Chapter Text
For several weeks, a certain fantasy keeps nagging Alastor incessantly. A parasite of disgusting want, so idiotic it makes one want to laugh. And normally this role belongs to Vincent. The man's a dog that cannot help but salivate on his knees to his base desires, lust or bloodlust alike a leash to him.
Yet the one that deserves mockery here is Alastor. Nothing he has done has scratched that horrid itch nagging in his skin, his stomach, his neck. Even slicing up the corpse before him, barely recognizable as a human at this point, isn't as enjoyable as usual.
Alastor hates this.
Hell even getting to choke out Vincent didn't fully do it, as delightful as it was to wrap his hands around the man's soft throat, feel his pulse drum through his hands. Seeing the other man's mismatched eyes flutter…
Alastor pauses mid slice. He stares at the pale torso laying on his dining table, laid on top of plastic to lessen the mess, chopped off limbs and head haphazardly dumped in his sink. Not a drop of blood on the floor.
Vincent finished off this kill, too, in a much similar manner as that previous one that incited so many wretched thoughts in Alastor.
He hates how badly he wants Vincent to strangle him.
His eyes dart to Vincent, leaning against the wooden table a few feet away, still chattering away, gossip on his lips about a coworker's amusing extramarital affair. He fiddles with Alastor's bone saw as he yaps away, the blade shining in the kitchen light, the ridges sharp despite its many uses.
Alastor's stomach curls. He wants Vincent's hands around his throat so badly. He needs to stab Vincent. Bite him. Eat him.
His heart beats. Not nervously—he's not a coward. Vincent's asked, begged for all sorts of depravity to be done to him. To fear being judged by Vincent makes Alastor want to laugh.
So why does it take more effort than it should for Alastor to open his lips? To ask for what he wants? Hot shame flushing his face as he considers what he's about to ask.
And for a moment, Alastor turns his head back to the torso, knife in his gloved hand, delicious blood dripping down onto the clear plastic covering. He stays silent. He won't ask.
Spineless coward, his mind hisses, and the utter indignation at that thought, to even be shy and nervous, causes Alastor, without lifting his head, to just fucking say it.
—
"Can you choke me out?” asked Alastor.
Casually.
As if that wasn’t the most reality shattering sentence Vincent has ever had the pleasure to hear.
Vincent startles, fumbling the bone saw he's been absentmindedly twirling in his hands, barely catching it from falling to the floor, his face immediately growing red as he stares wide eyed.
There has to be some punchline, Vincent thinks, or he must have finally caught something from helping the other man with his culinary hobbies after all this time.
Help, which is a strong word for the glorified tool holder he's been shafted to being, barred from lifting a finger in any of the butchering or cooking processes. You lack any of the talent for the kitchen, Alastor had once teased. Strangely not as insulting as it would have been from any other man. There's something soothing about it even, watching Alastor work in peaceful silence as Vincent rambles, relaxed even when the two occasionally bicker back and forth with no real weight to it.
Relaxation that has stuttered to a panicked halt as Vincent's heart pounds in his chest. His mouth opens and closes like an asphyxiating fish as his brain finally catches up, saying that yes, this is real and happening.
Alastor simply stares, waiting so patiently and Vincent needs to respond now.
“Yes–“, Vincent shoots out before immediately attempting to claw back any ounce of composure. “I– I mean-“, and he forces out a cough, suddenly really interested in the butchered corpse on the table. He fiddles with the bone saw, as he internally yells at himself to say something smart, confident, composed, all the things he normally is on the screen with an audience of thousands–millions even. An audience of just Alastor should not feel as immense as it suddenly does.
Vincent’s fingers almost catch against the sharp side and he pauses for a moment—no cut—as he tries to confidently meet Alastor’s gaze, because if this isn’t some weird joke then he cannot fuck this up.
Alastor tilts his head innocently—as much as one can look covered in blood, stained tools and flesh all covering the table in front of him—yet Vincent notes how strained Alastor's smile looks, even as amusement sparks in the man's dark brown eyes. Nothing seems to delight this cruel bastard more than catching me off guard, Vincent thinks, with less annoyance and more affection.
Leaving the knife embedded in the bare torso before them, pallid gray flesh almost gleaming against the soft yellow lights, Alastor struts a few steps to Vincent's side, leans against his table, his face now inches from Vincent. Dark brown eyes meet blue and green.
Vincent can hear Alastor's fingers drumming nervously, but you couldn't pay him to look at anything but Alastor.
“You heard me”, Alastor said, voice smooth and low. Alastor suddenly raised a hand, gently grabbing Vincent’s face and tilting it closer to him, his gloved hand so cold against Vincent’s increasingly flustered face. Some of the blood smears against Vincent’s cheek, a few drops slowly trailing down his jawline, but Vincent could care less. He’s probably been drenched in oceans worth of blood at this point in his life.
Vincent’s mouth opens, and closes.
Stop acting like some shy schoolgirl, he thinks to himself. He’s in his goddamn 40s, he’s not some pansy virgin. He can handle some man’s hand on his face like a fucking man. Nevermind the fact that Vincent’s growing half hard already at Alastor simply touching him, as that request, “Can you choke me out?” plays on repeat, Alastor’s pretty brown eyes drilling into him.
Alastor smile is more akin to the stressed smile he gave when a cop once almost opened the trunk of Vincent's car, his teeth clenched as he forces it in place, but Vincent can still taste that smug glee Alastor gets when he effortlessly wraps his hands around Vincent’s dick like that.
Metaphorically.
And not his heart, Vincent’s not a goddamn pussy with any of that love crap.
Vincent forces his breathing to steady, he needs to focus on what may be the most important next few minutes of his life here.
“What’s the catch?”, he asks, raising his own hand to Alastor’s, not to pull it away from his face but to keep it there. Hell would freeze over before Alastor shows any form of weakness, much less put his life literally in Vincent’s.
There has to be a catch.
Alastor simply tightens his hold on Vincent’s cheek, not enough to hurt, as he simply replies, "Curiosity".
It's not even a little bit convincing, and Alastor cringes slightly.
“…Curiosity?” Vincent repeats, a bit baffled. He knows Alastor’s not into the more intimate side of things unlike him, outside of moments where he “indulges” Vincent, but surely he has to know this is a sex thing right?
“Correct, my good fellow!” Alastor says, suddenly pulling away with a clap. He suddenly turns back to the corpse splayed out, walking along to the other side of the table, trailing his hand lazily from the pallid bare stomach to the neck stump, where the dark, blotchy bruises still remain even now, hours after Vincent finished the job.
Vincent would have smirked a bit just thinking back on how hours ago, that dumbass had struggled so pathetically under him, those desperate struggles offering such little challenge that Alastor hadn’t even needed to raise a hand himself; but instead thoughts of Alastor touching Vincent’s torso like that popped into his mind. Vincent had half a mind to bonk the side of his head for a moment to dispel the horny thoughts; he knows that doesn’t work though, so maybe picking up the dismembered head in the sink might drown his horniness in disgust.
Vincent’s eyebrows raised slightly as it hit him then. He grins then, tossing aside the bone saw to the sink where it clangs against the head. “You want a fucking encore!”, with complete condescension in his tone. Vincent leans suddenly on the bloodied countertop, elbows put, chin on the back of both his hands. “You liked what you saw that much?”
Even though you complained how boring it was the whole car ride back, Vincent thinks with only a little bitterness.
Alastor’s silent for a moment, clearly gauging how much he wants to admit. His whole body is tense.
“Ignoring the fact that you somehow made strangulation into something lackluster and stale–“ Alastor ignores Vincent’s scoff— “There’s something I’ve always found… fascinating about the whole thing”.
There’s another pause, Alastor seems to expect Vincent to chime in with some comment, but Vincent’s silent, the man genuinely curious on where Alastor is going with this.
He presses on. “You and I both have snuffed out many, many lights throughout our partnership. I want to know what that’s like, to feel that primal instinct to live screaming inside me”. Alastor turns back to look Vincent in the eye, his smile widening. “Besides, knowing how starved for dominance your every waking moment is, I cannot think of a more appealing offer, honestly I’m the one doing you a favor!”
Vincent shuts his mouth for once in his life. On one hand, a part of him wants to tease Alastor to hell and back for not just admitting he wants to be choked out. God only knows Vincent’s begged for it with zero shame whatsoever during some moods of his, Alastor obliging with extreme amounts of enthusiasm.
However.
Alastor is surprisingly skittish when it comes to his own arousal. Is skittish, now, as he clenches the sides of the table even as his face is perfectly composed.
From what Vincent can gather, Alastor is completely apathetic to sex. When they’ve actually done the deed together, he’s treated it closer to how one would give a dog a treat as a reward to Vincent. And Vincent won’t deny how he’s eagerly, desperately lapped it up all the same. But Alastor… he never likes acknowledging his own reactions, those delicious moans or movements greedily hoarded in its own little filing cabinet in Vincent’s brain. The man doesn’t seem to be aware the extent of Vincent’s obsessive mental cataloging, how he tries to burn as much as possible into his memory when they fuck.
Yes, Alastor with ease can take utter glee in having Vincent be at his fingertips, so easy to dig his claws into the very marrow of Vincent. He’s perfectly fine making it clear to Vincent how much he loves having that power over him.
But getting Alastor to admit to genuinely enjoying anything is like pulling teeth, with a very high risk of getting him to be avoidant for days after, and Vincent would shoot himself if he screws up his chance to freely wrap his hands around Alastor’s throat.
So Vincent simply nods with a little too much enthusiasm—years of having to suck up and smile along to whatever bullshit his superiors spout kicking in for a moment—and chokes down every single urge to bully Alastor. The sacrifices I make, he thinks. He knows the fucker wouldn’t spare him that same courtesy.
Like you haven’t been down on your knees as he spews all types of poisonous insults, all the while jerking yourself off and asking—begging even— for him to touch you, Vincent’s mind, the horny traitor it is, helpfully adds. He resists the urge to slap the side of his head, and continues with forced casualness, “Instincts– mhmm, so fascinating…” trailing off awkwardly when he doesn’t know what else to say beyond: Can we please do this right here, I don’t even care about the blood or the corpse please please-
Alastor simply narrows his eyes a bit at that, but seems satisfied that Vincent isn’t going to say anything about him wanting Vincent to do something to him. And Vincent will pretend to accept “indulging in scientific curiosity" as an explanation because he is a starving man staring at Alastor’s throat.
Alastor makes a small hand gesture, and Vincent tries his best not to dart, walking slowly to Alastor’s side. They look at the dismembered, half butchered corpse on the table, before Alastor pulls out the knife sticking out from abdomen, giving the blade a small lick before wiping the rest of the blood with his black apron. A few drops of blood decorate his lips, and Vincent fights back a swallow.
Vincent wants to complain so badly, whine that they can clean up later. But he knows how much of a neat freak Alastor is, how even his own damn murder shack in the woods has to be nice and clean, apparently. Besides, he has enough common sense to know that leaving a body, especially in this state, out in the kitchen is beyond stupid. Even if it’s practically midnight, the windows showing an inky darkness behind the beautiful dark red, drawn curtains.
It's fast work for the two men to quickly tie the torso and other sliced meats scattered around in cotton twine, before wrapping them in butcher paper. Vincent packaging surprisingly neat for how much excitement buzzes in his skin. Alastor then gathers all the neatly wrapped stacks of bundled meat, lugging the stacks of bundled meat in his arms all at once with an ease not expected from his thin frame.
He drops it all at once into Vincent's arms, and without a word Vincent carries all the meat down to his freezer chest, squirrelled away in the corner of his basement. It takes considerable effort to not fall down the dark, creaky wooden stairwell and break his damn neck, but Vincent manages, the act and place so familiar he doesn't even need to turn on the lights to locate the freezer, and nudge the lid open with his knee. Thankfully it's nearly empty, so Vincent just dumps the whole thing at once with a loud thud, before slamming the lid down as he just wants to be finished.
Alastor seems to be on the same wavelength, as by the time Vincent comes back upstairs, everything is nearly spotless. Floor, table, countertops sparkling, even the sink is devoid of its previous gory sight. The stench of bleach overpowers Vincent's nose, and he crinkles it, holding back a cough. Alastor dries off his tools by the sink, all of them pristine and shiny. He doesn't look at Vincent as he wipes down the dry tools over and over again.
He's stalling. Nervous.
That doesn’t calm the same emotion that squirms in Vincent’s own chest. Vincent really, truly, cannot fuck this up. On an everyday basis Alastor, with all the confidence he exudes, is already an unpredictable madman. Constantly on some plan he’s several steps ahead on that only he is privy to, who does not do well with things spiraling out of his control.
Vincent, ever the predictable madman with his typical horniness, cares very little for most consequences from Alastor—hell, Alastor sticking a knife in him is one of many personal fantasies cooking in Vincent’s perverted brain.
But he does not want to hurt Alastor is a way that matters. Cross some line that he didn't see or wasn't communicated on and irreversibly lose him. He'd kill himself.
So Vincent just needs to do a damn good job.
No pressure.
And so he creeps up to Alastor, footsteps loud enough not wind up stabbed for real, and Vincent nuzzles his face into Alastor's neck, his hands gently ghosting over Alastor's shoulders. Vincent always finds himself having to fight the urge to clamp his grip on Alastor and never letting go.
Alastor doesn't react for a moment, before he places the cloth and tool down, and leans into the touch.
"Always so clingy", Alastor says after a long moment, tilting his head to lean in the touch. He takes a breath, the kind one would take as to will themselves to jump into cold water, and places the cloth down. He clenches the cleaver as he pulls away, turning to face Vincent.
"If I let you do this, I keep at hand. Deal?" Alastor points the cleaver slightly in Vincent's direction.
Vincent scoffs. "If I wanted to kill you I'd have done it years ago".
Alastor narrows his eyes slightly. "Likewise, although I question myself in that everyday dear".
"Fucking—fine, fine—"
"You liked when I did it last time—" Alastor starts, his smile relaxing.
"I already agreed, you freak", Vincent, grumbled, his face growing red as he already unconsciously is leaning back into Alastor's space. He jolts as Alastor grabs him by his tie, and pulls him along to the single bedroom in this cabin.
And for how agonizing the wait was, it feels like a few blinks and suddenly the two men are on top of the queen size bed with its soft red comforter. Vincent's navy blazer hastily tossed aside by Alastor alongside the crumpled tie, Alastor's own red vest discarded by Vincent. A pause, as Alastor neatly places his glasses carefully on the bed stand.
They kiss, Alastor nipping Vincent's lip every few seconds, somehow managing to just be shy of drawing any blood.
Vincent crawls on top of Alastor, still leaning down as he greedily drinks in the soft sensation of Alastor's lips. Alastor still has the cleaver in his hand, the sharp corner occasionally brushing against Vincent's back, but not piercing by sone miracle.
They pull away, and Vincent sits up as they stare at each other, the two men catching their breath. And Vincent, ever the saint of barely restrained self control, manages about 10 seconds of silence as he straddles Alastor. Mismatched green and blue bore into Alastor's eyes, looking almost metallic in the soft moonlight peaking through the window.
Alastor looks starved as he suddenly snatches Vincent's hands, yanks them to his own neck. The cleaver drops unceremoniously onto the bedding, forgotten as Alastor looks starved. Vincent doesn't resist, simply swallowing as Alastor's soft hands lead him to the silky skin.
Vincent wraps his hands around Alastor's throat slowly, gently as nervousness and giddy excitement pound in his chest. He doesn't press down, simply holds his fingers and palms in place as he feels Alastor's pulse. Racing in his hands.
Alastor, on the other hand, clenches Vincent's wrists tightly.
"Do it", he commands. And at first, Vincent doesn't obey. He feels breathless from how badly he wants to go ahead—Vincent can be patient if he needs to. And he teasingly clenches his hands every so slightly, smirking as impatience flashes in Alastor's grip. And then Vincent fully squeezes, cutting off Alastor's air instantly.
It catches the other man a bit off guard, as one hand releases Vincent's wrist to fumble for the cleaver. He doesn't swing it down yet.
Seconds tick by, and Vincent can see the way Alastor begins gripping Vincent's wrists even harder that the lack of air is beginning to be noticeable.
Nerves in Vincent ease and die down as he shifts into performance mode. Eagerness rises in him, not just because of the pulsing thrill that comes with having that delicious, delicious power over someone. He wants to please Alastor too.
"You feel that, don't you", Vincent murmurs, smirking. "That slowly increasing burn".
Alastor instinctively opens his mouth the respond, but nothing escapes his mouth. He writhes under Vincent, as very rapidly his body begins sounding the alarm.
Vincent eases up, letting Alastor heave for air beneath him—one desperate inhale—and clamps down viciously, shaking him. A strangled choke escapes Alastor, as begins clawing at Vincent's arms, nails catching against his dress shirt sleeves, before catching against his wrists. Vincent doesn't even react as Alastor leaves deep, bloody marks.
He snorts, in fact.
"Aw, so cute", Vincent says, voice taking on something so sweet and condescending. "You think that'll do something".
It does hurt like a bitch, but Vincent's enjoyed worse pains. And nothing can take away the other joy in feeling Alastor buck beneath him, practically arching into him to try and escape him grip.
He's adorable, Vincent thinks.
An objective fact to Vincent, feeling more overwhelming by the second. A wolf that finds a deer so adorable in it's struggles as it's fangs sink into it's warm, delicious throat.
Vincent licks his lips at that thought.
He grinds into Alastor, even as the man's thrashes shift into twitches. Despite the primal terror in his eyes, Alastor skin is hot. He can feel the other man grow hard beneath him and—
It feels so good.
Vincent himself feels hot. A bit breathless himself.
"You love this—you love this so much you hate it", he coos, running a thumb in circles around the edge of Alastor's jaw as his movements pause, eyes foggy. Vincent feels his skin rise in goosebumps at the touch, as out of it as he is. Alastor's eyes begin sliding down.
"Hey, eyes open—don't stop looking at me", and Vincent loosens his grip, giving Alastor the chance to take a few gulps of air, his body hitching up underneath Vincent's as he does so. Warm dark brown eyes, more beautiful than anyone who's ever lived, let alone among those currently on this planet, flutter back to look at him, still hazy. Alastor's hands goes back to clawing at Vincent's wrists, his knuckles.
At this point the damn cleaver's just here for emotional support, completely forgotten next to the two men.
Alastor legs weakly twitch beneath Vincent, and Vincent humps against Alastor. Alastor writhes, movements far more limited, straining as Vincent tightens his hold to cut off air again. Alastor's pulse drums wildly against Vincent's fingers, as if his blood his begging to burst through, and slice into Vincent's own skin. Vincent releases one hand, and Alastor's earns another frantic gulp. Vincent's remaining hand tightens significantly more in response, gripping Alastor's neck in the palm of his hand. He uses his other hand to trail his fingers over Alastor's face with more gentleness than Vincent's done in the bloody decades of his life. Under Alastor's eyes, his nose, back and forth along his jaw, all while Alastor jerks in his grip, weaker and weaker with every passing second. Terrified prey in his hands, yet Alastor leans into his touch, no hesitation or reserves like every other time.
His eyes grow half lidded he goes limp, strength leaving him as the lack of air finally begin taking a toll.
Vincent leans down, peppering Alastor's face with kisses. When Alastor's eyes shut, Vincent finally releases his grip. Blood oozes down in thin trails, dripping onto the front of Alastor's shirt, but Vincent doesn't even feel it, not with how badly his heart thumps, his thighs still clenched over Alastor's torso in a death grip of it's own.
Despite the complete confidence Vincent has in holding back, in knowing his own strength when it comes to his kills, he does place a hand against Alastor's throat, feeling the blood drumming steady beats, as the man's breathing stabilizes.
Vincent stays on top of Alastor, watching him. He slides his hand to cup Alastor's cheek, thumb brushing under his eye, running softly along the creases that come with age. He shifts to lie completely on top of Alastor, almost encompassing him as he waits for him to wake up.
Minutes later, Alastor slowly, lazily opens his eyes, and Vincent feels a surge of victory when the first thing Alastor gets to see is him.
The two men stay like that, Alastor gaining enough awareness to run his hands pleasantly along Vincent's back. He voice is strained, quiet when he finally speaks.
"Do that again."
"You'll really let me utterly ruin that pretty voice of yours", Vincent jokes, pressing his face into Alastor's neck. Alastor lightly flicks Vincent's forehead in response, a small pout on his lips.
"Please, like I don't let you gratify yourself on me enough. And for free—" Alastor pauses, coughing.
"Fuck", he simply says. Vincent suppresses a laugh, but Alastor feels it.
And then, so shyly that Vincent cringes, as he realizes he's not escaping that inner schoolgirl in him—
"Did you like it?"
Alastor furrows his eyebrows, genuinely thinking it over. "Yes I—" and he stops. Too much genuineness for him tonight.
"It was acceptable".
And Vincent just beams. He's riding this high for the next month. Alastor begins lightly patting the other man.
"Stop that".
And Vincent rolls off, still grinning stupidly.
And then he yelps in pain as he lands on top of the cleaver.