Archive of Our Own

The glass sweated in Alastor's hand. 

He sat at their usual spot at their favorite bar, sazarac gleaming under the warm amber lights. He lifted it to his lips and drank slowly, savouring the burn as it slid down his throat. The bite of it should have grounded him, steadied him, at least—instead, it only fueled the tight knot of anxiety brewing in his gut. 

Vincent was supposed to be here by now. 

His gaze flicked towards the clock that ticked menacingly in the corner of the room. 

Half an hour ago, actually. 

Being late was an unusual occurrence for Vincent, and not something that suited him. He was many things: dramatic, stubborn, egotistical—but tardy? Never. Their weekly meetings were routine, almost sacred, and Vincent had never missed or been late to even one. Especially not without prior notice.

Alastor was more than aware of Vincent's… infatuation with him. He found it hard to believe that Vincent would miss their get-togethers for any reason that he could prevent. 

So, Alastor just couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. 

He told himself that Vincent was fine, repeating the simple statement like a mantra with every sip he took.

He would be here. He just got stuck in traffic… foot traffic, because neither of them drove. Or they were doing construction on one of the sidewalks—heavens knew that was beyond due. 

He took another sip and glanced around at the bar. It was as busy as usual for a Friday night nearing eleven. Every other barstool was occupied, bartenders busy mixing drinks behind the counter. Televisions flickered in every corner of the bar, radios crackled to life—the usual ambiance Alastor had learned to associate with Vincent's presence.

Alastor took another sip, emptying the glass, placing it down on the counter directly on the condensation ring that had been collecting on the polished marble. 

He sighed. 

Vincent would come. 

Any minute now, the doors would swing open and Vincent would rush through them, breathless and flustered, apologizing that he was late for some perfectly acceptable reason. They would both laugh and go about their evening as planned. 

A minute passed. 

And then another. 

He glanced towards the bar’s doors, which seemed uncharacteristically still. Or maybe he was just overthinking it.  

He ordered a drink for Vincent and another for himself. 

By the time his second drink was finished, the unease in his gut had hardened into something unshakeable and unavoidable. 

He didn’t know what exactly, but something was terribly wrong. 

He paid and left Vincent's untouched glass on the counter like he would be coming for it. 

Alastor’s eyes burned with exhaustion, stomach knotted tight as he walked the familiar route. Past locked storefronts and fancy houses, by darkened windows and streetlights that refused to flicker like the ones he was used to. He clutched his coat tighter around his body to block himself from the cutting wind that rushed through the building alleyways. It didn’t make a noticeable difference. 

By the time Alastor had trekked across town to Vincent's neighborhood, he was certain it was past midnight. His body ached—not only from the walk, but also from the cold that had seemed to seep itself into his bones with each inhale. 

Vincent had better have a damn good reason for all of… this. 

If nothing else, he was grateful that Vincent had insisted on inviting Alastor over more than once so that the route was able to burn itself into memory. He clung to that small mercy now, trying to extinguish any flicker of anger that tried to rise up in him. This was an inconvenience, yes, but a small price to pay to ensure that Vincent was alright. Safe.

Maybe he was simply sleeping off an illness. Perhaps he lost track of time, watching a new television channel. Alastor had to stifle a laugh at the thought—Vincent, curled up with food and drink in hand, eyes wide as he watched the television, apologizing profusely once he realized that Alastor was knocking at his door. 

He sighed, turning down a street.

He hoped that Vincent was at his house. 

If he wasn't? Alastor hadn’t the faintest idea of where Vincent spent his nights. That wasn't something that… acquaintances told each other. Friends? Sure. But Alastor was certain that he had none. He stood on the pillar of truth that there were no friends in the entertainment business, and he never broke his morals without a sound reason. 

He was only worried about Vincent's absence because it disrupted his schedule. 

He didn't particularly care about him— he just wanted to know where he was. 

That's what he told himself and refused to acknowledge the uncomfortable twinge in his chest that suggested otherwise. 

The aforementioned hope sat uneasy in his body as he turned down Vincent's street. Most of the houses were dark, he noticed: curtains drawn tight, lights extinguished for the night. A few porch lights flickered but did little to provide him with any comfort. 

The street was quiet. No one walked. No dogs barked. No tires screeched in the distance. 

His feet moved on their own accord, like they knew that Alastor would never be able to sleep unless he knew Vincent was alright. Maybe they were right. 

Finally, he reached Vincent's house. 

Lights flickered behind the curtains and a faint glow came from underneath his front door.

He was probably home, at least. The lights were a good sign. 

Alastor immediately walked up the empty driveway towards the front door. The wooden porch creaked as he stepped on the panes, sharp and loud in the stillness, but he didn’t quit his pursuit. 

When his feet landed on the worn welcome mat that rested just below his front door, he paused, raised his hand, and knocked. Three sharp, steady knocks.

He waited. 

Nothing. 

After a brief, hesitant pause, he knocked again. 

Again, nothing. 

Silence pressed down against him from all sides—think, uncomfortable, wrong. The house didn't shift, didn't creak, didn't behave in a way that a house should when someone knocked on its door. The door didn’t budge, the curtains didn’t shift. 

Alastor lowered his hand slowly, breath caught in his throat. His gaze flickered to the windows, searching for movement, praying for a silhouette to pass by and obstruct the steady stream of light, anything to prove that Vincent was inside and simply ignoring him. 

That would be a far better turnout than the horrible scenario Alastor was conjuring in his mind. 

What if he was gone—kidnapped? Strangled? Stabbed? Mauled and eaten like Alastor had done to so many victims before? 

A chill crept up his spine that had nothing to do with the cold. His hand curled around the doorknob.

Alastor's fingers tightened around it—

…And it shifted.

He tightened his grip and twisted his wrist, and the door slowly opened. 

He took a deep, shuddering breath. 

“Vincent?” He called, “Are you in there?” 

No response. 

“I-I’m coming in now, alright?” 

He pushed the door open and was met with almost complete silence, save from the soft hum of the television in the corner of the room. The screen flickered black and grey—static, a channel left alone for too long. 

Alastor stepped inside and shut the door behind him, the soft click echoing in the quiet house. 

“Vincent?” He called again. 

The television’s static flickered in lieu of a response. 

Alastor’s eyes swept across the room, taking in the furniture, the scattered books, a chair pushed away from a coffee table. Everything looked normal. Lived in. Far from neat but a healthy step from messy.

It was exactly how it looked when Alastor visited a few weeks ago. 

A cold draft whispered along the floor, remnants from the outside air that he had shut out moments before. He shivered, stuffing his hands in his pockets.

He walked further into the house, walking through the living room and into the kitchen. 

It, too, was nearly empty. There were two pieces of bread laid out on the counter, resting atop a cutting board. The beginnings of dinner, Alastor assumed, or lunch left unfinished. He tensed, a prickle of unease crawling up his spine at the mundane sight. 

He glanced towards the hallway leading off from the kitchen: Vincent’s bedroom and bathroom. 

Alastor's footsteps were cautious as he made his way down the narrow hallway, each creak of the floorboards was loud to his ears that were straining for any sort of noise. The dim light from the living room barely made it down the hallway, but the light in the bathroom was on, the glow slipping underneath the closed door. 

“Are you in there, Vincent?” Alastor asked, halting his footsteps as he listened. 

There was nothing. No flicker of movement. No noise. No response. 

Alastor raised his wrist and curled his fingers around the metal doorknob.

He took a steadying breath before twisting his wrist. 

This time, it was futile. The knob didn’t budge: the door was locked. 

“Vincent?” Alastor called, voice low and cautious, carrying in the small hallway. His gut twisted. He tried the doorknob again, hoping that it was simply stuck. He twisted and tugged, but the door didn’t budge. 

Locked from the inside. 

A flush of unease climbed his neck. His mind raced through explanations—Vincent had locked it by accident. Maybe he was showering, then tripped and fell and was lying dead on the floor.  Maybe he just forgot to unlock it and wasn't in there at all. 

Though Vincent's bedroom door was open and the light was off. Alastor was nearly certain that if Vincent was in his house, he was in the bathroom. 

He took a step backwards, running his hands through his hair. 

He glanced around the hallway, eyes skimming the darkness of it. He traced the edge of the walls, following the doorframes and noticing how the light reflected off the metal door knobs. 

Then, a thought struck him. 

Back when he was younger, when he lived with his parents, they used to warn him about it: there was sometimes a key resting atop the doorframe—just out of reach for younger Alastor, but always there when it was needed. 

He clung to that memory now, praying that his mothers wisdom was right. He took a few unsure steps before stepping up on his toes to reach the edge of the doorframe. His fingers worked, padding around the dusty surface, feeling every inch of the untouched space. 

Then, he found it. A small, cold, metal key. 

He pinched the thing in his fingers, sliding it off the frame and catching it in his other hand. Heart hammering, he brought it towards the small keyhole. 

It entered with little resistance. 

With a click, the lock gave way. He pushed the door open, the harsh light from the bathroom spilled out into the hallway—he had to blink to dispel the temporary blindness. 

As they adjusted, he froze, a sharp gasp caught in his throat. 

Vincent was there. 

Sprawled across on the bathroom floor, back leaning against the tub. Crimson streaked his thighs in uniform gashes, blood pooling onto the white, tiled floor beneath him. 

Vincent's sleep, that night, was pained and dreamless. 

His head throbbed, muscles pulled as tight as bowstrings, breath shallow and uneven. Even in the quiet of the room, everything felt unbearably loud—the whir of the fan, the static from the television in the other room, the heavy rasp of his own laboured breathing. The noise seeped into his subconscious, prodding at what was supposed to resemble a dream and twisting it into a nightmare. 

A living one, he quickly realized. 

It was rare that he woke up refreshed and energetic, but today, as he opened his eyes and squinted against the harsh sunrise that spilled in from his bedroom window, he felt like he hadn’t slept at all. 

His body ached. Eyes burned. Fingers felt tender, the skin tight and irritated. 

He swallowed, wincing as the motion scraped against his dry throat like shards of glass. He shifted under the blankets, trying to drift back under and to fall into sleep again. 

But Vincently immediately realized that it would be an impossibility. 

Something was wrong.

The first thing he noticed was the ache in his thighs—a deep, throbbing burn as he sat and a sharper pulse as he moved. He decided to sit as still as possible. 

Then the memory surged back. 

The bathroom lights. The knife in his trembling grasp. The towel he had set beneath him that quickly filled with blood. The cold press of the floor against him. The warm, painful yet comforting rush as blood spilled from his wounds.  

He remembered going deeper last night, more so than normal. The sight of white flesh, not yet covered by blood, came rushing forwards in a memory that made him wince. Then he remembered the blood leaking out like a broken faucet that he couldn’t turn off. The more he wiped the cuts clean, the more blood seeped out in a relentless flow. 

One after the other. Up and down his right upper thigh before switching to the other. 

He remembered counting upwards of twenty before… 

Wait. 

How did he get here? 

He thrashed, throwing the blanket down towards his ankles in a flurry of movement. He gasped as a sharp stab of pain rushed through his upper legs, but didn’t cease in his movements until his blankets were resting just above his feet. 

His chest was uncovered, the scars on his arms exposed. Legs bare besides his boxers and—

His breath hitched.

His thighs were fucking wrapped. They were covered in thick, white bandages that covered the entirety of both his upper thighs, wrapped in a way that was almost professional.

He knew instantly that it was not his doing. 

Vincent's… aftercare, if it could even be called that, involved soaking a paper towel in cold water before pressing it against his cuts. It served to shock his system, numb the pain, and stop the bleeding. Then, he covered it with as many band-aids that he needed to hide the wounds. It was a fool-proof process that he was proud to say he invented himself—it healed the cuts and was easy enough to do while his hands shook and head was clouded with adrenaline. 

He never thought to wrap them. He never needed to. Hell, he didn't even know that he owned bandages like this. 

So why…? 

Vincent shifted again, letting a low groan escape his throat. 

“You shouldn’t move yet.” 

Vincent froze. Every muscle in his body went rigid. 

The voice hadn’t come from the hallway. Or the television in the other room. Or the radio he kept on his nightstand. 

It came from inside his room. 

From somewhere on his right…

The bed shifted faintly with the creak of springs, and Vincent felt the mattress dip with the redistribution of weight. The blankets rustled near his feet as the figure moved. 

Vincent spared a glance and immediately regretted it. 

It was Alastor. 

His top half was draped atop his mattress near his feet, head resting in the crook of his elbow. He sat on a chair Vincent guessed he pulled in from the kitchen, posture languid, stretched across it like a cat on a perch. He looked up at Vincent with tired eyes, and Vincent regretted that he wasn't able to admire him properly before panic shot through him.

Instantly, he jerked, flinching as he scrambled to pull the blankets back up to cover his legs, over his thighs and the bandages.

“You don’t have to hide,” Alastor said, voice low and calm, as if coaxing a spooked animal. “I saw you last night.” 

Vincent froze, the words sinking in like ice. ”Y-You what?” His voice cracked, sharp and incredulous, “you saw? Why did—How did you even get in here?” 

Alastor didn’t flinch. “You were late for our meeting. I was worried.” He said evenly, like discussing the weather, “You left your front door unlocked and I am, admittedly, a curious creature.” 

“You shouldn't have done that,” Vincent said, voice lacking the bite he wanted it to have. He leaned back back against his headboard, letting the cool, hard surface ground him. 

Vincent sighed. Swallowed. Then sputtered in a moment of realization, “Wait—today isn't Friday?" 

Vincent spun his head to glance at the calendar on the far side of his wall. Futile, as he wasn’t wearing his glasses. Everything merged together in an indistinguishable blur.

Alastor shook his head, “Today is Saturday.” 

“Oh.” Vincent said, voice coming out smaller than he intended, “...sorry.” 

He instinctively tried to draw his knees to his chest, a familiar, comforting posture of retreat—but the moment he shifted, a sharp, burning pain tore through him. He sucked in a breath, freezing mid-movement before letting his legs fall again to their original state, sighing in defeat.

“Sorry…?” Alastor prompted. 

“Sorry for missing our meeting.” Vincent spoke like it was the most obvious thing in the world. 

Alastor scoffed, "You're not in any position to apologize, considering—”

He cut himself off, jaw tightening, his free hand guesting towards Vincent’s thighs. 

Vincent watched as Alastor's gaze drifted down towards the bandages, and then up and away, focusing on the sheet beneath his fingertips.

Vincent had never seen the man known for his eloquence so speechless. 

Considering what you did to yourself, freak, is what Vincent knew Alastor was going to say. 

His stomach lurched. 

Vincent turned his head, looking out the window, welcoming the sharp burn of the morning sun. Shame and embarrassment rose hot in him and he needed a distraction before he ended up fucking crying in front of Alastor too. 

Though, it wasn’t as if he could sink any lower than last night. 

Alastor followed the motion of Vincent's gaze towards the window, finally sitting up straight in his chair, planting his feet on the carpet below. Neither of them said nothing for a long moment, the silence filled by the sound of birds chirping outside. 

Finally, Alastor exhaled—slow, controlled, like he was deliberately choosing his words in a way to not shatter something fragile. “Considering the… state I found you in.” 

Vincent scoffed. “This isn’t anything special. It’s not like this is the first time.” 

Then he added, quieter, nodding down at his arms with a voice that was nearly inaudible, “Obviously.”

The word tasted bitter in his mouth.

He couldn’t stop his mind from spiraling. He could only imagine how… weak he looked last night. Vulnerable. Exposed. Unconscious and lying with blood seeping from his thighs. 

Vincent was sure that Alastor saw every damn scar on his body. What was he thinking—not wearing a shirt or pants or even fucking shorts? Alastor probably saw every inch of skin. Sneered at how hideous his body looked. Did whatever he wanted while he laid there unconscious.

Vincent's heart dropped. 

Did Alastor…? 

His mind flashed, unbidden, to Valentino. All those times where Vincent had fought, clinging onto consciousness while he… 

No. 

Alastor was not Valentino. He wasn’t someone that would do that to people. 

Well, that's what he hoped, anyways. 

Though he was unable to stop the tremor in his hands despite his own reassurance.

Vincent swallowed before shifting. This time, he forced his legs to cooperate, fighting the pain as he brought them up to his chest. He wrapped his arms around his knees as tightly as he could manage, nails nearly digging into his skin.

Silence stretched, again. Birds chirped outside. Static blared from the living room, spilling into his bedroom. Cicadas sang in the distance. Everything felt too loud. Too… present. 

Vincent was becoming increasingly uncomfortable, especially under Alastor's expecting gaze. 

“W-where did you even get these bandages from, anyways.” Vincent blurted, desperate to fill the quiet.

“They were underneath the sink, stuffed in the back.” Alastor explained, “I was looking for something smaller. Apologies, but these wraps were the only thing I could find.” 

“Oh.” Vincent said, letting out a small, humourless laugh, “I guess I used all the smaller ones.” 

The implication of his statement hung heavy in the room. 

Alastor shifted, leaning back in the chair before crossing one leg over the other, resting his hands in his lap. His gaze lingered on Vincent, expression unreadable, eyes half-lidded.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Alastor asked. 

Vincent immediately shook his head, burying it in between his knees, curling inward like he could disappear. 

And, of course, the silence returned heavier and more damning than before. 

Vincent quickly snapped under the pressure. 

“Fuck,” Vincent exclaimed, flicking his fingers in a restless, irritated gesture. “This is stupid. You can go now. I’m fine.” 

“Hm,” Alastor hummed, "Unfortunately for you, I have nothing to attend to today.”

“Oh, bullshit.” Vincent huffed out a disbelieving laugh, lifting his head just enough to glance sideways at him. “The biggest radio host in all of New Orleans has no plans on a Saturday?” Vincent laughed, “I find that pretty fucking hard to believe.” 

“Best believe it, pal!” Alastor exclaimed, leaning back on the mattress with his head resting on his palm. “You’ve earned my full, undivided attention today.” 

Vincent couldn't help the way his heart fluttered at those words. 

He would have killed for Alastor to say those words to him in literally any other context. It was all he had ever wanted—Alastor's attention. Praise. Acknowledgement.

But not like this. 

This was far, far from ideal. 

“Speak.” Alastor prompted, turning towards Vincent. 

Vincent stiffened. His shoulders locked as if the words had physically struck him. It wasn’t a command and yet Vincent felt that he needed to obey. 

His throat tightened. 

For a moment, he could only manage to stare at the far wall, jaw working silently while his nails pressed harsh crescents into his forearms. His chest felt tight, conflicted—he hated that he wanted to tell Alastor everything despite knowing that he would think of him as lesser after knowing the truth. 

Because all he had ever wanted was for Alastor to see him as an equal. 

Despite knowing this, and maybe because of the adrenaline still rushing through his veins or his lack of sleep, his lips parted and he knew he had no choice but to speak. 

“I don't—" Vincent started, then stopped, breath hitching. His voice came out sharper than he wanted, words scraping against the dryness of his throat, “What do you even want me to say?” 

To his side, the mattress shifted just slightly. Alastor didn’t move closer, not from what he could see in his peripheral vision, but he felt his gaze on him—hot and unwavering. “Whatever you want.” 

“I-I don't know. I just—” Vincent clicked his teeth. Sighed sharply. “I feel fucking stupid. Pathetic. Like I’m disgusting to look at, and…” He whispered under his breath. “…a nuisance to be around.”

His fingers tightened around the blanket that he pulled up over his knees. “Everybody is so fake in this industry. It's exhausting. All the smiles. All the attention—none of it is real. No one cares.” 

He sighed, breath shaky as he tried to steady the tremor in his voice. “And the one person who does care—” He cut off his words with a swallow as he pressed his forehead against his knees. 

The words caught, lodged somewhere between his throat and his tongue. He couldn't bring himself to say the rest because if he said what Valentino did to him, if he spoke it aloud and told someone else exactly what was happening, that would make it real. 

And that wasn’t a reality he could so quickly accept. 

So, he settled on something ambiguous, “he hurts me.”  

Despite the sharp crack in his voice when he spoke the second word, he believed he got the message across. He just hoped that Alastor understood enough not to question it. 

Alastor nodded, then said, “Why do you think no one cares?” 

Vincent's shoulders stiffened. 

“You’re projected on screens in more than half the country.” Alastor started, “People quite literally flock to you. You get recognized in shops, streets—photographed and praised by nearly everyone. You make the room go quiet in awe when you step into it, yet you're sitting here telling me no one cares about you?”

Vincent lifted his head just enough to glare at him, eyes glassy. “They don't care about me.” He snapped, sharper than he meant it to. “They care about the actor they see projected onto the screens. The attractive, confident man that knows he’s on top of the world.” 

He exhaled sharply, “My body is the only thing that people notice. The only thing people want me for.” 

He sniffed, dragging a hand over his eyes. “If they knew about this,” he scoffed, gesturing to his body— the bandages, the scars, the entire mess, “any of this, they would forget about me. Move on to the next pretty thing to look at.” 

His grip on the blanket tightened. “And Val—” his voice cracked, barely making it past his throat, “he pretends to care and calls it love.”  

Vincent wanted to stop talking there, shut his mouth and never speak again—yet things rarely went how Vincent wanted them to. Under Alastor’s steady, patient gaze, he couldn’t help but want to tell him everything, even knowing that it would only end with his scorn. 

“He—fuck.”  Vincent started, rubbing his eyes, “It–” he clenched his jaw, forcing the words out, “It hurts so bad.”  

He stopped and smiled weakly, a sharp, barking laugh escaping from his throat, “you would think it gets easier over time.” He shook his head, fingers digging into his eyebrows. His voice dropped to a whisper, “It never does. Never.” 

He swallowed, throat clicking.

“And I feel like a fucking monster for— for wanting it. Needing it.” His breath hitched, “But at least when he’s giving that attention, I know someone actually wants me.” 

Alastor shifted, placing his hands on his knees. 

The simple, innocent action hit Vincent like a jolt of electricity. Instinct—sharp, brutal, immediate—snapped into place before he could even think about what he was doing. The moment the image of Valentino flickered in his mind, he was incapable of fighting against his panic even though he knew Val wasn’t here and it was simply Alastor adjusting his position.

He scrambled back, the pain in his thighs only a distant thought, moving across the mattress in a floppy and uncoordinated movement. The mattress shifted under his weight as he moved towards the far edge of the bed. He resumed his earlier position, bringing the blankets up to his knees pulling his legs in towards his chest like a shield. 

He swallowed, trying to calm his panicked breathing. 

Alastor’s expression shifted, small but unmistakable. The easy composure drained from his face, replaced by something sharper and colder. 

Vincent immediately looked away, wincing. He read Alastor's expression as anger directed towards him. What else could it be? Why else would Alastor look at him with such… hatred? Scorn? 

Vincent’s mind spun. 

He ruined everything this time, he could feel it in his bones. He should have kept his mouth shut when the thought hit him—should have swallowed the words, swallowed the truth, buried it under everything and acted like everything was fine because it was fine. 

He should have never done any of this. 

Why was he so stupid? Why was he so damn dense? Why did he ever think that it was Thursday instead of Friday? Him and his fucking schedules. If he was actually competent and looked at his calendar this would have never happened. 

Why did he cut himself more than he knew he could handle? Was he seriously that pathetic? 

He should have just died from blood loss like he was supposed to. 

Vincent stared at the wall, jaw clenched so tight it trembled. Shame flushed his face, heat crawling up his neck as the reality of what he had said and done settled between them. 

Then, Alastor spoke, voice light and clear, cutting through the chaos in his head. “May I sit closer?” He paused, watching as Vincent flinched. He held his palms up, facing Vincent as he spoke. I’m not going to touch you.” 

His gaze immediately flicked towards Alastor, glancing at the door—calculating, desperate, trying to plan a way to escape. His hands shook where they curled around his legs, fingers digging into the blanket. 

And yet, despite his apprehension, he found himself nodding.

Because a small, broken part of him wanted that comfort. 

Alastor slowly moved, carefully standing up and walking towards the bed, movements measured and unhurried. Vincent watched, his widened eyes unwavering, as Alastor stopped near the headboard and slid onto the bed next to him. The bed was wide enough that they could sit side by side without touching, a healthy space rested between them and Vincent was more than grateful for it.

They sat in the stillness for a moment, listening as the birds chirped outside. 

Vincent curled in on himself, hands wrapped around his knees, breaths rapid and hurried. He didn’t look Alastor in the eye yet he never stopped looking in his general direction, keeping an eye on him so that he could move if Alastor came any closer. 

Alastor only sat with his legs stretched out on top of the blankets. He didn't move. Didn’t look at him. Steadied his breaths so that the noise or motion wouldn't startle Vincent.

Slowly, Vincent adjusted to the close contact.

After a few minutes, his breathing slowed, his heavy gasps settling into something normal. His arms loosened their death grip around his knees. He lifted his head from his hands and rested it on top of his knees, eyes tracing the patterns of the blanket. 

The quiet between them was still there, but it morphed into something bearable, almost comfortable. 

“I think more people care about you than you think.” Alastor said, staring at the far wall. 

Vincent scoffed, “And I think you don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.” 

Alastor’s fingers absentmindedly traced the blanket that rested near his legs, making random shapes and patterns in a way that was almost hypnotizing to Vincent. 

That trance didn’t last for long, however. 

“Hm,” Alastor started, "Perhaps you're right. No one cares about you.”

Fear shot through Vincent. “I-”

“Why do you think I am here then?” Alastor said, cutting Vincent off. 

“What—I don't know?” Vincent laughed, a short, incredulous sound, “because you broke in and are refusing to leave?” 

“Seriously, Vincent.” Alastor scolded, and Vincent tensed at his tone.

Why was Alastor here? Why did Alastor even care to bandage him up when he could have just left him alone to die? Walked out and pretended that he didn’t see any of it?

In his current state, the thought was too difficult to ponder. None of it made sense to him. 

“I don't know.” He shrugged, burying his head in his hands again. 

Alastor sighed, resting his hands in his lap. When he spoke, his voice was quieter and steadier, almost saccharine.

“I care about you.”

The words hit like a slap. He flinched like it was. 

Immediately, his brain supplied moments where Valentino had said that exact thing in the exact same way while strangling him or hitting him or raping him. His entire body shook at the memory.

His shoulders drew inwards, jaw locking as he pulled his legs even tighter together. He stared at his own knuckles, refusing to even look at or acknowledge Alastor in fear that doing so would make the past repeat itself. 

Alastor noticed immediately—the way Vincent recoiled, the shift in his breathing, the way his body trembled with such intensity that the mattress vibrated. His expression softened though his voice remained steady. 

“I want to say that and have you believe that I want nothing else from you.” 

Alastor stopped, pausing for a moment as he glanced at Vincent. 

“Not your body. Not your compliance. Not even your trust.” 

They made eye contact for a fleeting moment before Vincent deflected, looking down at Alastor's fingers as they tapped a steady rhythm in his lap. 

Alastor took it as a cue to continue. “I’ll admit, I didn't realize it until recently.” Alastor laughed, “Last night, to be precise. And yet, when I say I… care, I mean it.” 

He swallowed, eyes flicking towards the door before continuing, “When your tardiness became apparent, I became… uneasy. Not annoyed or irritated, simply worried. My mind conjured every grotesque scenario. I feared, quite honestly, that I would find you dead somewhere and would have to report your untimely demise on my broadcast.” 

Alastor’s voice dropped lower, almost as if he didn’t want to say the words. “And when I found you lying unconscious… in a pool of your own blood.” His hand twitched slightly in idle motion, “I realized that my unease had been a generous warning. A ‘wake-up call’, if you will. Because losing you, even just that short moment where I thought you were really gone, scared me. It was… terrifying, Vincent, to imagine a world without you in it.”   

Vincent felt—well, there wasn’t even a word for it. 

His heart pounded in his chest. Hands gripped the blanket, trembling for reasons other than anxiety for the first time that night. There was something else there, too. Something he hadn’t felt before. It made him feel small, in a way— like he was outstretched and laid bare in front of Alastor like an offering to an omnipotent God.

“I…” Vincent started, running his hands through his hair. “I wasn’t trying to kill myself.” 

His voice came out weak and he cleared his throat, words tapering off in a whisper. “It… wasn’t supposed to get that bad.” 

“I know,” Alastor said, “That’s what makes you so… remarkable. Admirable.” 

“Admirable?” Vincent couldn't help but scoff, “Shut the fuck up.” 

Alastor's lips curved in a small, knowing smile. “I’m being serious. You endure. You survive. You face things that would break a normal person… and yet, you remain. That is worth noticing. Praiseworthy, even.” 

Vincent’s chest tightened. His exhale faltered, replaced by a sharp inhale. His fingers dug into the blanket at his knees, the warmth of his own shame creeping into his chest. 

Alastor continued, low and reverent, “You are worth far more than your pretty face, you know.”

Vincent lifted his head, staring at Alastor with his jaw slack and mouth open because what the fuck did Alastor just say to him?

Pretty face? 

 His heartbeat hammered in his chest, a wild rhythm he couldn't control. 

“You are much more than those carefully curated smiles and perfected scripts the world obsesses over. Those doltish fans of yours have no idea what they're missing if that's all they see.” 

He shifted, only a little bit, twisting his hips so that he was angled slightly closer towards Alastor, craving his praise like a moth to a flame.

“I suppose your looks aren't half bad, either.” Alastor continued, voice slipping into that calm, teasing cadence he always carried. “Though I much prefer your unbreakable ambition. Your resilience. And I’ll admit, I’m quite fond of your company. You never fail to be entertaining, that's for certain!"  

Vincent's stomach dropped as heat rushed through his body. 

He decided that he was in a dream. That's all it was. 

Alastor, the blood, his panic—everything was just a cruel extension of a nightmare that he needed to wake up from before he actually combusted. 

He blinked rapidly and shook his head, trying to force his mind to wake up. 

Alastor only huffed out a laugh. 

Alastor's gaze didn’t waver. His sharp, unrelenting stare pinned him, attention pressing down in a way that made him feel safe yet undeniably exposed. 

Nothing at all like Valentino's hungry, lustful stare that had been forced upon him so many times before.

Vincent's heart pounded wildly and he felt heat rise in his chest, spreading across his face in a blush that felt like a wildfire. He shifted, trying to maneuver his body so he was facing directly away from Alastor so that he couldn’t see just to what extent his words affected him. 

Unfortunately, he didn’t move fast enough. 

“Oh?” Alastor said, glancing down at the obvious strain in his boxers before meeting his eyes. “Do you enjoy being praised?” 

Vincent’s ears burned. “S-Shut up,” he muttered, looking out the window, unable and unwilling to meet Alastor's pestering gaze.

“So,” Alastor said, voice steady and deliberate, “Just to make sure I’m understanding correctly—” He paused and smiled before continuing. “You like me telling you that you’re a good person. That you are kinder, braver, and more resilient than you give yourself credit for. That you are worthy of care and deserving of praise even when you have nothing to give in return.” 

“I-” Vincent stuttered, trying to force his pounding heart into submission. “Dont say that.” He shook his head, cheeks heating. “Dont say things like that when you don’t obviously mean them.” 

He turned his head, muttering, “…not in the way I want you to, at least.” 

Alastor tilted his head, eyes steady on him. “And why, pray tell, would I not be truthful?” 

“Well—” Vincent sputtered, "You're a radio host. Spinning lies and stretching truths is quite literally your job. If anyone knows how to talk fancy and manipulate someone into trusting them, it's you.” 

“Do you see me holding a microphone?” 

Vincent rolled his eyes. Shook his head.  “Still…” 

He trailed off, pondering his next words. 

It was far too good to be true. He was nearly certain this whole… thing was some elaborate scheme to manipulate him—gain leverage and bend Vincent to Alastor's will. Alastor was being excessively nice to him and praising him because he had some ulterior motive: he knew that for a fact. 

That was exactly what Valentino had done to him and although Vincent may be naive, he wasn’t so much of a fool to fall for the same trick twice. 

And yet… a smaller, secluded part of him wanted to believe Alastor. There was a fracture in his chest, tiny and raw, that splintered every time he glanced at Alastor. He looked too… open. Hopeful. Trusting. 

His eyes reflected a glint that he had never seen before, almost like he was confessing and he was praying that Vincent would reciprocate. 

God, he really had lost too much blood if that’s what he was thinking. Hell would have to freeze over before Alastor confessed liking anyone as a friend or otherwise.

Especially Vincent. 

Though his heart fluttered despite how impossible it seemed. 

He shifted slightly, wincing as his noticeable problem rubbed against his stinging thighs. 

He drew in a shaky breath as he willed the sensation to vanish. It was just his body responding, reacting to thoughts of Valentino and to memories that, consensual or otherwise, aroused his body. 

That's all this was… a reaction.

He dismissed the thought that it was because of Alastor's praise almost immediately as if popped into his head because that was fucking ridiclous, pointedly ignoreing the fact that the timing was too perfect to be coincidental.

“Still…?” Alastor asked, his languid voice shooting through his thoughts like an arrow.

His teasing tone did not help the situation. 

“I don't know.” Vincent said, resting his forehead on his knees, squeezing his eyes shut. “I… I can’t clearly think right now.” 

That was the truth— not just because of his arousal. 

His head spun with everything that had happened: all the blood the night before, the raw ache in his thighs, the fog of dread that greeted him when he awoke… Alastor. Alastor, the untouchable, apathetic radio host was here. He knew the truth, he saw everything, he understood and supported him without prying. 

It was all too much for a sleep-deprived, mildly exsanguinated Vincent to handle.

“Would it help if I… touched you?” 

Alastor said it so quietly, like he was unsure himself if those were the right words to say. Vincent didn’t flinch—not outwardly, at least, but heart did flutter and seize in his chest at both implications of the statement. 

Because was Alastor really asking, or was it simply a prelude to what he was about to do, with or without Vincent's consent? 

“What do you mean?” Vincent spat defensively, voice sharper than he intended, cracking at the edges.

He kept his forehead pressed against his knees, tilting his head just enough for him to see Alastor.  

Alastor met him evenly, bowing his head to meet Vincent's gaze. His expression was calm, voice smooth when he spoke, “Whatever you’ll allow it to.” 

Vincent's chest tightened. 

The words were simple but impossibly heavy, laden with unspoken meaning. 

Alastor was giving him control. Every inch of it. He would only do what Vincent allowed—nothing more, nothing less. He cared about what Vincent wanted, not just a false pretense of interest like what he was used to, but truly, actually cared. 

His breath hitched.

Vincent's fingers tightened against his knees, nails digging into the soft fabric of the blanket. He could feel the heat of his own hesitation, the weight of Alastor's gaze, the sharp pulse of longing in his chest. 

He wanted to recoil. Hide. Fight. 

But the thought of Alastor waiting—patient, silent, giving him the chance to think about it and decide without pushing the matter—made him hesitate. 

There was a strange, almost intoxicating power about it, having this sort of control. For once, he could decide what he wanted instead of being forced.  

Alastor was allowing him free reign. The ability to do whatever he wanted without questioning anything. 

The more he thought about it, imagining Alastor's hands on him—touching his shoulders, running through his hair, caressing his body with a warmth that didn’t wound—he found that despite his wariness, he did, in fact, want Alastor's touch. 

He felt the pull of desire, longing, and something else he couldn't quite name. Something that lodged in his chest and made it hard to breathe.

And suddenly, every pleasurable thought curdled into something sour. 

Because how could he allow anyone to touch him without the shadow of Valentino creeping into his mind. How could anyone actually care about him enough to want to touch him? Why would anyone want him without expecting anything in return?

Vincent exhaled, a soft noise that he hardly even registered before shrugging, as if that simple gesture could explain the turmoil in his chest. He didn’t speak or give Alastor the satisfaction of an audible answer. 

In response, Alastor slowly shifted, pulling his knees up to his chest to mirror Vincent's pose. He rested his head in the crook of his elbow, face turned towards Vincent, eyes fixed on him with a quiet intensity that made Vincent shiver. 

Vincent was almost hypnotized by his warm, brown eyes. 

For a long moment, they simply looked at each other, the space between them thick and electric, Vincent's heartbeat pounding in his ears. 

And then, Alastor asked, voice smooth and deliberate. “Can I kiss you, then?” 

The words were soft, almost mundane in tone, spoken so calmly like it didn't just completely shatter  Vincent's entire reality. His head jerked up from his knees, eyes wide, pulse hammering in his temples. 

“I—What?”

Vincent felt heat rush throughout his entire body, face ablaze, stomach knotting. 

“If I can’t touch you… would a kiss suffice? Just lips on lips, nothing more.” 

He felt the urge to hide from Alastor but confusion and shock overrode any instinct, holding him firmly in place, gawking at Alastor like an idiot.

“Not if you don’t want to, of course.” Alastor said, “It is entirely your decision.”

A fragile flicker of hope ignited in Vincent's chest only to be immediately extinguished as his mind caught up and the memories of mistrust came clawing back. 

Of course. 

Alastor only wanted his body. 

Why was he so stupid he didn’t see that until now? 

“No. Not if you're just going to take advantage of me.” Vincent hissed, voice trembling as he buried his head in his knees again. 

Alastor didn’t flinch. He stayed still. Patient. “That was not my intention.” 

“Bullshit.” 

Vincent heard Alastor swallow hard before speaking, “I will never do anything to you that I am not given explicit consent for. Not now. Not ever. Please, trust me on that—if nothing else.” 

Vincent's body shivered at those words. Not from the chilly bedroom air that was starting to nip at his naked chest, but from the vulnerability in his tone. He sounded… almost sincere. Exposed in a way that was foreign to his ears. 

Vincent wanted, more than anything, to believe that he was being honest. 

His hands clenched and unclenched the blanket, unsure if he was trembling from fear, desire, or some ridiculous mix of both. 

Maybe it was hope?

He didn’t know nor care to ponder it.

After a long pause, he dared to peek up, gaze tentatively flicking towards Alastor's lips before meeting his eyes.

Alastor spoke again, “If I told you that I really, truthfully, do care about you, and that I want nothing but to help you without gaining anything in return—would you let me?” 

Vincent swallowed, heat flooding his face as his words sank it. His stomach knotted even tighter as his mind wrestled between pure disbelief and years-long yearning. 

“We can stop immediately if you are uncomfortable. I just… want what’s best for you.”  

He knew that he should resist. Should call him out, accuse him of some trick or manipulation—anything to prevent himself from getting hurt even more. He knew that this would only end in pain: there was no other choice, no way for him to have a happy ending. 

But even as the thought crossed his mind and the pain from his past struck his chest in warning, he knew he was powerless. 

Because Alastor, the man he had wanted more than anything for years, was offering himself to him. Promising to care for him without wanting anything else. Praising him without any stipulations.

Asking to kiss him.

And how could he deny such simplicity?

Perhaps he was a fool, after all. 

Slowly, almost hesitantly, Vincent nodded, a whisper barely escaping his lips in confirmation.

Alastor's smile immediately softened. He moved closer towards Vincent, slowly closing the space between them until he was sitting nearly an inch from Vincent, deliberately leaving a gap. 

Vincent's fingers tightened, holding onto the blanket on his knees like a lifeline. 

“Are you certain you want this?” Alastor asked, glancing down at Vincent's death grip that shook due to his intensity. 

Vincent swallowed hard, a shaky exhale escaping before he forced a nod. “I...I think so.” 

“Alright, then.” Alastor whispered before leaning in, tangling his fingers in the blankets below as to prove he would not overstep. 

Vincent held his breath as Alastor moved closer, inch by inch, before finally closing the distance between them. 

The second their lips met, a quiet, startled gasp escaped him. 

His body jerked, instinctually, but his mind buzzed with such a fierce longing it scared him. He immediately leaned into the kiss, powerless to do anything else. 

Alastor's lips were soft and warm—warmer than he had expected, like sunshine in the afternoon. Up close, Vincent could feel the steady rhythm of Alastor's breath against his own, hear the faint hitch in it as they pressed together. There was the subtle taste of something bittersweet, like smoke and the earthy cologne that always clung to Alastor. 

It was good. 

He wanted nothing more than to stay forever in that moment—the soft press of Alastor's lips, careful, unhurried, unmistakably reverent against his own. It wasn’t forceful or demanding, just… present. A light, airy feeling that Vincent craved more of almost immediately. 

Alastor remained patient through it all. His movements were slow and cautious, prepared to withdraw at the slightest sign of discomfort from Vincent. He gave him no such reason. 

When Alastor finally pulled away, Vincent was flushed and breathless. 

He had been kissed before—by Valentino, people he dated, romantic scenes with girls that he had acted out—but none of those moments, even the theatrically enhanced ones, didn't come remotely close to this. Those kisses had been hollow in sincerity, trained into something perfect, forced into submission. 

But this? 

All those exaggerated stories and overblown rumors he had once scoffed at, about how kisses felt like sparks and one simple moment was lifechanging—he finally realized that they weren't hyperbolized at all. 

Vincent sat, stunned into silence as Alastor settled back on his haunches, neatly folding his hands in his lap. 

His mind was mush; all former thoughts abandoned besides pure want. Each breath made his chest heave, heart pounding a crazed rhythm in his chest. His fingers stayed curled around the blanket, now trembling for reasons far removed from fear. 

His voice was quiet, wavering, when he spoke, “Can you…. do that again?" he asked, lifting his eyes to meet Alastors. 

For a brief heartbeat, Alastor said nothing. 

Then, he laced his hands with the blankets and leaned in closer. 

Vincent met him halfway. 

Their lips met again and Vincent had to bite his tongue to stifle a moan. 

Alastor remained hesitant, each motion gentle and reverent. Vincent was nearly the complete opposite, kissing him back with an intensity that bordered on pathetic. 

The world narrowed into that moment—Alastor’s soft lips, his racing heart, the soft sound of breaths. 

After a lifetime of being denied the pleasure of being kissed or wanted, he clung to the sensation as if it might be ripped away at any moment. Warmth flooded him from head to toe, dizzying and addicting. It was pure bliss. Heaven on earth. Impossibly real and painfully sacred.

He never, ever wanted it to stop. 

Vincent's hands twitched, fingers curling tighter around his knees. They trembled, desperate for another thing to hold on to, something anchoring and secure.

This was far too good to be true and Vincent didn’t want to ruin it by touching the man that he knew destroyed lives for even standing too close. Even being this close to Alastor felt thrillingly dangerous, and he didn’t dare push his luck even though it was clear Vincent’s longing was somewhat reciprocated. 

Before they could betray him by reaching for Alastor, he stuffed them under his thighs, trapping them there. 

In turn, his legs fell, splaying flat against the bed. 

Vincent didn’t notice nor particularly care. 

Alastor deepened the kiss and Vincent instantly matched his intensity.

When they finally parted, Vincent had no idea how much time had passed. His lungs burned by being deprived of oxygen for so long but the sting was a welcome sensation compared to the chaos in his head.

Alastor had fucking kissed him. 

Him. 

Vincent leaned back against the headboard, lips upturned in a smile. As he panted, taking in one breath after the other in an attempt to fill his desperate lungs, his face burned, lips felt swollen, and felt like he looked a complete mess.

But one thing he was certain of: he wanted more. 

Alastor's presence and touch was more than just warm and inviting, it was addicting. A feeling that he was sure he would crave for as long as he lived, and probably in whatever afterlife awaited him, too. It was intoxicating—even just that brief touch of their lips. 

It was comforting. Familiar. Intimate. 

Nothing at all like Valentino's calloused, cold touch, his chapped lips or demanding tongue.

He needed more. 

He ran a hand through his hair as he tried to gather his thoughts, steadying his breathing so that he appeared somewhat normal and not at all like the touch-starved lunatic he was discovering himself to be. He inhaled slowly, deeply, then finally turned and looked at Alastor. 

And any coherent thought that he formed instantly abandoned him. 

Alastor was just… breathtaking (literally). He laid back against the headboard, posture relaxed in a way that was somehow both unguarded yet deliberate, like he was trying to show just how much he wanted it without overwhelming Vincent. 

Or, maybe Vincent was just projecting.  

That was probably it. 

Regardless, Vincent couldn't help but admire him.

Alastor’s clothes were slightly askew, his usually immaculate hair frizzed where he had slept on it, strands curling out of place. His eyes were shut as he panted, still trying to gather his breath. The simple sight of him, gentle and so unlike the untouchable radio host, was almost domestic in its nature. 

Then, Vincent noticed his hands. 

They were still bunched up in the blankets, fingers gripping onto them like he didn’t know what to do with them, curled in restraint.

“You can touch me,” Vincent said, voice small, “if you want.” 

Alastor's head lolled to the side, eyes locking on his. “Is that what you want—for me to touch you?” 

“W-Well,” Vincent sputtered, shifting nervously where he sat. “I know that you don’t like touching people, so don’t—I don’t want to make you uncomfortable–”

“Vincent,” Alastor said, cutting through the jumble of Vincent’s words, “If you want me to touch you… then I will. This is about you—your wants, not mine.”

Vincent muttered, his throat tight, eyes flicking back towards the window, “... I guess.” 

Alastor's gaze sharpened, eyes flicking across his body, “Where?”

Vincent froze, exhaling sharply. 

His first thought was anywhere, please just touch me; because he was just a bit too egotistical to blurt that out he decided on simply, "wherever you want.” 

“Vincent.” Alastor chided, a faint edge to his voice, “specifics?” 

Vincent's heart caught in his throat, “I don’t care.” 

Alastor sighed, short and clipped, before smoothing out his irritation into something calmer. "Anywhere off limits, then?” 

He shrugged. 

Alastor shot him a look. 

He began to shake his head, the word no forming on his tongue. Then, he paused mid-motion as a memory flashed in his head, unbidden. 

Valentino. 

Hands on his throat. The crushing pressure. The sharp, suffocating sting. The panic during that lingered long after Valentino had let go, a ghost that never quite left him alone.

His stomach knotted, and he, again, brought his knees back up towards his chest. 

Alastor tilted his head, waiting patiently.

It took Vincent a moment to speak, but when he did, it came out as a trembling whisper, “...my neck.” He shuddered, swallowing hard. “Nape is fine. Kissing… that’s fine too, just no—uh, hands.” 

Alastor nodded, patient gaze softening, as if he understood without needing to prod. He didn’t move immediately, just gave Vincent time to breathe and prepare without overwhelming him. 

“Understood,” He finally said, turning towards Vincent, drawing one knee towards his chest. “Anywhere else?”

Vincent shook his head, “I don't think so…” 

Alastor studied him for a moment longer, waiting to see if he would say or remember anything more. His expression was serious, not stern or mocking, but intent, as if committing every word he spoke and shifting expression into memory. 

“Very well,” Alastor said at last, “If I do anything you don’t like, please acknowledge it promptly.”

Vincent nodded. 

Alastor shifted slowly and deliberately so that his movements could be predicted and watched by Vincent. He didn’t crowd him, staying a respectful distance away as he turned and faced him. He settled on the bed next to him, just inches away, close enough that Vincent could feel the warmth radiating from his skin.

Alastor leaned in only slightly, just enough for his breath to brush the side of Vincent's face. 

Vincent tensed on instinct, then eased when nothing came. 

A beat passed, and Vincent's shoulders loosened. Another, and his fingers slipped out from beneath his thighs. He opened his mouth to ask or beg Alastor to do anything, but the words never had the chance to leave his lips. 

Alastor pressed a soft, gentle kiss on Vincent's lips. 

It was not nearly as intense nor long-lasting as the one prior, but to Vincent the impact was immediate and exactly the same. By the time Alastor pulled away, Vincent was left wanting more: breathless, flushed, and aching. 

Alastor moved again. 

He pressed a kiss to the edge of Vincent's lips. To his cheek. To the sharp line of his jaw. He kissed all along Vincent's face with slow, deliberate care, as if every inch of him deserved reverence rather than haste. Vincent wanted to scoff and laugh, but he couldn’t— the feeling was too overwhelming, warm, soft, fuzzy in his chest. 

This feeling was completely, utterly foreign to him. It wasn’t bad, just… different. It was a lot for a man who thought harsh words and wounding touches were love. 

And then, Alastor's hands moved. 

One hand came up, resting on the space behind his ear, near his hairline. The other found purchase on Vincent's shoulder, thumb rubbing small circles on the soft skin near his chest. He tensed at the contact, sitting nearly as stiff as a board. 

“You are so brave for letting me do this.” Alastor said softly, pressing a slow kiss to Vincent's cheek. His voice was steady, almost in awe of him. “I can only imagine how difficult this is.” 

He leaned in again, brushing his lips against Vincent's. The pressure was quick, almost fleeting.

“You are doing so well.”

He kissed his lips again, this time for longer, letting the heavy pressure settle—but just as Vincent began to lean into the feeling, Alastor pulled away. 

Vincent found himself choking down a protest. 

Alastor quickly moved on, pressing a gentle line of kisses down his jawline and towards his neck. 

His breath stuttered, caught in his throat. 

Vincent gripped his thighs, fingers digging into the bandages, unsure what to do with himself. He moved unconsciously—fingers pressing downwards, nails nearly penetrating the thick covering. Before he even realized exactly what he was doing, two steady hands closed around his wrists. 

A sharp exhale escaped his lips as Alastor pulled his hands upwards and turned his arms so that his palms faced upwards. His fingers trembled, an involuntary, nervous twitch that Alastor pretended not to notice. 

Vincent watched as Alastor lowered his gaze towards his forearms. 

But he didn’t flinch. Didn’t recoil. 

His eyes flickered across the scars that caught on the early morning light. Alastor didn’t say anything, no mocking words or crude remarks: if anything, his expression only softened. 

Alastor's fingers twitched ever-so-slightly, just an automatic movement that Alastor hardly recognized—but to Vincent, it felt suffocating. 

Unthinking, he jerked his wrists backwards, elbows hitting the headboard behind him. His face felt like it was on fire, every nerve in his body alight under the attention. Alastor loosened his grip just enough to allow Vincent autonomy, but still kept them in his grasp. 

Vincent turned his head, unable to meet his gaze even though he knew Alastor was waiting for an explanation. He felt his gaze burning holes in the side of his head, and his fingers still trembled in front of him. 

“Sorry,” he whispered.

“Do you want me to keep going?” Alastor asked. His grip was hardly there on his wrists, just a featherlight touch that could easily pass as his imagination. 

He took a deep, grounding breath before responding, “Y-Yeah.” 

“Good,” Alastor said, pleased. “Is it alright if I move?” 

Vincent huffed a laugh the best he could, meeting Alastor's gaze. “You don't need my permission to move. You’re not like—my fucking captive, or anything.” 

“Are you certain?”

"Pretty damn sure, yeah.” 

“In that case,” Alastor started, raising a brow. “Lay your legs flat on the bed, please.” 

Vincent didn’t hesitate. He obeyed immediately, sighing through his nose as his thigh muscles tensed. It took a moment for him to settle in comfortably—resting the blanket on his knees, placing his hands near his sides on the bed—but once he did, Alastor moved. 

And Vincent regretted ever giving Alastor permission. 

In one fluid motion, Alastor hoisted one leg over him, turning his body so that he was facing him, settling in the space on Vincent's thighs just near his knees. He didn’t sit or press his weight down at all. 

He simply hovered there, impossibly near. Vincent could feel the warmth from his body but he was distant enough that nothing ever connected. 

Once Alastor settled, he paused, placing his hands on the bed on either side of Vincent's hips. Every movement was carefully controlled and deliberate enough not to spook Vincent. 

“Is this alright?” Alastor asked, voice softer due to their closer proximity. 

Vincent hesitated, shifting under him, hyper-aware of everything: how exposed he felt, how Alastor was still clothed above him while he was almost nearly bare, how Alastor looked at him like he was worth everything.

He felt so vulnerable.

He found that he didn’t entirely hate it.

They were close, so close that if Vincent leaned forward even a bit they would touch. His fingers grabbed onto the blankets beneath him, fingers curling in the soft fabric. 

He swallowed, averting his gaze as a flush crawled up his cheeks. “...yeah.” 

“Good.” Alastor said. “You are doing excellent.” 

Vincent started pointedly out the window as Alastor moved, grabbing his hands and holding them in the space between them.

“Can I touch your hands?” Alastor asked. 

Vincent hesitated a moment before nodding, the movement more of a jerk than anything graceful.

Alastor's grip was careful and reverent as he ghosted his fingers across his knuckles, like he was handling something fragile rather than human. He gathered Vincent's hands in his own, thumbs softly brushing tender, rhythmic circles against the tops of them. 

“You have remarkable hands,” Alastor murmured. 

Vincent quickly snapped his head back towards Alastor, opening his mouth to spit out some defensive retort. 

Only to freeze—

Alastor lifted one of his hands and pressed a soft kiss to his knuckles. 

“W-What?” Vincent breathed, face burning. 

He repeated the motion with his other one, unhurried and deliberate.

“Why are you doing that?” Vincent asked, voice thinner than intended. 

Alastor's eyes never left his, “Do you want me to stop?”

A pause; then, barely audible, “...no.” 

Alastor smiled, releasing his grip on his hands only to wrap them around his forearms. He leaned down, bringing his arms to his lips, kissing a soft line down them. He moved slowly, as though he were committing every inch of skin to memory rather than trying to overwhelm Vincent. His hands stayed firm but gentle around his arms, anchoring him in place. 

And when Alastor kissed his scars? Vincent stilled completely, breath held taut in his lungs.

“You dont—have to do that.” Vincent uttered, wincing. He flinched, trying to pull his arm back, but Alastor held it in place. His grip was firm and reassuring, but loose enough for Vincent to pull away if he really wanted to. 

He didn’t.

Alastor paused, tilting his head upwards to meet Vincent's gaze. 

Vincent flushed immediately as they made eye contact. 

“I’m not doing it out of obligation.” Alastor said, thumbs tracing careful circles along the length of Vincent's forearms, as though soothing out the tension in them. Vincent felt Alastor brush over the raised scars, but Alastor didn’t even react. 

Vincent swallowed, gaze dropping. 

He hadn’t realized how much he craved this mundanity. To have someone see him, touch him and feel his scars, and act like it was normal. Treat him like a human being. See him as someone worthy of life. 

His eyes burned as he blinked away tears. 

“I want to do this for you.” Alastor said, pressing small, open-mouthed kisses along Vincent's forearm. “I want you to realize that you are worth far more than you believe.”

His hands traveled up the length of his arms and down again, each touch raising goosebumps in its wake. He felt feverish—unbeareably hot and flushed under his gaze, yet cold wherever he was touched. It was maddening, being touched so carefully. So… sacredly. He had never experienced such raw intimacy in his life. 

Alastor pressed a kiss to the crook of his elbow. “You are more valuable than your body.” 

Vincent's breath hitched. 

“I want you to feel comfortable in your own skin.” 

Alastor shifted, leaning closer. He placed one hand on the headboard behind Vincent for support. The other slowly moved to rest on Vincent's hip, thumb rubbing soft, deliberate lines on his hip bone. 

Heat rushed through his entire body. 

His mouth captured the space on Vincent's chest, that soft, fleshy part just near his armpit. 

Vincent intended to exhale but what left his lips was a quiet, barely audible whine. 

“So pretty…” Alastor murmured in between each featherlight kiss. 

Vincent stiffened at the praise, muscles tightening involuntarily beneath Alastor's attention. He never asked for him to stop; Alastor never pulled away.  

He took his time, giving every inch of skin the attention it deserved while Vincent sat, quickly turning into a mushy, trembling mess. 

He kissed his shoulders. 

“You have such strong shoulders.” Alastor murmured against his skin, “Broad. Capable.”

Then, he trailed down to his chest, lips brushing over it lightly.

“So warm. Perfect.” 

His mouth followed the slope of Vincent's collarbone, slow and reverent. 

“Beautiful…” He smiled against Vincent's skin, “Every curve. Every inch of skin.”

Alastor never trailed too close to his neck, deliberately staying a healthy distance away. Vincent sat there, dazed and flushed, as Alastor whispered sweet nothings as he worked. 

By the time Alastor had pulled away, capturing his lips in a desperate, passionate kiss, Vincent was breathless and desperate for more. 

He shifted where he sat, chest rising and falling far too quickly for his feigned nonchalance. Every exhale was laced with a whimper and his skin crawled, begging for more of Alastor's touch. 

His problem from earlier hadn’t eased, still strained and nearly painful in his boxers. Vincent knew it was more than noticeable, especially with Alastor so close, nearly straddling him.

Instinctually, he shifted, trying to lessen the strain. 

The instant he moved his hips, trying to reposition himself into something more comfortable, Alastor's gaze flicked downwards for only a moment. His expression shifted—eyebrows shot up, eyes widened before narrowing into something sharper. 

They made eye contact for a brief, fleeting second before Vincent looked away, blushing something fierce. His cheeks and ears burned, entire body scorching hot. 

Alastor laughed softly—warm and teasing but far from mocking, “Answer me honestly, this time.”

He moved, slowly taking his hand off the headboard before resting it on Vincent's other hip, which twitched under his touch the moment he made contact. 

Vincent stubbornly kept his gaze away, refusing to look at Alastor because he was sure he would combust if he did.

“Are you enjoying this?” Alastor asked, voice low and deep near his ear.

Vincent sucked in a breath. 

There was a beat of hesitation before Vincent answered, not even pretending to lie. “...yes.” 

Alastor hummed in satisfaction, sliding his hands from Vincent’s hips up towards his stomach. His fingers moved slowly, running up the length of his abdomen and then back down—his touch featherlight, almost teasing. 

Alastor spoke again, “Can you look at me?” 

Vincent obeyed albeit reluctantly, meeting Alastor’s gaze before drifting downwards to watch as Alastor's fingers worked. Vincent exhaled slowly as he adjusted to Alastor's touch. His muscles loosened, his fingers unclenched from where they were still tangled in the blankets, his jaw relaxed. 

“Good,” Alastor murmured indistinctly, almost as an afterthought, running his fingers up his abdomen.

Vincent immediately tensed back up.

Alastor let out a gentle exhale that Vincent could have just as easily mistaken for a laugh. 

“Do you enjoy…” He started, tilting his head and meeting his eyes, “…being praised?”

Vincent's throat tightened. 

He couldn't exactly deny such a statement as the proof sat tangible between them; a nod, he decided, would be satisfactory. 

Alastor watched the nod, slow and careful, noticing every twitch and unspoken word that Vincent conveyed as if it were a language of his own. He returned the nod, giving Vincent a steady one of his own. 

Then, his fingers slid upwards towards Vincent's chest, following the soft contours of his abdominals like he was touching something precious rather than merely skin. His hands moved higher, fingertips grazing against Vincent’s nipples. 

The reaction was immediate—Vincent sucked in a sharp breath, his body jolting before he could stop himself. His shoulders snapped backwards, back arching, hands gripping onto the sheets beneath him. 

Alastor stilled at once. 

He raised a brow, waiting for Vincent to give him any further directions. 

A moment passed in silence. Vincent sat there, chest heaving, gaze yet again directed towards the window. 

Then, Alastor spoke, “Was that… satisfactory?” 

“Yes!” Vincent blurted far too quickly. “Y-Yeah. Sorry. It's just—it’s never… felt like that before. I-In a good way, I mean!” 

Alastor's expression softened at once, the sharp edge of his curiosity melting into something gentler. His hands moved again, brushing against the soft nubs of his chest. Each motion was slow and deliberate as he caressed his chest. 

It felt like it went on forever. 

Alastor rubbed them, pinched them between his fingers, kissed and sucked on them. He ran his fingers along the long line of his pectorals and laughed as Vincent shivered.

Vincent was never the type to look a gift horse in its mouth, but his desperation was becoming almost unbearable. 

Vincent's breath stuttered, his composure unraveling under his touch. “F-fuck,” he said, voice trembling. “Quit teasing me.” 

As if to punctuate his words, his hips jerked upwards, desperate for some sort of friction. 

“Hmm,” Alastor hummed, releasing his tongue from one nipple while rolling the other between his fingers, “A needy little thing, aren’t you.” 

Vincent tried to scoff, but it only came out as a soft exhale tinged with a whine. 

Vincent swallowed, “...please.” He said, resting his head against the headboard, looking up at the ceiling. His entire body trembled, chest rising and falling rapidly.

“Please, what?” Alastor asked, leaning backwards and removing his hands. Vincent almost whimpered at the loss of stimulation. Or maybe he did—he wasn't sure what was real anymore.

“Want me to touch you—” Alastor murmured, planting a kiss on Vincent's lips, “is that it?” 

Vincent nodded eagerly, not trusting words to come out coherently. 

“Words, darling.” Alastor scolded, voice sharp and demanding. 

His tone sent a wave of heat rushing throughout Vincent's body. He shifted again, fingers digging into the sheets. 

Vincent let a soft breath out from his nose. “Yes—touch me. That's what I want. Please.” 

Alastor smiled, meeting his gaze with a glint in his eye that made Vincent shiver head to toe. Slowly, Alastor moved, one hand settling on Vincent's hip while the other hovered just above where he wanted it, warm and teasing without touching. 

They sat still for a moment, the space silent and charged between them. Vincent's entire body felt like static— nerves buzzing, electric with anticipation. His heart pounded in his chest, each heartbeat so fierce it was audible in his head. 

Alastor leaned closer, pressing a kiss to Vincent's lips. 

Vincent met him halfway. 

The moment their lips made contact, Alastor pressed down with his hand, touching Vincent's cock through his boxers. It was simply a touch—a brief, fleeting thing—but it made Vincent jerk like he had been electrocuted. 

He gasped, back arching, hips uselessly thrusting upwards instinctively, desperate for more of the sensation.

Alastor deepened the kiss against Vincent, pressing against him with pressure that was deliberately teasing. Vincent felt Alastor smile against his lips as he moved his hand again, rubbing that spot with a steady, maddening pressure. 

A guttural, desperate moan ripped from Vincent's throat. 

“F-Fuck,” Vincent whined, gripping onto the sheets below him. Alastor's hand that rested on his hip started moving, thumb brushing against the soft v that lined his torso. 

Vincent found himself lost in the sensation. 

He had no idea how long he had been there—Alastors lips pressed against his, his dizzying touch, his sweet words murmured when they had to take a breath—but when Alastor finally pulled away, he felt tears forming on the corners of his eyes. 

This was all just too good to be true. 

He had never been touched like this before. He had never been wanted or praised this sincerely or intimately in his entire life 

He had never wanted to be touched so badly. 

With each passing moment, Vincent's legs trembled, muscles in his thighs jerking and twitching at every little movement. His cock was painfully hard now, leaking, forming a wet patch on the fabric he was sure Alastor both felt and saw. Soft, nearly inaudible whimpers and whines left his lips from deep in his throat that surprised him each time.

Normally, during sex, he grunted and groaned. Occasionally moaned. 

He had never been so… needy. So vocal.

Hell, he never thought he was capable of making such lewd noises.

Vincent shifted where he sat, hips twisting as a soft, almost desperate moan left his lips.

And still, Alastor still hadn’t touched him properly. 

Alastor was back kissing Vincent's face—not that he would ever complain, he just wished Alastor would direct his attention to more… pleasurable places.  

“Alastor…” Vincent said, panting. 

He kissed the spot between his eyebrows.

“Hm?” 

He kissed the tip of his nose.

“Please.” Vincent’s voice cracked, “I need you to touch me. Please. I can’t stand this.”

Alastor pressed one last kiss to his lips, a slow, teasing press, before pulling away just enough to meet his eyes. 

Vincent’s heart fluttered at the sight. 

He looked just as equally flustered, cheeks flushed, eyes clouded with pleasure. The moment stretched, charged, both of them caught between anticipation and restraint. 

“You don’t have to beg,” Alastor said, bringing one hand up to cup his cheek. The warmth was grounding and Vincent leaned into the touch instinctively. 

“I’ve been watching,” He murmured, voice low, letting Vincent digest the weight of it. “Every shiver, every tremble, every unspoken plea… I’ve felt them all.”

Vincent’s chest heaved, fingers trembling, heat coiling tight in his stomach.

“I don’t want you to feel like you’re obligated to do anything.” Alastor added, “to want anything.” His thumb brushed lightly across Vincent's cheekbone. “This can stop this at any time. I won’t pressure you into doing anything—do you understand?” 

“I-I know." Vincent blurted, shaking his head, “I don't want you to stop. Please… don’t.” 

Alastor’s smile was soft. Approving. He nodded slowly, eyes flicking down across Vincent's body before meeting his gaze again. “Alright.” He whispered, “Now, are you sure you want me to touch you?” 

Vincent's breath caught, pulse thundering in his ears. He felt his body flush again, cheeks burning under Alastor's unwavering gaze. He swallowed hard. 

He nodded, first, deciding not to trust his own voice, but quickly spoke when he realized that wasn't enough of an answer for Alastor, “...yes.”  

Alastor arched a brow. 

“Yes… please,”  Vincent simpered. 

Alastor hummed in approval before finally, finally, reaching down and slipping his hands down past his underwear. Vincent felt the warm press of his touch as he slid his fingers down, giving every inch of skin the same attention and care as he did before. 

He moved at an agonizingly slow pace, tracing along the soft skin of his pubic region. 

Vincent’s breaths came much faster now, every inhale rushed and each exhale audible. His hips jerked, thighs tensing in an unspoken plea that Alastor didn’t pay any mind to, continuing his languid ministrations while Vincent lost his sanity with each passing moment.

Alastor used his thumbs to brush along each side of his inner thighs, just above where the bandages started. His touch was gentle, not exactly soft but far from punishing, making sure that Vincent felt it all. He ran his fingers up and down, pressing against each inch of the tender skin there in a way that was both intimate and teasing. 

Vincent was sure that Alastor saw the very prominent tent in his boxers—it wasn’t exactly subtle, at this point. The outline of it was visible through the thin fabric, flushed and angry, leaving a wet spot just near his tip. 

Then, he brought his hands up, smoothing the skin near his hip bone. 

“Alastor…” Vincent keened, looking up from where Alastor's hands rested between his thighs to meet his gaze. His eyes felt heavy and hot, his cheeks burned with humiliation, and he was painfully aware of how his lower lip trembled despite his efforts to steady himself. 

Alastor released a quiet breath. “You are just pathetic ,” he murmured— teasing, not hostile in the slightest. 

A thin, desperate sound slipped from Vincent. 

“Alright, alright.” Alastor added, smiling. 

Vincent's breath caught in his throat as one of Alastor’s hands moved, sliding slower, lower along his body. The moment it settled and made contact on his cock. a light, gentle touch, a broken, breathless sound tore from him—somewhere between a groan and a sob. 

Alastor moved his hand up and down, spreading Vincent's pre-cum along the length of it. 

Vincent had been touched before, by himself and by others. He had jerked off and been fucked more times than he could count—

It had never felt like this. 

Each press of Alastor's fingertips against his cock was heavely—that was the only word to describe it. Warm. Steady. Rhythmic. His touch was electric and Vincent was more sensitive than he had ever been, making every feeling amplify tenfold. 

Alastor slowly drew his fingers upwards, circled the head and slit before coming back down with just enough pressure to make him gasp. 

His hips jerked upwards instinctively, chasing the sensation. 

“Good boy…” Alastor muttered. 

Vincent let out a sharp exhale, nearing a scoff. 

Alastor shot him a look but left it at that, repeating the same languid motion along his cock as before. 

Alastor did it again 

And again. 

Vincent lost count of how many times Alastor had done it before his entire body began to tremble.

He tried to steady his breathing, attempting to stop the tremor that wracked through his body, but it was futile as Alastor pressed a kiss to his lips paired with a particularly rough thrust of his hand. 

“You are taking it so well,” Alastor said with his usual teasing cadence. 

Vincent groaned. 

His cock was leaking freely now, the small wet spot in his underwear quickly turning into something unmanageable. His entire body shook with barely-contained pleasure. Moans spilled freely, rushing from his parted, flushed lips like a broken record. His fingers gripped the sheets below him, trembling and white-knuckled. 

Alastor kept to that slow, steady pace—unshaken by neither Vincent's desperate pleas or needy noises. 

It was maddening. Intoxicating. 

Vincent felt suspended in it, like he was floating above reality. Frustration coiled tight in his chest, every nerve in him screaming, begging for more, yet beneath it shimmered a dizzying warmth that made every thought scatter besides Alastor, Alastor, Alastor.

His skin seemed to crawl, alive, hypersensitive and trembling with something he couldn’t quite name, a certain unstoppable desperation that consumed everything.

Alastor kissed him again, deep and passionate, while the hand not torturing his cock came to rest just above the nape of his neck, tangled in his hair. Alastor pulled on his hair and Vincent jolted.

“Ah—!” Vincent choked out, baring his teeth in a grimace as his head was pulled backwards. 

“You sound so pretty,” Alastor murmured, increasing the speed of his hand ever-so-slightly. His lips traced a slow, teasing path along Vincent’s jaw and the sensitive skin near his ear, sucking and biting as he went. 

Vincent gasped as Alastor bit down particularly hard on his earlobe, his hips bucking beneath him. His muscles felt pulled impossibly tight, chest pulled taut as his lungs could barely keep up with the rush of sensation flooding through him.  

His thoughts splintered into a blur—part desperation, part pleasure, part disbelief that this was really happening. Every nerve felt like static, skin sensitive, breath coming in sharp, uneven gasps.

For a moment he couldn’t do anything but exist in that overwhelm, suspended entirely in the pull of pure desire. 

Then he felt it—a low, aching pull deep in his gut, impossible to ignore. 

The feeling built like a rising tide, slow at first and then relentless, coiling tighter with each breath. Vincent's grip tightened on the sheets, knuckles pale, as his whole body seemed to tremble with the pressure of staying present, not succumbing to the pleasure. 

It became too much far too quickly. 

“Alastor...” Vincent blubbered, “Please, can I— please, God. I need to come—please.” 

“Hm,” he hummed, shifting so that he could press another kiss just behind his ear. Vincent could hear every breath that escaped Alastor's mouth, every vibration as he spoke.

Then, Alastor shifted, placing a quick kiss against his trembling lips. 

“Lets see,” He started, pulling on Vincent's hair again, baring more of his neck. His breath stuttered before Alastor kissed him again, deeper, this time. “Have you been a good boy?” 

“W-What?” Vincent scoffed the best he could as he drowned in pleasure. Alastor didn’t change his pace, still moving at that slow, tortuous rhythm. 

“You heard me,” Alastor whispered near his ear. “Say it.”

Vincent shivered, swallowing as his mind scrambled for control over his quickly surrendering body. The question lingered between them, charged and intimate, wrapping around them as tightly as Alastor's grip on his hair. 

Heat crept up his neck and onto his cheeks, the heels of his feet digging uselessly into the sheets as he fought the urge to rut into Alastor's hand, straining towards the touch he so desperately craved.

Alastor looked down at him, patient and expectant: Vincent averted his gaze. 

He wanted to answer; God did he want to. He wanted to respond as much as he wanted the release that would come with it. He knew that once he said those words, that simple little phrase, he would finally be able to finish, expelling the tight coil of pleasure that thrashed painfully inside of him.

And still… he froze. 

Because how was he supposed to call himself good? 

How was Alastor expecting him to say something good about himself when less than twelve hours ago he mutilated his body so horrendously he passed out from blood loss? When the smell and taste of iron on his tongue had hardly cooled into a memory?

Only hours earlier he’d been convinced he was broken—some destructive, worthless thing that deserved to bleed and rot because that was the only thing he could do correctly. A parasite that clung to ruinous attention because it was the only thing that actually made him feel wanted. A… monster that craved touch despite how much it hurt because any amount of pain was better than being ignored.

He squeezed his eyes shut to stop tears from falling.

The room felt suspended in that moment; breath, touch, and the unspoken pull between them hanging in the air, waiting for everything to come crashing down. 

The conflict wrestled inside of him, shame against desire, and for one terrible moment all he could do was tremble beneath that weight, caught between what he had always wanted and what he believed about himself. 

“I…I can't," Vincent eventually whispered, voice cracking. 

Vincent flinched, attempting to jerk his head away from Alastor's gentle touch on his hair. “I-I can’t do it. I can’t—I can’t say it.”

A choked sob ripped from his throat as he shook his head, almost violently, chest heaving. His body trembled now for reasons instead of pleasure. “I’m s-sorry, I just can’t. Please. Please don’t make me.” 

Alastor froze, his hand finally stilling between Vincent's thighs. His eyes widened as Vincent swallowed hard, looking away as a lone tear slipped from his eye. Alastor didn’t say anything for a moment, simply letting Vincent tremble and gasp beneath him. 

Then, slowly, the hand that had gripped onto Vincent's hair loosened, the pressure fading until the touch was barely existent. Alastor’s fingers lingered there, threading through and curling gently around the stands that had begun to stick with sweat, a grounding and painfully comforting gesture. 

Vincent shivered, leaning into the touch.

His entire body throbbed with hatred and desire, the two opposing forces battling in his veins for acknowledgement.

He wanted, more than anything, for Alastor to continue—help him finish and grant him the release he was craving. His cock throbbed, heart pounding in his chest. His mind spun with such an intense longing he didn’t know how to deal with it. 

Though a darker, stronger part of him knew that he shouldn’t be allowed such a release. 

Why should he? 

Why did he deserve anything after what he’s wanted? After what he’s done to himself?

His throat tightened as Alastor simply stared at him, unflinching, unjudging. 

Then, proving his suspicions, Alastor pulled his hands out of his boxers, wiping the lingering residue on his pants. Vincent whimpered despite knowing that he deserved it. His heart broke in his chest and he had to fight another tear from spilling. 

“It's alright,” Alastor said, sliding a finger under his chin and gently tilting his head back towards him, forcing their eyes to meet. Vincent had no choice but to stare into Alastor's warm, amber eyes. To his surprise, he only found understanding and patience in them—no hatred or scorn like he was expecting. 

“Don’t fret,” Alastor murmured, voice gentle. “I’ll give you what you want.” 

His heart fluttered despite himself. 

Alastor paused, bringing his other hand around so that he could cup Vincent's cheeks with both of them. His thumbs brushed over Vincent's jaw and cheeks, slow and reverent, before continuing. “But first,” He whispered, voice low and deliberate, “let me try to make you believe you deserve it.” 

Vincent's breath caught. 

Alastor pressed a long, almost tortuous kiss to Vincent’s lips. It was long enough for Vincent's self-doubt to falter—not entirely, of course, but it lessened, replaced quickly by unavoidable want. 

One of Vincent's hands unfurled from the sheets, drifting almost unconsciously to Alastor's thigh, gripping onto it. Alastor winced at the contact, but didn’t pull away. 

His other hand curled tightly into the sheets, his body responding even as his mind took time to process the development. The sensation of being seen and acknowledged, touched because he wanted it without having to give anything in return was almost too much for him to comprehend. 

Alastor took his time. 

His mouth pressed against every inch of skin, just like he did earlier, touching and praising every part. He moved with deliberate care, watching Vincent as he did, making sure he was comfortable and every touch was wanted. 

Vincenets chest rose and fell unevenly, thoughts scattered, senses ablaze with every careful caress. 

The feeling mixed with the desire coiling in his stomach, and it wasn’t long until he returned to the same whining, desperate mess as before. 

This time, Alastor didn’t make Vincent beg for his touch, his fingers slipping underneath his waistband before returning to his still-hard cock. 

Vincent let out a lewd moan, throwing his head back against the headboard while his eyes fluttered. His hips bucked at the touch, chasing Alastor's rhythm which was much more generous than earlier. It was faster, harder but still measured and deliberate, unwavering in its intimacy. 

His hand curled around his cock like it was made for it, each thrust ripping through Vincent like a whirlwind. 

His breath came in uneven pulls, chest rising and falling as heat pooled through him, every nerve singing. The world narrowed to nothing but Alastor: the weight of him, the warmth of him, the steady pressure of his touch. 

Vincent looked downwards, where Alastor's hand disappeared beneath his underwear, watching the movements through the fabric. His gaze lingered there for a moment too long, body and mind overwhelmed, mesmerised more by the sensation than anything he could actually see. Heat flushed through him again, dizzying and all consuming, and the room felt too small. Too hot.

Alastor increased the speed and pressure, and Vincent keened at the feeling. 

His gut tightened again, that familiar feeling returned with much more force than earlier. Whether it was his denied orgasm, or the way Alastor was touching him while whispering praises in his ear, it was hard to say. All he knew was that the feeling rose in him like a cresting wave moments from crashing. 

His breath hitched, body trembling as the moment built, every nerve stretched thin. Everything felt like it was too much—Alastors touch, his words, the heat of his body against his. 

“Al-” Vincent cried, cut off with a harsher thrust of Alastor's hand. He whined, body arching before his mind realized it, chasing the sensation.

“Do you want to finish?” Alastor asked, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek. 

Vincent nodded quickly, breath trembling, too scared that if he spoke his release would be denied from him again. 

Alastor nodded once, met his gaze, then sped up his hand. Vincent cried out at the feeling, inhaling sharply, trying to fill his lungs with the air they so desperately needed. His entire body tensed, muscles burning from the overexertion. His fingers tightened their grip so much so the sheets nearly ripped off the bed beneath him. 

His body moved without conscious thought—head slamming back against the headboard with a sharp crack, eyes fluttering before squeezing shut, back arching, hips thrusting. 

And then, as Alastor brought his other hand to his nipple, pinched it and kissed him at the same time—the feeling ripped through Vincent all at once. 

He finished, his come spurting out of him in thick, white ropes, thankfully contained by his boxers. A broken, wavering sound slipped from Vincent's lips as his entire body trembled from the intensity. Alastor helped him through the entire thing, pace never faltering until Vincent was breathless and sprawled out beneath him.

Alastor pulled his hand out of Vincent's underwear and wiped it on his pants, just as before. Then, he brushed through Vincent's hair, smoothing it back from his damp forehead. 

Vincent's eyes fluttered open after a few seconds, dazed but glistening in a way they hadn’t all night. His fingers twitched against the sheets, absentmindedly smoothing the fabric that he had pulled up. His ears finally stopped ringing after a few moments. 

Alastor met his gaze, expression soft. There was no teasing in his eyes, only quiet attentiveness and a certain admiration he had never seen before.

His breathing gradually steadied, shoulders sinking as the last of the tension faded from his body. For a moment, he simply laid there—caught between post-orgasmic bliss and the rough weight of reality seeping into the edge of his thoughts. 

As much as he wanted to lay there forever under Alastor, he preferred to be in a comfortable position, not sprawled out on his bed, limbs splayed awkwardly.  

Vincent shifted, trying to push himself upright. His breath caught at the movement, the ache in his thighs returning now that his adrenaline rush had faded. He managed to prop himself up on his elbows before looking up at Alastor, giving him a shaky smile. 

Their eyes only met briefly before Alastor's gaze dropped downwards. 

“Oh,” He murmured quietly, bringing one of his hands to rest against Vincent's thigh.

Following his look, Vincent glanced down as well. 

He froze, panic shooting through him at the sight. 

Blood had begun to soak through the bandages wrapped around his cuts, staining them a vivid red. It wasn’t a torrent, but it was enough that something had to be done about it before it dropped and stained his sheets.

“S-sorry.” Vincent muttered, voice small.

“Sorry for…?” Alastor asked, but didn’t let Vincent respond. His brow creased. “I should apologize. I should have been gentler— and I should have wrapped them properly.”

Vincent clicked his teeth, shame flushing across his face, “Well, this whole thing is my fault—”

“Hush,” Alastor started, giving his hand a light, reassuring pat before maneuvering himself off of Vincent. “Stay here while I gather what we need. I’ll be right back.” 

Vincent nodded lazily as Alastor slid off the bed and padded towards the bathroom. 

His eyes felt impossibly heavy, every blink a challenge in itself. 

He let himself shift, sinking into the pillows and blankets beneath him. His body still hummed with everything that had happened. The warmth of Alastor's touch still lingered on his skin and on the bed, grounding him even in his haze of exhaustion. 

His breathing slowed naturally, chest rising and falling in shallow, rhythmic pulls. Thoughts drifted between unfinished fragments of this morning—flashes of Alastor's touch, the gentle weight of his hand, the quiet care in his brown eyes. 

Within moments, the tension in his body gave way entirely. His body relaxed against the mattress and sleep claimed him before Alastor could return. 

The last thought he had before losing consciousness entirely was that he didn't need to worry about cleaning himself; Alastor would take care of him.