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Like Vincent always does in Louisiana, he follows Alastor without question. “You sure this is the right place?”
The lock was too easy to break. Weeds grow in abundance. Birdsong and rodent chittering pollute the air with no clear source, sprinting off to god knows where at the slightest hint of human presence. The pale moon hangs eerily in the sky, the only real witness to what will ensue.
“Yes.” even while trailing behind him, he can feel the man roll his eyes. “I’m sure.”
He’s been quiet, ever since they arrived. If Vincent was a dumber man, he’d think he was nervous.
The whole place is sparse, only a couple dozen headstones and none maintained particularly well. Crumbling, decayed, defaced- and the one they land on isn’t any better. There’s a bouquet of daffodils resting by it, and barely legible lettering on the verge of losing its battle with time.
Here lies Sebastian Bordeaux - Father, Husband, Friend
It’s strange, to see a proper name attached to a boogeyman.
“Good evening, father,” Alastor begins, setting the flowers aside. “I see maman’s already visited you, bless her heart.”
Ms. Bordeaux- it’s rude to call her Clementine, as he’s been repeatedly told- doesn't know they're in town. Not yet. Truth be told, Vincent wouldn’t mind being interrogated by the woman over dinner at the moment.
But this isn’t about him, so he does what he’s supposed to and shuts the fuck up as Alastor kneels down to trace over the engraved dates. “You’ll have to forgive me for being so late. Has it really been twenty years? Time certainly does fly.”
“Did I ever tell you I’m working in radio now?” he asks, taking a swig out of the flask on his hip. “I’ve got my own show and everything. What was that thing you told me, once? That I’d be lucky to end up a dyke or a ‘whore like my mother’?”
“Funny how these things turn out.” The flask is promptly dunked over the grave. “Of course, you were having one of your scenes at the moment. Think of all the more you could’ve had if that liver of yours hadn’t gone out-”
“Wait, you didn’t kill him?” Vincent blinks.
Alastor flinches, as if forgetting he didn’t come here alone, looking over his shoulder with a scowl. “When did I ever say that?”
“I just thought-”
“You thought wrong,” his partner snaps, pinches the bridge of his nose, and brings his attention back to the headstone. “Where are my manners? Father, this is Vincent. Call him a friend of mine.”
There’s a pause. “Say hello, Vincent.”
“Right. Hello, sir,” he clears his throat. “Your son told me a lot about you. Can’t say I’m impressed.”
Vincent is good with fathers, more often than not- great, even. He knows how to speak their language, how to make them laugh and how to win them over.
Maybe that’s why he was chosen for this.
(“I’d usually go to Mimzy for such an affair, but she actually seems to like the poor sap she’s seeing at the moment,” Alastor complained that day, giving him no time to recover from the request. “So you can imagine the trouble I’m in.”)
“Well, enough with the formalities,” the real Alastor’s voice pulls him out of his thoughts, along with a clap of the man’s hands. “Nobody’s getting any younger around here!”
“What- now?” Vincent gapes.
“Yes, now.” he’s already unbuttoning his vest. “Wouldn’t want you getting too impatient.”
“You know it’ll hurt if you’re not ready, right?”
“Good. Do you think I’ll bleed?”
“Only if that’s what you’re into,” Vincent says dryly.
“I suppose we’ll have to see,” Alastor replies, removing his tie and beckoning him to do the same. “I don’t plan on doing this ever again.”
He’s been hanging that over his head ever since Vincent agreed to this. A method of making him behave- a method that, unfortunately, has been working too well. Their ties would make good restraints, he thinks as he inches closer to his partner. Maybe even a gag.
“Have you been kissed before, at least?” he asks, tilting the man’s chin up.
“Why would I ever bother with that? Look on the bright side- I won’t have a single to compare you to.”
Their lips meet each other like a collision. Clattering teeth, bumping noses, too much tongue- there’s no finesse in the slightest and there doesn’t need to be. Unsurprisingly, Alastor bites hard enough to draw blood, and makes the sweetest little sounds when he does the same. Vincent has to laugh as he attempts to carry him by the waist, the force sending them both toppling down to the overgrown grass- Alastor’s head slamming hard against the gravestone.
“Shit. You okay?”
“Okay as I’ll ever be,” he glances back up at the tomb. “My apologies, sir, I know you always hated it when I broke your things. The scars still haven’t faded.”
“If you start talking to him while I’m fucking you, I’m leaving,” Vincent says.
“You’re no fun,” Alastor teases, and arches his neck that makes him forget whatever it was he was talking about. The man is so pliant like this, squirming beneath Vincent but making no effort to fight as he presses open-mouthed kisses across his collarbone.
He’d kill to crawl into Alastor’s warmth, satin-smooth skin clinging to him and pushing for more instead of keeping him on arm’s length. If Sebastian was good for anything it was fucking this, Vincent thinks as he unbuttons his partner’s dress shit, too lost in that expanse to think straight-
Uh.
Alastor’s rack is thoroughly unimpressive. Barely even anything, really. Truth be told, if he was a woman, Vincent wouldn’t spare him a second glance.
That’s not the point, though.
“Bindings didn’t seem all that necessary for this occasion,” Alastor scoffs once he’s spent too many seconds gawking like a fucking idiot. “You’ve seen my chest before, pal.”
“Yeah, and you fucking stabbed me after that.”
“I’m not stabbing you now, am I? And since when have you been the type to learn from your mistakes- mph!” the older man fucking squeaks as Vincent takes a breast into his mouth. Again- as flat as a goddamn blackboard, but like hell does he care as he massages the skin with his tongue.
None of this is about Vincent. It’s barely even about Alastor, really. His body had yet to get the memo on that, though, rutting against the unkempt grave to give some relief to his clothed cock.
He’s only a little disappointed when he pulls down Alastor’s pants with his underwear. “You should shave, you know. It’s not hygienic have so much hair down there.”
“I don’t care,” Alastor, rolls his eyes.
“Your funeral,” he says, and shoves his face down on the man’s cunt before he can be called out on the lame joke.
It’s been a while since he’s done this, and he knows Alastor doesn’t have anything to compare it to, but goddamn it, Vincent wants to make it good. He drags his tongue against soft folds, lapping up all the heat pooling out of him.
Alastor’s breath picks up when he starts sucking his clit, so he sticks to that. Hands cling to his hair, pushing him down before he can even think of breathing- as if he’d ever want that. He could die happy here, Alastor grinding into his face and coating him with slick.
The muscle of his thighs feels so right as he kneads the skin, moaning roughly. His mind sharpens up enough to remember a trick that drove an ex-girlfriend wild and pushes his tongue inside Alastor’s folds.
It takes a moment for the pain to reach his nerves when his scalp is tugged up with force. Alastor just looks at him, cheeks reddened and pupils blown out, as if he’s forgotten why he did that. “You brought contraceptives, correct?”
“You only reminded me every fucking day,” Vincent scoffs, pulling the condom out of his pocket.
“Better safe than sorry,” Alastor hums, plucking the foil wrapper with one hand unzipping his fly with another. He’s always had such agile hands, so pretty, so skilled. Vincent always liked watching them work- so much so that he doesn’t even register them wrapped around his cock until a flick of his wrist makes his head loll back.
“Fuck, Al.”
“That’s the point, yes,” he says, purring into his ear. “Are you sure you’re in the right mind for this?”
“Are you?” saying anything more refuses to make itself an option.
“I’m not fragile, dear,” Alastor bites, giving him one final upstroke. “Get to the point already.”
Vincent thinks he might blow his load right there and then, watching himself sink into the hilt of Alastor’s cunt. It’s- it’s been a fucking while, okay? He’s been busy. Busy with work and with kills and with Alastor.
Alastor, who’s got him sheathed in a tight, wet, warmth that feels like it was made just for his cock.
It’s dark in the cemetery, and Vincent’s eyes ache to adjust to everything, to have the night permanently grafted onto his memory. It’s dark and it’s quiet, the only sounds being the whistling wind and their own laboured breaths. Alastor’s legs quiver as they hook themselves around him.
“You feeling alright?” he murmurs.
“Like bad taxidermy.”
“Hot,” he laughs airily. “Can I move?”
“Give it a moment,” Alastor says. “Kiss me.”
They’re not nearly as impatient, this time around; longer and languid, tracing every tooth and ridge of the other’s mouth. Alastor’s hands snake their way up his half-buttoned shirt, nails digging into his back and pinpricks of blood dripping down. The sting makes Vincent forget himself and god, he’ll never forget the sound Alastor makes at just the slightest bit of friction- like it’s his fucking wedding night.
He gets this, he has this, and even if it’ll never happen again, he’ll always be the one to ruin the last part of Alastor that could be called gentle. Good fucking riddance.
The pace he sets is slower than he usually likes it, burying himself back in that blissful warmth as deep as he can and drawing out every little puff of air from the man beneath him. Alastor clenches around him like a vice, a strained whine leaving gritted teeth as Vincent marks up his collarbone yet again, teeth sinking into sweat-soaked skin.
“Good- good boy,” he manages, and not for the first time that night, Vincent wishes they doing this raw. He wants to feel every fucking inch of Alastor, wants to see the look on his face when he comes inside- wants to see his face at all in the darkness, how it contorts every time his hips slot into him. Alastor’s scrawny, he wonders if he could see the outline of his cock in his stomach.
“Hey, I’m here, alright?” Vincent hushes, breath low and easy as he angles his hips. “Just breathe.”
“Don’t, ah, patronize me-” whatever tirade he’s about to launch into is cut off with a moan when Vincent finally hits the spot he’s been looking for. He’ll pay for that later, he’s sure. “Daddy.”
That’s not surprising. Frankly, Vincent’s been expecting it. Still, it doesn’t make something inside him fucking snap any less, assaulting that bundle of nerves relentlessly until a cacophony of moans rattles through his head. The clearest thing he hears is a strangled mess of his own name as Alastor bites his neck, spasming around him.
Vincent is soon after, body seizing and vision whiting out as he spills into the condom with a groan. He feels Alastor’s chest pounding as his breathing slows, face buried in admittedly mediocre cleavage. Rivulets of dried blood cling to his back and seep into his ruined button-up; good thing he’s got a change of clothes back at the motel.
Alastor sighs in content, combing through his hair and mumbling something in Creole he knows he can’t understand. “You look a little bit too much like him, sometimes.”
“I do?” Vincent blinks up at him.
He tilts his head. “Hm. Not really, I suppose. His eyes were brown.”
“Was the trip here alright, boys?” Clementine- Ms. Bordeaux- asks the next morning over breakfast. The woman’s been in a rush for hours, ever since her morning was interrupted by her son and his little friend she’s never made a secret of disliking.
“As well as it could ever be,” Alastor says, and kicks Vincent under the table to stop chewing with his mouth open. “You know how it is back there, maman.”
“Of course,” she nods. “And you, Mr. Whittman?”
“Couldn’t have been better, ma'am,” he speaks smoothly; he’ll win her over this visit, he’s sure. Just not yet.
Clementine doesn’t think much of him as her focus is brought back to her son. “Tu restes toute la semaine cette fois, tu comprends? No more running off before I can even say goodbye. Help me with the dishes once you’re done.”
She kisses him on the cheek before heading back into the kitchen, humming some old folk song. Vincent didn’t know mothers could really be like that, at least not to their sons.
“She thinks we’re lovers, you know,” Alastor says once the woman is out of earshot. The hickey on his neck is barely hidden, peeking from the edges of the high-collared shirt he’s wearing- Vincent’s.
“Was I not supposed to?” he replies.
“Just wanted to be clear; you tend to miss a lot.”
“She hasn’t said anything about your dad.”
“She hasn’t tried in quite a while,” Alastor muses as he gets up. “Stay there- she doesn’t trust you in the kitchen.”
“She doesn’t trust me with anything,” Vincent huffs.
“And with good reason.”
So he’s left alone in the Bordeaux’s matchbox apartment, with nothing in particular to do. There’s a mantle of Sebastian he’s been working to ignore- just in case they really do look anything alike. Laughter echoes from the kitchen.
It’ll happen again, he hopes. There’s nothing wrong with that.