Chapter Text
The man runs through the forest, his exhausted pants echoing in the dead silence. The silver moonlight shives bright against his blonde hair, the straight strands normally slicked back with gel now messy with sweat. Blood oozes from a gash in his shoulder, drenching his expensive dark suit, more noticeable around his collar, where a bloodied handprint stands out against the white of it. From head to toe he trembles, staggering every few steps as he glances behind him, trying to see if those men—so polite and charming, how stupid he was—are still giving chase.
Silence remains as he pauses to catch his breath. He glances frantically, but his surroundings remain quiet, no sounds of foliage being disturbed by his pursuing predators. He slouches down, putting both hands on his knees as he forces himself to take deeper breaths. He naively thinks he has outrun his monsters.
That’s the last calm, coherent thought he ever has.
Before this man can even process the sudden crunch of footsteps against the undergrowth, he is already being tackled to the ground.
—
Vincent pounces with all of his strength, sending the two of them crashing down in a tangle of limbs. Alastor trails quietly behind, standing a few feet back as he observes. He’s heaving for breath himself, it’s been a long while since a hunt has made him have to run this much, and he’s ashamed to even think this, but he must be getting a bit out of shape.
Although, with how Vincent thrashed against the man, a Mr. Lannister who has—or rather, had, if Vincent can actually finish the damn job—the tendency to run his mouth with the vilest of things once one got some whiskey in him, Alastor is more than happy to sit back and watch the show. And after that last party’s drunken confession from the man, Alastor will take the utmost glee in watching whatever clumsy, drawn-out death Vincent has in store. Besides, Vincent is capable enough, as loathe Alastor is to admit it. And it always brings Alastor some joy in watching Vincent have to struggle for something.
Blood drips down from Vincent’s nose, unbroken but still pulsing with pain from Lannister’s panicked punch, a few drops landing on the man beneath him as Vincent finally wrangles his way on top of the man, straddling him practically as he tries to grab for Lannister’s throat.
Besides, Alastor thinks as he glances at Vincent's face, expression locked ferociously on the man under him, He was the one to let him get away. Alastor’s pointedly ignoring how he tripped upon trying to give chase initially back there, even as his knee twinges with occasional pain. The way Vincent had paused, turning momentarily to see if Alastor was okay from the most minor of inconveniences, bloodlust shifting to concern before Alastor had to hand wave frantically for Vincent to continue giving chase, makes Alastor feel… something he’s not even going to touch.
In fact, he’s just going to focus on the show in front of him. Vincent has finally managed to lock his hands onto Lannister’s throat. The man bucks and twists beneath him, legs kicking and hands clawing against Vincent’s in pure desperation. And oxygen deprivation hasn’t even properly set in yet, what fun the next few minutes will be, Alastor thinks, amusement causing his usual grin to grow. He walks closer, now standing next to the two men as he silently watches.
Strangely enough, it’s not Lannister, choked gasps stuttering through the silence around them as his face turns to a delicious shade of red, that steals Alastor’s gaze.
It’s Vincent.
The way he snarls with glee as he snuffs out this life ever so slowly with every cruel squeeze of his hands. Honestly, Vincent could cut things short if he just snapped that man’s neck, but he takes his time. At one point, he even loosens his grip momentarily to let Lannister have a few pitiful gasps of air, just to grasp even tighter than before.
Alastor swallows as he tilts his body to get a better look. Vincent really is drawing this out. Alastor couldn’t approve more, and as much as he wishes it was messier, something about this just… appeals to him. Those scratched and bloody hands, wrapping around a thin throat…
Vincent’s green and blue eyes crinkle in cruel delight, and in the dim moonlight the man has never looked more in his element, back in the spotlight he so constantly craves. His grin is wide and crooked, a far cry from his composed, typical television star smile.
Blood stains his nose and lips from where it gushed down previously, and Alastor has to force himself to ignore the silly urge to kneel down and lick it. It repulses him how that was even an urge in the first place. It repulses him how he feels a warmth and a want as he watches this brutal act, but he’s not so quick to stamp it out, not yet while Vincent’s mismatched eyes are entirely focused on another man.
A gurgle leaves Lannister’s throat as he tries to arch, shake Vincent off feebly, as the other man clenches even harder in response, and Alastor feels like madness is descending open him as his face blushes. Blushes!? Something warm stirs in Alastor, and frustration bubbles in him simultaneously as just watching doesn’t scratch the irritating itch.
Madness must definitely be in the air tonight, because wanting the most selfish, arrogant man Alastor knows—which is genuinely saying something—on top of him like this, powerless in Vincent’s steel grip, is a level of stupidity Alastor shouldn’t even be able to think up, let alone fantasize.
Vincent is stupid and disgusting and perverted and it must be infectious, Alastor decides, face still warm as he leans down even closer. Like everything, this is Vincent’s fault. Somehow.
Alastor’s eyes lock onto Vincent’s hands. There’s deep crimson scratch marks all along the back of them, a testament to Lannister’s desperation. Alastor’s hands twitch slightly from where he’s clenched them behind his back, at that thought. Clawing through Vincent’s hands, adrenaline rushing through him…
It’s a good thing Lannister’s death is imminent! Vincent is his, and his alone to touch.
To toy with. Obviously.
Strangled gurgling quietly blends into the ambiance of the forest around them. Leaves rustling, an owl hooting, a life being snuffed out—truly soothing sounds.
A truly fine one-man show in these lonely, dark woods. All to an audience of just Alastor. Well, Lannister technically, but with how his struggles are so pitiful, more thoughtless pawing against Vincent’s hands—Alastor will be free of unwanted eyes soon enough.
Suddenly the noise ceases. Stillness descends as Vincent maintains his hold on the limp man beneath him, before he releases. Vincent clenches and unclenches his hands, wincing as some blood trickles from the scratch marks, trailing teasingly down his forearm.
Alastor takes a deep breath, willing composure back as he beats down the shameful feelings that he will never, ever unpack. He will die and be rotting in the fires of hell before he analyzes any of that.
Vincent’s head turns to face him at the noise, amplified in the quiet, and he startles slightly at how close Alastor has gotten to him. It bothers Alastor more than it should how engrossed Vincent was in another man. Right in front of Alastor too, Vincent truly has no shame.
Before Vincent can process the slight fluster still marring Alastor’s typical unreadable smile, Alastor tuts, hand reaching out to tilt Vincent’s head up by the chin, as he slides his other hand towards Vincent’s face, wiping the blood drying against his upper lip. Alastor brings it to his mouth, taking a tiny lick.
He then crinkles his nose, as he sticks his tongue out playfully in mock disgust.
“Too sweaty. I can’t even enjoy the sweet iron properly”.
Vincent’s mismatched eyes are round, face immediately flushing a bright red as he swallows thickly. And as usual, all because of Alastor, and Alastor alone. As it should.
A beat passes, and Vincent immediately furrows his brow in response.
“I- My blood’s perfectly fine, and that shit is not even sweet—“, he starts, before pausing. His eyes dart down to the dead man he’s still on top of. He suddenly smirks. “How was that, huh Al?”, he says, all too proud.
Alastor ponders for a moment.
“It was alright, I suppose. A bit stale near the end, I’ll be honest”.
Vincent deflates a bit, and he scoffs. “Not much to work with when you strangle a guy. ‘Oh no I’m choking! Oh no I’m not but this handsome, sexy man is on me’— only two scripts I can use here”, he gestures. Alastor rolls his eyes.
“Alright then, Mr. Creative Visionary—run me through what you would’ve done”, Vincent grumbled, no real heat behind it.
Alastor's grin widens as he straightens up, hand to his own chin in false thought, as if he doesn’t already have a dozen or so deaths thought up.
“Ah, that’s easy enough. If I’m just limiting myself to choking, and let’s hold myself back even more and remove knives from the equation, there’s so much to work with. You just have to use what you have around you, my dear”, Alastor starts, beginning a slow pace around Vincent, as he still sits atop the dead man, completely forgotten as the other two men are focused on each other.
“Hands are all good, reliable even, but you can have fun in other ways. You could”—and Alastor kicks aside a thick branch, sending it sliding a few feet—“Slam that down on his trachea, you could smother him with just a hand to cover his nose and mouth, you could shove that stone by your foot down his throat—”, Alastor prattles on and on, even as a small, hidden part of him believes Vincent used the most appealing method.
He pauses, reaching out a hand suddenly to pull Vincent by the tie. Alastor pulls, watching the dark navy cloth tighten a bit around the soft flesh of Vincent’s throat. His own throat bobs quickly. “You could’ve also pulled this, and watch the life drain with just a little pull”. Vincent doesn’t even bother to look annoyed, he just seems enraptured and breathless.
Another pause of silence. Alastor decides to throw him a bone, releasing the tie as he clasps his hands behind his back.
“That said, you did good. A decent performance, he absolutely suffered”, he drawled, not releasing his grip on Vincent’s tie. Vincent does a horrible job at hiding his immediate joy at the praise.
Ever the altruist, Alastor lets him have two seconds to enjoy that before immediately changing the subject.
“We should probably get to disposing of this mess before anyone stumbles upon us. Not that another chase wouldn’t be fun”, Alastor says, nudging Lannister’s head aside with his shoe like a particularly gross piece of trash he found ruining a perfectly nice sidewalk. He grabs Vincent’s forearm, pulling him up to a standing position.
“And you’re a mess, my dear”, Alastor chides, taking Vincent’s hand in his as his fingers gently ghost over the scratches marring the back of his hand. Vincent hisses despite how gentle Alastor is being.
“Bastard was like an annoying cat”, he pouts.
Alastor hums a bit, Vincent’s hand still in his. “Most people scratched by cats have it coming. They don’t like unwanted touch”.
Or like still imagining those same roughed hands overpowering them, suffocating the life out slowly.
Semantics.
Vincent’s eyebrow raises slightly as he seems to begin overthinking, but Alastor moves along. He grabs the corpse from under the arms, lifting it up. He then looks expectantly at Vincent, who scoffs.
“Hey, I did all the work on this kill, you should be the one to carry it back”, Vincent complains, even as he rolls up his sleeves in preparation already.
Alastor’s turn to pout. “But my knee hurts”. And just like that, Vincent’s face shifts to immediate concern.
“Oh shit- Let me carry it back then-“.
“I’m not that fragile Vincent”, Alastor immediately snaps back, feeling that warmth in his chest at Vincent’s worry and rushing to snap the damn thing at the bud.
Vincent narrows his eyes a bit, but kneels down to grab the corpse by the legs, all the while muttering “Indecisive bastard”, that Alastor hears perfectly in the surrounding quiet night.
The two men stumble through the trees, balancing the corpse between them as neither speak to fill the silence. After several minutes, Alastor’s the first to break it.
“I’ll see to your hands once we finish up tonight”. He doesn’t look at Vincent, face turned up ahead to watch out for anything to trip on.
“It’s not that serious, literally just a few scratches-“
“I’m not asking you Vincent”, Alastor says, tone light despite how clearly he’s leaving no room for argument.
“Fine”, Vincent whines, but Alastor can hear the small, soft smile on his face without even needing to turn his head to look. He cringes internally on instinct at the way his heart seems to warm momentarily at the thought of it, but he lets it sit with him all the way back to the car, where they dump the man in the back trunk for later culinary purposes.
—
Later that morning, as Alastor’s injured knee is swollen, whines of pain ringing up all the way along his leg with every movement, Vincent’s carefully bandaged hands gently lifting it up to see the damage from his side of the bed, Alastor lets himself sit with that disgusting, sentimental warmth for a bit longer than he’d ever admit.
Especially as his fingers gently brush over the little bruises dotting Vincent’s neck from the indulgence he allowed himself the previous night.