slide down the side of the door and onto the half-swamped floor.
the cubicle next to yours erupts with the sound of the toilet flushing, and you blink slowly at the toe of your heels as you try to keep your stomach from lurching. the shoes of the girl from the other stall click toward the direction of the sink for a quick wash, and once the faucet squeaks closed, she leaves with the door slamming shut behind her.
you wince at the noise, clutching at your head again, and feel your eyes begin to spin. despite that, you fish into your pocket for your phone, tap at the screen, and immediately get blinded by its brightness.
11:40, reads the clock, and you squint blearily at it. twenty to the hour, and you knew the party was nowhere near over. you, however, were already starting to become more than ready to leave.
your vision might as well compete for olympic gold with how intensely it was swimming. it takes several tries for you to type in your password properly, and quite an effort to manoeuvre to the photos app instead of accidentally tapping on your notes or camera.
fingers sliding clumsily across the screen, you scroll through the pictures from earlier that night, when your friends had been passing around your phone like a hot potato. several blurry photos here and there, a video or two, and more bursts than would have been good for your storage. still, you feel fond.
you scroll for what felt like hours, but must have only been a few minutes, going beyond the present day and further back into your gallery. pictures from your southeast asia trip with the girls and angel, a few shots from alastor’s birthday, christmas in japan, that halloween mixer from late october; perusing memories from november through september and july, all the way back to photos and videos that teetered dangerously close to—
you pause.
a time you hadn’t bothered deleting from your phone.
may. april. march. february and january, the december before that; seasons that seemed so long ago…
june was largely without media, and you don’t pretend to not know why.
heart in your throat, your thumb hovers over a photo, almost afraid to swipe left.
you remember that day well. it was the first time your friends had taken you out after the breakup, some twenty days after, and it was in that one chinese restaurant somewhere downtown.
gods, the smile plastered on your face looked almost painful.
unfocused eyes flicker down to the preview of a photo about six swipes away, and you feel your heart break all over again. whether by masochism or reminiscence, call it whatever you want, you still find yourself stepping over the fractured pieces of your pulse, wading through the trickling rivers of blood you had forced not to flow for months, navigating back to a memory you had never erased.
hesitantly, you swipe left.
your breath hitches.
it was an old picture—definitely not one from the date it was saved under—of you, and him, on the couch at his parents’ house during thanksgiving. his brother had taken the picture, you remember, and his sister-in-law had cheered loudly from the kitchen when you had swiftly turned your head to press a big kiss on his cheek, much to his delight. he had been wearing the sweater you got him for his birthday, and the sliver of metal between your collarbones in the photo reminds you that you once owned a necklace with his initial dangling off the chain—one that you almost never took off.
the skin around your neck suddenly feels very empty.
your thumb rises to smooth over the bright, closed-eye smile that he wore in the picture, consequently nudging the zoomed-in photo downwards. part of you misses the way he would light up and beam every time he laughed out loud—or every time he’d find your face in a crowd. used to, anyway.
you aren’t sure if it’s just the cramped air in the restroom, but your chest begins to weigh heavy. the grip that drunken sentimentality traps your ribs between was tight, and it was getting increasingly hard to breathe. your fingers tremble and your breath comes in short puffs, and it’s not until hot tears slip down your cheeks that you realise what it is.
grief.
the screen grows blurry as your tears continue to come fast, rippling past your chin and over the flat surface of your phone—though the dampness makes it harder to navigate. frustrated, you angrily mop your fist over your face and wipe down your screen on your skirt with the other hand, before resuming your mission of swiping through pictures until you could no more.
there was nothing to search for in the first place. answers? far from it. you had already tried that once. you would find nothing but memories of a life you once lived, a love you once had, and the reminder of a million empty promises that came with the burden of holding out hope for a place in another person’s heart.
still, you scroll, photo after photo after photo, even though each motion felt like forcing the sutures you spent nearly a year sewing into an unraveled undoing, baring it back from scar to fresh wound.
three years worth of memories reach the end of their line, back to the very beginning—to the very first night.
this time, the picture was of just you. your hair had been longer back then.
you were sitting across from him that night. you had your arms crossed over the table and your head cocked cheekily to the side as he took the picture, having insisted that you looked too beautiful to be spared from the camera. there was a mirror behind your seat on the restaurant’s couch, and you could vaguely see his enamoured reflection sport a dopey grin as he held the digicam closer to his glasses. you remember something his friend velvette used to say— “he couldn’t hide how head-over-heels he is for you even if he tried.”
you spend so long staring at the photo in aching silence, your phone voluntarily flickers off from the lack of motion. it leaves you looking into your own forlorn reflection in the darkness of your screen, a far cry from the youthful glow that the happiness of being in love had once given you.
damn it all to hell.
through the sluggish cloud of your jumbled thoughts, you faintly register the raspy contralto of bonnie tyler’s voice echo powerfully through the walls of the bar, as well as the chorus of drunken voices loudly singing, “and i need you now tonight, and i need you more than ever,” along with her.
who the fuck plays total eclipse of the heart in a bar?
pissed, you furiously wipe at your eyes again, barely thinking as your fingers fly across the phonebook to type in a number you still memorised like second nature to your own. it opens into an empty chat and a contact name that held nothing but ten digits, entirely free from any endearment and emoji that the now-empty space once held.
the next few moments are a blur of angry misspellings and a judgment clouded by a broken heart, almost like you’re puppeteered by the devils of insobriety.
you let the liquor talk.
from: (name)
⤷ yuor’e suhc n idiot
⤷ i cnat sto p thinkign abt you and ihate u for it
but fate, fickle as it was, sometimes could be cruel.
to your immediate horror, the messages turn blue instead of the sickening green they had been for months until tonight. less than fifteen seconds later, a new, godforsaken line of text slides under the drunken confession you had just sent—
seen just now.
꩜ a/n: yo writing this brought me genuine misery bruh i almost cried halfway through it like is this even fanfiction anymore or is it just the ghost of my fourteen year old self talking
will be cross-posted to ao3 soon!
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
TAGLIST: @whoatemycheezeits, @1ix1n, @tuquoque, @writerisahazbin, @timesskip, @so-x1, @m4r3tu-f4nn
[ comment to be added! ]
———
whether by masochism or reminiscence, call it whatever you want, you still find yourself stepping over the fractured pieces of your pulse, wading through the trickling rivers of blood you had forced not to flow for months, navigating back to a memory you had never erased.
Didn't know I was reading poetry. Thought this was a Vox x Reader fic. 🤨
This is a joke, I swear.
Lame writer @writerisahazbin - Tumblr Blog | Tumlook
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