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Vincent Whittman was a complex, multifaceted individual. Not that anyone would know.
By day, he was television’s favorite pastor. Not that he had much competition, being one of the first of his kind in said profession. When the sun was out, and the cameras were rolling, he was all smiles and soft touches and even softer prayers. His audience-- the live ones in the stands and the ones all watching from home-- felt they knew him personally. Intimately. Just from the way he acted.
But they didn’t see him, after the lights went out.
They didn’t see the nights he spent at bars, drinking until he needed someone to lean on just to get him home. They didn’t see him going all in at the casino just around the corner from the studio, and winning back more than half of what he spent on charity endorsements that morning.
And they especially didn’t see him in shady motel rooms, with another man’s hands on his waist and their lips on his neck, mere hours after preaching about the sin that was homosexuality.
He’d drawn a firm line between his public life and his private one. He considered the two sides of himself entirely separate. It wasn’t that he was a hypocrite. Well, it was-- but that wasn’t a word he would use for himself. He was a man of God, through and through. He knew that was certain, even when he looked in the mirror and saw hickies adorning the space around the cross that always rested against his sternum. Because when he looked in his own mis-matched eyes, he saw nothing but soul. And he truly believed that God understood his motives. Sometimes, he needed a release for the perfectly polished persona he’d cultivated, and nothing within the rules of his craft could quite cut it. Sure, that meant he may not be practicing what he preached on occasion, but he was comforted by the idea that He would make an exception, when it came to His favorite son.
From the day he was born, Vincent had known his life's purpose, and he’d known it was this. He truly believed that, even if he hadn’t been raised into religion, this profession would’ve called to him anyway. And it wasn’t just because of the fame, and the money, and the opportunity. Those were just perks. But for as long as he could recall, he could feel a pull, like a string wrapped around his very soul. Calling him towards the Heavens. All he had to do was prove he could feel it. Now, in his adulthood, following a life full of preaching and prayer and communion once a month, he considered himself a shoe-in. When he got to Heaven, he expected them to lay out a red carpet, and stage a parade just to welcome him past the pearly gates. Maybe he’d even surpassed a record, of some kind, with his influence. Maybe he’d get an award for Most Souls Saved. Those kinds of prideful, narcissistic fantasies were below the average person, but he found himself deserving. At some point, you just had to be realistic. And the truth was that he was above the sorry sinners he cooed false promises at when the lights were on. If they didn’t like it, they could take it up with their God. He was sure He’d take his side.
And what sorry souls they were indeed. It was almost pathetic. Most of the time, he was delighted by the presence of his audience. He enjoyed their smiles and their tears all the same, because whatever reaction it was, it was coming from him. He may be nothing more than a vessel, or a conduit, for the divine forces they were trying to appeal to, but that still meant he was the one they were crawling on their knees in front of. He was the one who’s coat they were touching, when they wanted to be healed. He was the one taking their hands, and answering their prayers. Lesser men may develop a bit of a complex, from receiving this kind of attention. But he didn’t. All his self-righteousness was his birthright. He deserved it. At least, of course, he’d tell himself such. Whether or not other people agreed was a separate matter entirely.
He knew what he was. It would take a lot to shake his belief.
Vincent said a warm goodbye and god-bless-you to the final crewmate who left the building, and he watched the man slink out and onto the dimly-lit sidewalk. He waited, and watched, until he turned the corner and slipped out of his sight, before he shut the door and locked it behind him.
The smile melted off his face. The only phrase he could muster up in his mind were the words fucking finally.
With a heavy, exhausted sigh, he turned on his heels, pressing his back into the door that disconnected him from the outside world. He allowed his posture to slump, and felt his joints and muscles creak uncomfortably; a bitter reminder that he was only human. When his glasses began to slip down his nose, he tilted his head back again, until he was looking up at the ceiling. His eyes traced the wires connecting the light fixtures. He watched as one flickered, and his expression screwed up in annoyance. Had it been doing that all day? Usually his crew was more diligent about noticing a thing like that. He considered any sort of distraction on set to be an annoyance, but a technical one was worse, as it could raise issues when filming. He made a mental note to remind his assistant to do something about it tomorrow.
After staring at the light long enough to burn the shape into his retinas, he blinked, and lolled his head forwards again, allowing his glasses to fall into his fingers so he could rub the bridge of his nose. Blindly, he stepped forwards, further onto his set, navigating the camera-stands and loose wires with practiced-- almost guided-- precision. It wasn’t until he reached the edge of the stage that he opened his eyes once more, and surveyed his little corner of paradise.
His stage was set to look as if they’d taken a slice out of a church. From the camera’s perspective, that’s all it was; to his viewers watching at home, they might presume that he was, in fact, in a church, and not in what was essentially a cardboard cut-out of one. An intentional choice, of course. It made things feel more personal, to the folks he couldn’t talk to face-to-face. But his live audience could see the dim, dark room that surrounded the artificially warm and homey atmosphere that only Vincent had the pleasure of standing in.
The floor housed a thin layer of maroon carpet, shoddily stapled on at the edges of the slightly-raised stage. In the center, there stood a lectern, with an open bible still on the face of it. Only the inside, the side facing away from the camera, could someone see the microphone, half-empty cup of water, and the script, tucked away. On stage left, there was a desk, with a comfortable red-velvet chair seated behind it. On top sat trinkets and knick-knacks-- mostly presents he’s gotten from audience members, or their children. A framed photograph, another bible, a glass of water that he never actually took a sip from. Anything to make their oh-so-holy leader seem just a little more human. On stage right, there was a tub. Not drained yet-- a chore he’d have to do sometime later, or save for the morning-- so still half-full of holy water. He didn’t use it daily, but occasionally it was entertaining to make a show out of a baptism. People literally paid him just to be the one blessing their souls, and paid him even more to do it live on television. It’d be stupid of him not to indulge. For many reasons. And behind it all, his magnum opus; a beautiful, custom, stained-glass window. Sheathed with ornate curtains, and backlit by artificial light, so that his team could have perfect control over the way the colors danced against the live audience. Vincent never felt holier than when he was silhouetted by a halo of such perfection.
After hours like this, once everyone had left but him, he enjoyed sticking around and doing some of the smaller closing work. Selfishly, it was just so he could have the building to himself. It was a chance to unwind, decompress, and actually use the damn desk on set that was usually just for show. In its drawers, there was a notepad and pen he used for times like this, so he could scribble down notes and plans for later in the week. But as he took a step forward, bracing his foot on the edge of the stage…
CRASH!
He jumped, startled, an embarrassing gasp jumping from his chest. Instinctively, his head whipped in the direction of the sound. It didn’t take long for him to see the culprit.
At his left, just offset to the actual stage, was a long, dim hallway. It was lined with overhead fluorescents; the kind that gave anyone a headache if you had to stand under them for too long. There were three here, equally spaced apart from each other. But now, only two of them were glowing. The one furthest from him, at the very end of the hallway, was flickering on and off erratically, sparks flying from its suddenly broken casing. It was like it had exploded for no reason.
Another electrical malfunction. Vincent’s posture relaxed. He let out an exhale, pulling back from the stage and running his fingers through his hair. Alright, that was fine. Annoying, but not particularly unusual. Just one more thing to jot down, he supposed. First, though, he figured it was a good idea to turn off the rest of the lights in here. The lighting grid that powered his stage was separate in case of emergency, so he should still be able to see at his desk. But if he wasn’t, he wasn’t above working by candlelight, for his last few hours on shift. He wasn’t afraid of the dark.
But as he swiveled his shoulders in the direction of the hallway…he swore he saw something flit from one side to the other.
He stopped. And blinked. Trying to make sense of what it was he saw. But it had been so brief, he was sure any more detailed pictures his mind would conjure up would be mostly a figment of his imagination.
“...Hello?” He called, mostly on instinct. “Is someone there?”
The only response he got was the hum of the working fluorescents. The suspicion in his eyes softened. He took another step forward.
CRASH!
The second bulb this time. The one in the middle. This time, he got to watch it flicker on and off once or twice, before burning several shades too bright, and bursting into a flash of sparks and light. His step forward was reversed, as he took two backwards, mostly to stay out of the radius if the final bulb arbitrarily decided to meet the same fate.
What the hell?
The idea of working by candlelight was starting to sound more appealing. He squinted, expression screwing into a mixture of confusion, frustration, and just the tiniest dash of fear. He could smell smoke as it began to pool around the ceiling of the hallway, and for just a moment questioned if he was hallucinating all of this. But then his eyes dragged downwards, from the sparks and the light, and he saw something.
A silhouette, standing at the end of the hallway.
The second his eyes locked onto it, it was gone. But he was sure he’d seen something that time, from the way his stomach had flipped.
For just a moment, entirely cloaked in darkness, he’d seen a figure. Hard to make out, even more so as a fleeting memory, but vague details had stood out. A man, judging from the broad shoulders and the coattails. Standing about his height, with curled hair sitting just above shoulder-length. His posture had been slightly hunched over, as if intentionally trying not to be noticed. Vincent felt himself get goosebumps at the notion.
He felt frozen. Desperately, the gears behind his eyes turned, desperately searching for the most rational solution. And yet, irrationally, his hand found the cross dangling above his collarbone, and his fingers knotted into the cord.
Someone had been there. He was almost certain. If he was wrong, good-- there was a non-zero chance that his mind had just been playing words on him in the heat of the moment. If he wasn’t, and there had been something, or someone, the odds of it being an actual threat were still pretty low. It could’ve been a trick of the light. Or a crew member who hadn’t left, or heard him call just now, and who’d ducking into one of the rooms just as he turned his attention. That was probably it.
The idea of interacting with another person tired him. He mentally prepared himself to put on a smile while he escorted out whoever the hell dared to intervene on the only free time he got in his workday. But he kept his hand tangled up in his necklace…just in case.
“Hello?” He said again. “Ethan? Rob? Is that you?”
CRASH!
The final light blew out. And, almost simultaneously, so too did every light that wasn’t confined to his stage. Vincent jumped harder than he had the first time.
Darkness swallowed up the room. The air suddenly felt cold. Something that, for whatever reason, worsened with the absolute silence that swallowed up the atmosphere. The hum of the fluorescents were gone, replaced only by the priest’s shallow, short breaths, and the pounding of his own heartbeat in his ears. The only reason he could still see, was the dim light coming from behind the stained-glass window, which cast colorful patterns across the floor. The artistry in the moment was lost in him, though. His eyes were pinned to that hallway.
The shadows were playing tricks on him now, he was sure of it. They must be. There was no better explanation for the way the darkness in that hallway seemed to shift, peeling apart and separating from itself, jumping from wall to wall like a spiderweb. One moment, the blackness was dripping from the ceiling, hushing the broken bulbs, and then it was pooling at the ground. A force that should be intangible was writhing with such fervor that it looked like it was alive. A breathing, sentient lifeform that, the longer he stared at it, seemed to take more clear shape.
Shadows pooled into a single unit. Darker than darkness, somehow standing out and blending in at the same time against the hallway it loomed inside. Slowly, the edges began to take shape, chipping away at itself like a chisel to a marble pillar. And Vincent saw it again. The same figure he’d gotten a glance of earlier. A man.
This time, it didn’t melt back into the shadows. This time, it only used them to its advantage. As the hallway had grown darker, so too had its access to shadows. It absorbed them, used them, swallowing them up into his visage. Until he was taller, broader, having to hunch over itself to avoid hitting its head on the ceiling. A process that only worsened when horns-- no, antlers-- began to wind from its head. There was a noise, something distant and primal and vaguely elk-like, that came from the shadow, yet seemed to croak out of every speaker in the room at the same time. It created a horrible melody over the sound of bones cracking into place.
Vincent couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. He was paralyzed, helpless, staring with wide eyes at the thing he recognized despite never seeing anything like it.
A demon.
The shadows split in the center of where the figure’s head should be. It tore out an expression-- a long, sharp smile. And from all around him, a voice crackled in the air.
”Hello, Vincent.”
Vincent’s blood ran cold.
Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
There was hardly a pause long enough for him to collect himself, or reel backwards, or be horrified at the fact that this thing knew his fucking name, before it started moving again. The shadows twisted and writhed like the convulsing of an organ. It compounded in on itself, causing any leftover light in the room to flicker erratically, like even they didn’t want to watch. But slowly, in the unsettling motion…color began to fill in the darkness. Dark skin. Darker hair. Mostly human shaped, yet with hints of things that kept him from forgetting what it was he was dealing with. LIke the antlers winding like the roots of a tree up towards the ceiling, harmonizing nicely with the deer-like legs that replaced any human ones, and the fluffy ears that did the same. For what it was worth, the man was well-dressed. Its red, pinstriped, gold-accented suit was clean and attractive; he supposed the old sayings about the devil being beautiful must be true. Or maybe he just got lucky, meeting this one.
Because this one was…handsome. Classically so. From the way its hair cascaded in curls down to its shoulders, all the way to the sharp-toothed, shark-like smile stretched across its features. Its eyes-- red and bright and piercing-- shone light across his face, and across the walls. A glowing beacon in the darkness.
He was a pastor, for Christ’s sake. He shouldn’t be freezing up under the scrutiny of the one thing he was sent to this realm to protect others from. Yet as the demon stalked forward, head lowered to be leveled with his, his mouth felt dry. He felt as if it could see straight through his Earthly visage, and into his very soul. And it liked what it saw.
Shame boiled unfairly in the pit of his stomach. This thing didn’t know him. It must not, if it assumed it would get anything other than a blast straight back to the depths of Hell. But he’d never had to do a thing like this before, not this straightforwardly. It was one thing to exorcise someone on television (which he hired actors for most of the time, anyway), or “cast out demons” from a troubled teenager, but this was personal. Intimate, dare he say.
But why him?
“...You’re not welcome here,” He warned, the words flowing out of his mouth like it were pure instinct, knuckles turning white with the strength he used to grip his cross necklace. He held it up for the creature to see. “Stay back. Demon.”
It chuckled, soft and amused. And took another step forward.
“You’re awfully observant,” it acknowledged, voice dripping with sarcasm, and this time Vincent wasn’t too afraid to process how it actually sounded. It was coming from a singular source-- the demon itself-- and yet it still had the quality of an old speaker. It was tinny, as if it were the recorded audio of a radio star. Beneath the filter, its voice was smooth, and warm, in a way that was almost ruined by the effect. He couldn’t think of a sound more fitting for this appearance. Almost perfect, but something was off. It unsettled him. It took another step forward. “But what exactly do you think that silly little trinket is going to do for you, hm?”
Vincent blinked, his eyes flickering down to the cross poking into his palm. It was silver, and polished, with a quote engraved on the back. Slightly materialistic, he supposed, but he didn’t wear this with the intention of warding off demons. It was just a show of faith, and it gave him something to fidget with when he was bored or working. Really, he didn’t think its simplicity or biblical inaccuracy really mattered; he was a priest, shouldn’t he be able to talk over any object, and use whatever it was to ward off evil spirits? Apparently not.
“It’s blessed,” He said, like it were obvious. Really, it should’ve been. A hint of defensiveness crept into his voice. “You can’t touch it. It’s supposed to repel you.”
The demon laughed again, louder and longer this time, and Vincent found himself getting unrightfully flustered by it. Warmth pooled in his face and in the pit of his stomach. How the fuck had he gone from being horrified, to embarrassed by the idea of being out-classed by the literal spawn of Satan?
“Haha! My dear, that thing is as holy as you are,” It responded, all-too-cheerfully, once its little laughing fit had calmed down. The pet name did little to ease his nerves. Nor did another step closer, which made Vincent suddenly realize just how near it had gotten. The demon positively towered over him. He scrambled backwards a step. “And that isn’t saying much.”
Vincent’s heart skipped a beat. He felt like he’d been caught with his hand in the cookie jar.
On any other day, from any other soul, the accusation of being ungodly wouldn’t have bothered him. He knew he acted in ways that were atypical from the average, god-fearing Christian, but that was only because his faith was stronger, not weaker. He had no doubts in the rigidity of his beliefs…Or, he didn’t think he did, until now. Until a demon had accused him of it, clearly with the intention of getting under his skin. If it was something he was self-conscious about before now, it was entirely subconscious. He hadn’t even realized. Usually, he’d see right through the obvious bait, rather than lunging forward to take a bite. But now, it was as if something was urging him to continue engaging. Some invisible string. His grip on his cross relaxed.
Against his better judgement, he prompted him to go on.
“...What do you mean?”
“I mean,” It began, the shadows easing off its figure, as it stepped into range of the light from the stained glass window. Its arms were tucked politely behind its back. “For a so-called priest, you aren’t exactly the pinnacle of godliness.” The demon hadn’t stopped smiling from the moment it appeared, and yet, it seemed to accentuate every sentence by an even wider, sharper grin. “I would know.”
Vincent held his ground this time. He didn’t falter, at least not in his movements, as the creature grew nearer. Though, internally, anxiety had gripped his heart like a vice. Anticipation made him tense for no reason in particular. He didn’t know what it would do when it reached him, if anything at all. Maybe he just wanted to talk. He almost laughed out loud at the idea.
From over the shoulder of the predator stalking towards him, Vincent could see something writhing in the darkness. Intangible, like it had been earlier, yet slowly taking on shape. But the shape they twirled into was quite a bit more abstract. They just looked like…tentacles. Shadow-y, spindly tendrils, crawling up the walls, ceilings, and across the floor, like a hoard of snakes. They wriggled hungrily. The way they moved was almost sickening. The anticipation swelled. What were those? And more importantly, what were they for?
The demon’s eyes twinkled as they were caught in the light, drawing Vincent’s attention once more. It continued to speak only once that last verbal prod got no response.
“I’ve had an eye on you for some time now. I know you better than your followers do. And, I must say, you’re quite the interesting character!” It chuckled, with what sounded like genuine amusement. “There’s no sense in trying to hide from me. I’ve seen it all. The hypocrisy. The depravity. For a man who claims to be so close to God, the things I’ve seen in your twisted little mind come straight from one of the lower circles of Hell!” It cackled again, heartlessly. Vincent felt hot again. “Oh, the shameless deviancy of it all! And from a pastor, no less!”
The clicking of hooves on the ground stopped, just a few feet in front of the human. Vincent could almost easier feel the demon’s presence than he could see it, much less comprehend it. He may not understand how this being appeared, or what its intentions were, but he could feel the effect it had on him. There was this ever-growing burning, coiling sensation clawing at his insides, like he was being given a taste of hellfire. It fluttered tauntingly. Invitingly. As sickeningly sweet as the voice mocking his lifestyle.
He wasn’t sure what exactly it was that he was on trial for. He assumed the charges must be pretty vague. He’d broken most of the ten commandments in his lifetime. Was this some scare tactic to get him to atone? That didn’t make any sense. Shouldn’t this be trying to encourage sin, rather than the other way around? Wasn’t their entire purpose to tempt people into Hell? But if that’s what it was trying to do, then why be insulting? Surely it must have done worse things in its career. It already had a breaking and entering charge just by being here. If it was trying to get a certain reaction out of him, he wasn’t going to give him the pleasure.
Defiantly, he bit the inside of his cheek, eyes narrowed. And something in the demon’s smirk darkened.
It leaned in close, close enough for him to feel its breath on his ear. And it reached out a hand. Vincent tensed, confidence faltering, about to take another step back. Then he felt a claw delicately trace up his jawline. And heard that voice reverberate through his skull.
“It’s almost as amusing as it is disgusting.”
Vincent shivered.
A chill raced up his spine, eyes going wide with the force of it. Goosebumps freckled his entire body. The heat-- the hellfire-- that had been swirling in his gut dropped lower. He felt all that fluttery pressure dip right between his legs. Only then did it click where this was all going.
Oh. Shit. This was an attempt to tempt him into something.
He felt lightheaded. A certain feeling overwhelmed him-- something between fear and arousal. He’d never realized, until now, how small the gap was between those two emotions. Not until the demon chuckled again, and drew back a few inches to speak, and to look at his face.
“But whatever you want to call it, it certainly isn’t holy.”
It felt like something had short-circuited in the priests’ brain. He was at a loss for words. The air hummed with static electricity. When he inhaled, he could smell it in the air. Pins and needles buzzed through his nerves, numbing and intensifying every sensation somehow at the exact same time. He could’ve swore he felt his hair start to stand on end, as if he were about to be struck by lightning. If the tension in here was any more electric, maybe he would’ve been.
Meeting his eyes suddenly seemed like an impossible effort. Responding seemed even more impossible. His pupils flit into the darkness all around him, trying to find something, anything, that might save him from having to take this. He knew all the cliche’s about demons only showing you the flaws in yourself that were already there, and if that’s what this was, he wanted nothing to do with it. He considered making a break for the exit, but was already too late; without even having to squint, he could see the way tendrils of shadow had covered the ground, and barricaded the door. The hallways behind and in front of him didn’t lead anywhere. He’d just be cornered…More cornered than he was already. He glanced frantically to the stage, and his eyes landed on the tub of holy water. A hopeful glint sparkled in his iris.
He wasn't sure what he'd do with it, even if he succeeded in getting there. It was heavy, especially when it was full, so it wasn’t like he could just knock it over easily. Would splashing it even work? Hell, would anything work? If his supposedly-blessed cross didn’t deter it, what will? Still, it was the best idea he had.
Without thinking, he turned and hopped up onto the stage, about to make a sprint towards the tub. He didn’t make it more than two steps before he felt something wrap around his ankle.
He went down with a yelp, falling hard onto the carpeted stage floor, catching himself on his knees and elbows seconds before he landed face-first and broke his nose. His glasses were jostled off his face, miraculously not cracking, yet sliding a few feet out in front of him. When he tried to reach for them, he felt another tendril coil around his wrist.
“None of that, thank you.” The demon’s voice came from behind him, as the tentacle pinned his arm to the small of his back. Thrown off balance, Vincent’s chest hit the ground, knocking the wind out of him. Predictably, when he tried to push himself back into a crawling position with his free hand, that was seized, too. It was yanked right next to the other. “Come now, my dear. Can't you see I'm only trying to help you?”
He couldn't tell whether it was the fact that he’d fallen, the compromising position, or the sweetness in its voice that was making him feel lightheaded. There was that pet name again.
Another tentacle snaked around his body, and he flinched, his breath stuttering on the inhale. But it moved gently, carefully, turning him over onto his back. Letting him better see the beast that towered over him. The demon’s eyes were glowing enough to illuminate its smile. He could literally feel the blood rushing away from his brain.
Holy shit, this could not be happening.
Of all the ways to be taunted, humiliated, and pulled from the light, this thing was choosing seduction as the means to do so. The idea that something had bore witness to the things he did when he was so detached from his godly persona was embarrassing as all hell. Was that his deadliest sin? Lust? He’d had his money on greed or pride, personally, if he’d had to pick. But as the tentacles binding his hands behind his back squeezed his wrists teasingly, he was starting to see why this creature might’ve gotten that impression.
“I already told you, there’s no hiding from me,” It reminded, as it casually stepped up onto the stage beside its captured prey. Almost mockingly, it took a seat on the edge of the tub of apparently not-so-holy water. “Why try?”
“I don’t want this,” Vincent snapped back, a little too quickly. But the sinner just smiled more, and tilted its head innocently, as if silently prompting him to elaborate. But there was nothing he could say in defense; he’d known that much before the words even left his mouth. It was basically asking him to dig his own grave. He floundered for anything coherent. “I-I-- I don’t even know your name!” He spluttered. And instantly felt stupid for saying it.
Christ, what the hell kind of reaction was that? Any more cliche and he’d be saying take me out to dinner first, why don’t you? Embarrassment turned his face red. The demon’s grin sharpened quizzically. Surprisingly, for whatever reason, it indulged him with an answer.
“Call me Alastor,” He supplied, as if he were introducing himself right when they first met, and not like he was doing so after already getting unbearably intimate. “A pleasure to be making your acquaintance."
Making acquaintances had to be the understatement of the century for what they were doing.
The tentacle that had turned him over began to delicately uncoil from Vincent’s waist, now that he was where he wanted him to be. It took its time going wherever it was planning on going, even picking up his glasses from the floor and slipping them back on his nose, before slithering down across the floor. It’s not like he could get up easily, with his arms restrained. And even if he tried, any amount of success would be robbed from him, considering that the shadow that tripped him earlier was still wrapped around his ankle. The tendril that had left his midsection grabbed his opposite leg.
“Now that we’ve been properly introduced, I don’t suppose you have any objections to getting more intimate, do you?” Alastor innocently inquired, checking his nails. Like he had nothing to do with the movements of the shadows, despite the fact that Vincent was fairly confident they were entirely within his control.
Suddenly remembering that he could, in fact, move, he squirmed in their grip. By now, they had his arms good-- he could feel both of his wrists pressing together, bound tightly by tendrils that were squeezing only just enough not to hurt. His legs were clearly about to suffer the same fate. He hardly had a second to jerk at his ankles, before the shadows had wound up high enough to cut off his mobility almost entirely. The tentacles crossed over each limb like stitches, trying him to the floor. His blood felt burning cold and freezing hot at the same time.
Another tendril rose up from the floor, right between his knees. Fuck, how many of these things could this guy have?
“I didn’t hear a no.”
Vincent blinked as he was spoken to again, having forgotten that he was asked a question. He turned his head to shoot a look up at Alastor, something between shocked and embarrassed and frustrated. This demon must’ve done something to him. He wasn’t sure what, but he was never usually this clammy or awkward in any other situation. Admittedly, the situation at hand right now was pretty unorthodox, but still. He should be fighting. He shouldn’t be speechless. He opened his mouth to respond.
“I-- Ah!”
He was interrupted by the sensation of that final shadow slithering up the rest of the way, delivering a long stroke up his core.
The sound that jumped from his throat was humiliating. A gasp and a whine at the same time. His entire body jerked reflexively, from his chest, to his hips, to his knees, and yet despite the startled force of it, he hardly moved. And it did very little to deter the tendril. It rubbed up against his groin, in slow, soft, up-and-down motions. With his clothes still on, the sensation was muted. Almost a tease…At least, it should’ve been.
He had a hard time getting out of his own head, most of the time he had sex. As good as he was at separating his work life from his personal life, there was always a nagging voice in the back of his head that would remind him he was doing something unorthodox. Especially when those affairs would be had with men, leaving him to grapple with the fact that, if such a thing were to ever get out, it’d be more than just a public scandal he could sweep under the rug or talk his way out of. It could ruin his entire career. It was a thought that scared him, not quite enough to stop doing it, but just enough to stop himself from enjoying it as much as he should have been. To regain some sense of power in the ordeal, he liked to be the one in control, in those instances. And even then, it usually took him quite a while to get off, as his distracted worries would keep him from getting fully into it. He wasn’t sure why, now, when he should be more concerned than ever, that wasn’t a problem. It was like he couldn’t hold onto those concerns, no matter how much he tried. They kept slipping through his fingers.
He didn’t realize he was holding his breath until the tip of the shadow pressed against his clit just right, and he let out another shaking gasp. His chest felt tight.
“Theeere we go,” came the demon’s voice again, and he was once again brought back to the present moment. He twisted in his binds. “Is that better?”
Vincent forced his eyes open, tilting his head back to peer up at Alastor. Still sitting there, still smiling, still with the same half-lidded amusement in his eyes. It irritated him, in the same way one would be annoyed at a friend’s playful teasing. But they weren’t friends, and he shouldn’t be into this. But either he was terrifyingly good at this, or he was suddenly far more easy in bed than he remembered, because every stroke of the shadow had him biting back a strangled moan.
He only responded with a huff, voice heavy with restraint. Restraint of nothing and everything at the same time.
He already felt as if he’d been taken apart, like a rat dissected on a student’s workdesk, his disgusting insides splayed out for all to see. Even this touch, gentle and teasing and hot as it was, felt like a scalpel to the throat. It was Alastor’s hands in his guts, Alastor’s hand in his brain, and knowing said hand was reaching straight out of hell was shameful in all the worst ways. He could tell the pot was boiling, but he couldn't will himself to jump out. All he had to do was say no. Say no.
He kept his mouth shut.
“I could always stop,” Alastor chimed back in, and Vincent was almost angry he interrupted the very important chanting in his brain. His shaking exhale fogged up his glasses, so he once again screwed his eyes shut, gritting his teeth to keep himself from panting like a dog. The silence seemed deafening as his internal monologue grew increasingly louder, ping-ponging back and forth between the rational stop him,he’ll let you go if you ask, just say you want it to end, and the much louder, much more pathetic mantra of oh god, oh fuck, keep your fucking mouth shut or he might actually stop. He grit his teeth.
Alastor hummed.
“You know,” He said, with the graceful elegance of someone who’d just been asked to recount their life story in front of important dignitaries, and not the dirty talk of someone indulging a priest’s guiltiest pleasure. “I never cared for this type of intimacy, myself. It seemed mildly entertaining at best, and repulsive at its worst.”
Vincent might have scoffed, if he weren’t so preoccupied on keeping himself silent. Whether that anecdote was true or not, he had no idea, but it was certainly quite the statement to make after pinning a man to the ground and jerking him off. The corner of his lip twitched, but any smugness faltered as the tendril began rubbing circles into his groin. A strangled noise came out through his nose. Close enough to a scoff he supposed. It didn’t stop the demon from continuing his tale.
“The fluids, the contact, the feelings. Who needs it?”
I do, a voice in Vincent’s head interjected. So loudly that he feared the demon might actually be able to hear it. It would hardly be the craziest thing that had happened in the past half-hour. But it was right, and he did need it, more than he felt like he needed anything. Nothing else quite gave him the rush like pinning a man to the wall, his teeth on their throat and his hands at their belt. He was always so straight-laced, in his work. He relished in the unwinding of it all. The vulnerability he couldn’t really get anywhere else. This was an entirely separate angle, an angle he wouldn’t have willingly indulged if he hadn’t had to, before. The idea of being essentially handcuffed and dragged to the ground might’ve disgusted him, just yesterday. Now, that very premise was the thing that had him soaking through his boxers. He prayed Alastor couldn’t feel it.
“Well, lots of people, allegedly. I’ve seen souls go to great lengths just to share a bed with somebody. Apparently, the end result makes all the sickening indulgence worth it.”
Hah. He couldn’t tell whether or not that was targeted, but considering this man seemed to only be sent here to torment him, he wouldn’t be surprised if it was. Regardless, he wasn’t sure how he was supposed to feel about it. Insulted? He was, but he was well past the point of defending himself. He would’ve said he wasn’t that desperate, but that would be a lie. An obvious one, considering the way he was currently fighting the urge to rock his hips up against the tendril that was now definitely intentionally nuzzling into his clit. He buckled, knees straining against the shadows that held them down, unsure if he wanted to close his legs or open them wider or just needed something to do with the energy he had no place to put. His thoughts felt as if they were lagging behind his body, physically responding before his brain even processed he was doing it. He had no idea when he started to hold his breath, but he was now, and his chest strained and his throat ached with the force he was using to hold it in. And he couldn’t believe the casualty with which the demon was still talking-- how the fuck was he rambling and touching him like this at the same time? Focusing on both at the same time was impossible. He had to strain just to listen.
“I hadn’t planned on getting you off,” Alastor continued, surprising Vincent enough to force him to release the breath he’d been holding in the form of a gasping whine, which was promptly ignored. “I was going to stop right before, and leave you like that. Seemed more enticing, that way. Had to leave you with some incentive to change, didn’t I?”
The idea sounded agonizing. Incentive for what, exactly? Giving up his soul? Going to Hell? Would anyone do that just for the sake of an orgasm? The tendril pressed in harder and, as he was still out of breath, it easily pulled another strangled moan from his lips. He bit his lip to keep it from happening again, but, fuck. Would he do that, just for the sake of an orgasm?
He forced his eyes open again, not that he could see much with the fog on his lenses. And he looked at him-- or at least looked in his direction-- and tried to shoot him a challenging look. Though, challenging failed to adequately describe the hopeful, fearful glint in his eyes, at the implication this might stop soon.
Alastor had one leg crossed over the other, his hoof idly bouncing as he watched the little puppet show he was putting on. He tilted his head in something that almost looked like sympathy, but wasn’t.
“But perhaps I’ll change my mind.” His smile sharpened. “If you’re good, that is.”
Vincent swore he felt something short out in his brain. His body wracked with pleasant shudders.
“Oh god,” he groaned, hips stuttering up into touch. Alastor chuckled lowly.
“Using the Lord's name in vain already, are we?” He mused, resting his head on his knuckles. His expression called him too easy without its host even having to say a word. “I thought it'd be a while longer before I had you swearing. Perhaps you were farther gone than I thought.”
The second half of that threat was more or less lost on him, as a single word stuck out in his head immediately. Already. It echoed dauntingly in his mind, in a way that made his blood burn hot with the notion that they were only just getting started. He had a feeling Alastor would be disappointed, when he learned that he was already close to the end.
…That is, if he doesn’t stop.
The idea of him doing so struck that cord again-- the one right between fear and arousal. A part of him wanted it, but not for the purpose of getting out of this. Not anymore. He wanted it because it sounded oddly, grossly hot to be used and then discarded without regard for how he felt. He pictured himself laying here, after he was gone, trying to chase the high of this moment without the restraints and the cooing voice in his ears…And the other, only slightly more rational half of his brain found that idea mortifying. He wasn’t sure he’d be able to look himself in the mirror ever again. Then again, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to no matter what the outcome of this was. Might as well try and get to the finish line.
“So, tell me, Vincent,” Alastor prodded, sickeningly sweet, leaning forward on his knees. “Will you be good?”
He swallowed back a whine. He was burning up. It was one thing to have to prove something in his actions, but doing so with words was an entirely different beast. What did being good even entail, for a creature like him? He found without more than a second of scrutiny that he didn’t care-- it didn’t matter, because he’d do it, so long as he didn’t stop. Maybe he’d died already, and this was his Hell. He considered staying quiet again. But he knew the second that notion crossed his mind that he wouldn’t be able to do it. The illusion of even pretending he might shattered, when the shadow started stroking even faster. His entire body twitched. He answered instantly.
“Yes,” He breathed, and his words came out on an exhale, tight and breathy and clearly closer to the edge already than Alastor had anticipated. He was coming apart too easily. Too willing to admit things you couldn’t torture out of him by regular means. He’d never been spoken to like this, not as far as he could remember. How did he know it would undo him so easily? It was like Alastor had found a thread sticking out of the tapestry that made up who he really was, and had started pulling on it. Or, perhaps, pulling a string on his back, like he was a talking doll with a handful of pre-recorded phrases. Maybe he was in his mind. The idea that he was being psychically manipulated made confessions easier. “I’ll-- …I’ll be good.”
“Ah, so you can be honest!” Alastor’s voice was bright, and cheery, and far too innocent considering how hot his captive burned at such a positive reaction. Like a reward, that tendril pressed in closer again, rubbing up against him in a way that he was sure would make him sore later. But for now, all that registered in his mind was the buzzing, burning pleasure that was coursing through his nerves and shooting straight to his brain. His hips fell into an uneven rhythm, grinding back against the force, as at least the ability to squirm made it all feel more manageable. Every exhale came out in the form of a whine that he could no longer keep between his teeth. “That’s very good.”
Oh, fuck. Another spark shot up from Vincent’s core in response to the praise, and he gasped. He almost couldn’t believe that didn’t push him over the edge. He was close, wound up tight with a pressure that made him calm his bucking hips, breath catching on an inhale. His entire body clenched in anticipation of…something. Fucking anything.
“...Though, I have to wonder,” Alastor continues. Vincent hangs on every word. “Did you make that promise because you actually plan to be? Or are you just getting desperate?”
That did it.
Vincent’s legs jerked against the shadows as he came. It felt like the orgasm had been ripped out of him, and tore with it an ugly, unfiltered moan. The pleasure hit him like a flash, bright and blinding and all-encompasing, swallowing up the world and any coherent thoughts right around with it. Everything was sensation. Everything buzzed in the afterglow. He was pretty sure his ears were ringing. And he was more than certain he was wet enough to soak through his pants at this point. The tendril continued to move, helping him ride out the waves.
Alastor’s words were better processed in his mind once he felt like the fog had started to clear. God, maybe he was desperate. More desperate than he would’ve presumed, in the past. If you’d asked him the other day if he’d be willing to fuck a demon if they brought it up, he would’ve been puzzled and offended. But this had been far too easy. He’d hardly second-guessed himself. Did this man have some sort of control over his mind, or was his own force of will really that flimsy? He wasn’t sure he cared to analyze.
But then he thought more about what he’d actually promised. He’d promised to be good. To a creature from Hell, that could mean anything. He didn’t care in the moment, but now, the implications weighed on him. Was he bound to his word, now, to do whatever Alastor wanted from him? Had he accidentally entered some kind of verbal deal that surrendered his soul? He still had his life ahead of him. His afterlife, at that. He’d had it all meticulously planned out, and if he’d lost it in the form of blasphemous dirty talk, he’d devote the rest of his life to getting God himself to smite the man who made it unfold.
For now, he’d like to hold on to the idea that dirty talk was all it was. It hadn’t meant anything. At most, he might make him get up and return the favor. He’d sinned plenty tonight, so what was one more? Going down on a demon didn’t seem like the worst thing in the world. Maybe it could be counted as a good thing, as then they’d be even. That was less selfish, right? Did that make all of this cancel out?
And…and that shadow still hadn’t stopped moving.
The rambling of his internal dialogue came to a screeching halt.
For a while, the continued stimulation had been nice. He’d been able to ride the high as he came down from the peak, presumably to settle back down right after. But then it kept going, and the pleasure it had brought before began to wane. Suddenly, the sensitivity that followed an orgasm wasn't a nice reminder of what had occurred. Suddenly, it was unbearable.
“Mmf-- Shit, h-hang on,” He spluttered, and this time his groan didn’t sound as pleasurable. It sounded painful, high and tight in his throat. It was too much. “Alastor--”
“Hmm?” Alastor’s voice answered instantly. Dismissive. Different from the way he’d been talking to him just a moment ago. “What is it? I thought this is what you wanted."
Vincent started to squirm again. A difficult task, considering the way every time his hips so much as twitched, he only succeeded in aiding the tendril stroking him through his slacks, sending another painful jolt through his nerves. Every flinch drew out a suffocated whine. His shoulders rolled as he attempted fighting the tentacles holding his arms, instead, his instincts pleading with him to push away the offending touch. He struggled to choke out a response.
“N-Not-- Ngh, I already--”
“Yes, I know.” Alastor interrupted him, cold and uncaring, again. When Vincent stole a glance, he was checking his nails. “Sit still, will you?”
What the fuck. Was this really happening?
Everything throbbed. His head, his muscles, his cunt. His diaphragm ached from the way he’s tensing under the touch. Every part of him was sore, exhausted, and mind-numbingly intense. It felt like the world was spinning. He whined again, louder, more frustrated.
“It hurts,” He croaked weakly, as if that weren’t blatantly obvious from the way his face was screwed up with misery. Alastor took his sweet time examining it, anyway. And then he quirked a brow.
“Is that a problem?”
What?
Vincent felt hysterical. Of fucking course it was a problem, it hurt! But his words still pierced him like a blade, the dismissiveness in his tone re-lighting the fire of arousal in the pit of his stomach. A pulse that only made it all ache more, made him feel more, and he was already feeling far too much. He was feeling everything.
In a surprising display of mercy, the stroking stops, and his entire body goes limp against the carpet. His muscles relax. His eyes closed again.
…Only for that same tendril to slither upwards, and slip between the fabric at his waistband, until it was pressed up against bare skin. He hardly had a moment to snap back into it-- to be terrified-- before it snaked right back down, until the head of the shadow could rub up against his exposed, oversensitive pussy. His entire body jolted.
“Fuck!”
“I’m fairly certain I told you to sit still,” Alastor’s callous voice cut through his panic. Distinctly lacking in the cheery little chirps that had carried his tone before. What changed? “I thought you said you wanted to be good for me.”
Vincent’s entire body shuddered, then bucked, arms and legs jerking and twisting against the restraints pinning him in place. Certainly not staying still. But again, the words had stirred up a heat within him that usually took quite a while to come back, after he came once. It was like he was trying to override his refractory period by force. It didn’t make the sensation any more bearable. Static overlaid his thoughts, stifling the sound of anything coherent, besides repeating the obvious. It’s too much, it’s too much, it’s too much, it’s too--
Alastor didn’t speak, but Vincent could hear a sound tear through the air, crackling through every speaker in the room just like it had when he appeared for the first time. A horrible, static-laden, animalistic screech. He could think of no better way for disdain to sound. But what did he do? He could hardly process that he’d been given an order, much less try to follow it. Another shadow-y vine slithered out from the ground, wrapping over his hips and strapping them to the floor and holy fuck, that’s so much worse.
“Alas-tor!” He cried, his voice cracking with the force of it. Being unable to twist his lower body robbed him of the small, momentary reprieve he’d been able to achieve with his squirming. And the touch was unrelenting-- if anything, it only pressed harder-- and his arms and shoulders shook with desperation. Tears welled on the inside of his eyelids.
“Tsk, tsk,” The demon patronized, a slightly more chipper tone returning to his voice. Amusement, no doubt. Asshole. “I’ve only given you one order so far, and you can’t even manage that? You already need my help? How disappointing.”
Help. Is that what he called this?
By all means, that comment shouldn’t get to him. He was only saying it to get under his skin. And yet, he still felt embarrassment crawling up his spine, burning his face with a blush that stretched all the way down his neck. His brow furrowed, and he couldn’t tell whether he was doing it out of annoyance or because he couldn’t think straight enough to control his own expression. He tried to growl, but all that came out was a whimper. Why the fuck was being condescended to doing this to him?
Alastor stood from the edge of the tub where he sat. He stepped forward, over to his ensnared prey’s side, and bent at the waist to get a little closer to his face. He even reached down to wipe a tear that he hadn’t even realized slipped down his face.
“Poor thing,” He cooed, and Vincent felt like he was going to explode. It felt like he twisted a knife in him. “I’m not asking much. Just do what I tell you, and maybe you’ll get a reward.”
It was like the entire world crumbled all around him.
A reward. He wasn’t sure he even wanted to know what the demon’s sick idea of a reward entailed, but just the idea of doing what he was told and getting a treat for it made arousal hit him like a punch to the gut. He felt the urge to double over around it. But he didn’t.
He went still.
Alastor grinned at him like a shark tasting blood.
“Good boy.”
It took every ounce of willpower not to start twitching again. He wasn’t even sure why he’d given in in the first place. It almost seemed involuntary, which once again reminded him of the creeping notion that he may be not in his own right mind at the moment. Or maybe it was just because he was adjusting to the mix of pain and pleasure that had a vice grip on every corner of his nervous system. He didn’t want to think that he may have done it just because he’d asked him to.
The tendrils binding his legs started to change positions. They wound up further, until each side found a hem of his pants, looping into their waistband as well as the band of the boxers underneath. Vincent’s muscles tensed, almost imperceptibly.
”Still.” Alastor’s voice reminded. He willed himself to relax.
The tentacles pulled each layer of fabric down, over his legs, and off his shoes, tossing each to the side. Vincent suddenly felt self conscious over doing a thing like this on his stage, in front of dormant cameras, as if everything they’d been doing before this wasn’t just as bad. For a moment, he relished in the freedom of being able to move the lower half of his body again. But it wasn’t long until the restraints returned, as if mocking him for thinking he’d be free for even a moment. Not that he had anywhere he’d rather be right now.
At least, during this transition, the shadow that had been rubbing against his core finally pulled away and sank back into the ground. He let out a breath, relaxing deeper into the stage as he finally felt reprieve from the overstimulation. He drooped in his bindings. Above him, Alastor straightened up again, his eyes only briefly flickering to his lower half. He took a few steps down stage, towards his legs. And towards the ground.
“Last time, you came earlier than I anticipated,” He said, stepping down from the carpet and onto the main floor. Vincent tried not to be amused (or further turned on) at the subtle disgust in his voice as he said it. “But that won’t be happening again. Next time, it will be on my terms. Understood?”
Next time. Next time. His stomach swooped. The words rung in his head like the peal of a funeral bell. He could feel the string tying his soul to God start to fray in the center.
He nodded.
“Use your words, darling.”
God, what a prick. Was he going to have to get in the habit of talking out loud?
“...Understood.” He eventually murmured. Alastor smiled at him, pleased.
“Good.”
The tentacles binding his legs yanked him forwards, down to the edge of the stage. At the same time, on the level below, Alastor dropped to his knees, finally meeting him at his level for the first time since they began. He sat there, limbs folded politely beneath them, right between the legs of the human he had splayed out on the ground before him. He traced his claws up the outside of his thighs, and felt him get goosebumps under the touch.
“Lucky for you, I don’t like leaving a scene without getting a taste of my guest,” he mused, eyes half-lidded as they traced up Vincent’s form. “Doing so this way is rather unconventional for me. But I’m not opposed to trying something new.”
Vincent got the picture almost instantly, this time. A suspicion that was more or less confirmed when he felt the demon lean forward, and bring his legs up over his shoulders, taking advantage of the stillness. He tried not to get hung up on the earlier parts of the statement, about how this wasn’t something he apparently did often. He burned with the implication that this made him an exception. Something special. Usually, presuming his phrasing meant what he thought it did, the taste he got from his victims were much more literal. Maybe this thing was a cannibal-- was it cannibalism if you weren’t human, yourself? He should be horrified at the implication that he had a self-admitted cannibal between his legs, but he didn’t. He couldn’t. Arousal fogged his better judgement, and for a moment he wondered if he’d even care if he did sink his teeth into his flesh right now, because something about that mental picture was just making him burn even hotter--
A slow, attentive lick against his core called him back to the present moment. His entire world shifted with the force of it.
A strangled whimper crawled from his throat, his body wincing as the stimulation returned. After a small pause, it was more bearable-- less mind-shatteringly overwhelming, that is. But it was still a lot, and his nerves were firing far too much for such a slow, even-tempered pace that was his tongue dragging against him.
He didn’t believe this was the first time he’d done this. The only word he could think of to describe his movements was practiced. His tongue was warm, and thick, and long, and stroked into him with the fervor of a starving animal.
”Holy shit,” He gasped, arching his back up from the floor. The shadows binding his limbs squeezed threateningly. Claws curled into his outer thighs. He remembered, instantly, that he was supposed to be staying still. He still struggled to relax his tensed muscles.
Alastor chuckled softly against him, and the sound reverberated through his nervous system like the ringing of a gong. He pulled back, just a little, to give himself room to speak. His mouth and nose still grazed his skin as he did, lips never quite parting all the way. Almost a kiss.
“Easy,” He teased, and it was hard to tell whether that was a way to tell him to relax, or a comment on his performance. Vincent’s face burned with it regardless. “Is that better?”
”Yes,” He whined, knowing he’d be forced to speak anyway if he didn’t voluntarily, hands trembling behind his back. They’d mostly gone numb after how long they’d spent lacking sufficient circulation, but he could still feel them convulse with the urge to reach down, and pull the demon closer by the hair. An action he was sure would be punished, if he’d actually been able to. That only made him want to do it more. If this is what happened to him when he was good-- the clawing, the condescension-- what would happen if he wasn’t?
Desperation clawed at his insides as Alastor pressed in closer, swirling his tongue around his clit, before opening wide to take all of him into his mouth. Vincent had never been able to cum twice. He’d tried, but either the oversensitivity would keep him from pushing through, or he’d be satisfied after one and found the effort for a second to not be worth it. Being eaten out, especially, wasn’t usually enough to send him over the edge. But then he curled his tongue into him in just the right way and-- fuck-- He was going to cum again.
“Al,” He moaned. The name was too personal, too intimate, and yet he found it sliding off his tongue all too easily, like he’d done it hundreds of times before without so much as a second thought. An action that was rewarded-- punished?-- by the sensation of a growl vibrating through his cunt. He shivered involuntarily. “Oh, fuck, Al.”
He was close. Close enough that the edges of his vision started to blur, his mind too fuzzy to recall if that was something that usually happened in times like these, not that he’d hit this type of peak very often. The pain and pleasure was white hot and searing; it burned him straight through to the soul. He wrenched his eyes shut, and threw his head back against the carpet, hands balling into fists like they could hold on to this fleeting, intangible moment.
And then Alastor stopped.
The tension in Vincent’s body relaxed all too suddenly. A miserable, shuddering gasp tore from his throat. In an instant, that wonderful, horrible climb had halted, and he could feel the pressure that had been building in his gut begin to return to a manageable level. And the moment it was gone, he missed it. He’d been so close-- so fucking close-- he’d just needed one more second. The absence of his touch was so much more unbearable than the overstimulation had been. His head lifted from the ground, peering down at the demon between his legs with the expression of a kicked puppy. Alastor’s expression was, of course, unreadable. But the way his ever-present grin had finally met his eyes gave the impression of amusement, more than anything else. Of course. Vincent exhaled shakily.
“Why…” he panted, hoping he didn’t look half as pathetic as he felt. He did. “...Why’d you stop?”
“I did tell you this would be on my terms,” Alastor reminded. “And, frankly, I had expected more resistance from you. You’d think a man as holy as yourself would have more of an issue with being taken apart in this way…But you don’t. Do you?”
Vincent blinked. Like the thought hadn’t occurred to him.
He’d forgotten.
In that perfect, overwhelming moment, he’d forgotten how this had all started. That there had been a time, just earlier tonight, where he’d had a shred of dignity to hold onto. The idea seemed so foreign to him now, now that he’d cum once already and had been close to doing it again. All because a man, a demon no less, saw something in him that he hadn’t even seen in himself. And now, here he was-- moaning his name, missing his touch, and staring down at him with a desperation most people only showed around their lovers. He was disgusted with himself. He could feel shame scratching at him from the inside out. It showed, in the form of a deep red flush that spread all the way down to his neck.
For the first time since he’d revealed himself, he saw him for what he was. A monster.
But was he any better, if he wanted him this badly?
He was speechless. What could he possibly say, that wouldn’t damn him more than he already was? He furrowed his brow stubbornly. His lips pressed together in a thin line. But, fuck, it had only been a minute since they parted, and he could already feel the neglect turning into a dull ache at his core, driving him to shift his hips uncomfortably. Even faced with the crushing notion of defeat, he didn’t want to believe that this was really over. After all, those tentacles were still firmly wrapped around his appendages. Perhaps he shouldn’t have been surprised when Alastor took pity on him. The corner of the demon’s lips twitched into a wider, crueler smirk.
“I’m willing to negotiate,” he said, smirking at the way Vincent perked up involuntarily. “And I’ll make it easy for you. All you have to do…Is tell me that you want it.”
Vincent deflated once more, this time in fear rather than embarrassment.
Alastor was right. His lack of resistance this whole time had been pathetic. And now, even presented with what was the most blatant out he’d been given so far, both of them knew that he wasn’t going to take it. He didn’t take any of those other chances. All it had taken was being called good once, for him to realize that he wasn’t nearly as preoccupied with his image as he pretended he was, when there were witnesses. He furrowed his brow in frustration, head knocking back against the carpet to glare up at the ceiling. Really, what did he have to lose? Maybe he could at least find a way to phrase this that would maintain a shred of his dignity.
“I…I want-- gnh--!” He gasped, breath quivering as he felt a thumb graze over his clit, interrupting him mid-sentence. So much for keeping his dignity.
“Yeeees?” Alastor crooned. The sing-song, condescending quality in his voice would’ve infuriated him no matter who it was coming from, in any other circumstance. Now, it only made him feel hotter. He didn’t stop the motion, no matter how much his captive squirmed beneath it. “Go on.”
Fuck. A moment ago, he’d thought any stimulation would’ve been enough to make him cum. Now, faced with this, he was learning that apparently wasn’t the case. Because it just barely wasn’t enough. It was too gentle, too teasing, and while it did further wind the coil in his gut, it’d never be enough to push him over the edge. Or, at least, it would take a while. And he was sure Alastor would pull away, if it seemed like he was getting too close. This was clearly just meant to taunt him by reminding him what he was missing. The pathetic twitches and whines it was pulling from the priest was just a bonus. Vincent could tell that much from the amused twinkle in his eye that had only gotten brighter. He grit his teeth.
“I…want you t-to--... to fffinish what you started.” He managed with a bitter, impatient huff. Alastor quirked a brow.
“Mmm…” he mused, disappointed. “I think you can do better than that.”
The tentacles binding his limbs started to loosen.
Where Vincent should’ve felt relief, he felt pure, blind terror. Even more so when that movement, the only touch he’d been blessed with in what felt like years, started to slow.
Alastor wasn’t bluffing. The threat of denial rung in the air.
”Wait, wait,” he fumbled, curling his knees as if that would do anything to hold back the vines starting to snake back down his limbs. He grabbed his own wrist, and held it there, keeping his arms in position even now that he wasn’t being forced. Trying to keep everything where it was. Trying to force back the clocks back to the very second he wanted them. “Stop!”
Alastor’s voice cut through the fog. Cold, and sharp, and unbending.
“Say it.”
Vincent felt tongue-tied and loose-lipped at the same time. He couldn’t stop the words from flowing from his mouth, though they weren’t nearly as elegant as he’d wanted them to be.
”Fuck, Alastor, come back!” He begged, voice ragged with desperation. “Please, don’t fucking stop. Keep going. Just one more, please, I can’t…” He swallowed the lump in his throat. “...Can’t go without it. P-Please, touch me again, Alastor.”
He couldn’t look at him. The shame was boiling him from the inside out. He wanted to cover his face, but he didn’t dare lift his hands from exactly where he knew Alastor wanted them. And he only barely flinched, when he heard the satisfied cackles that crackled through every speaker in the room. The chill it shot through him did nothing to cool the warmth still coursing through his veins.
“Pathetic.”
The tentacles tightened around his limbs again, tight enough to cut off circulation. Just enough to hurt. Just enough to pull out another filthy, satisfied moan from his prey.
“But I suppose that’s worth something.”
The tentacles coiled up his legs even further than before, like snakes ensnaring their pretty, and Vincent shuddered. They curled around his thighs and pinned him tighter to the ground.
He bit the inside of his lip hard enough to draw blood.
He whined out one last ”please.” And he finally got what he wanted.
Alastor’s mouth returned to his needy cunt, and it was like being struck by lightning. The intensity with which he took him in, and flicked his tongue over and over against his clit, was overwhelming the second it began. In the small pause when all the stimulation had stopped, anticipation had kept him from forgetting where he’d been all too soon. The arousal had only compounded in the time he was denied, making him unbearably sensitive. Somehow worse than before. It was amazing, and terrible, and painful, and fucking perfect, and the moan it tore from his throat said all of that without a single word.
Vincent’s hips jerked involuntarily, his breath only coming to him in short, gasping pants. His fingers flexed and clawed behind him, restless, unable to keep himself still. His heart was hammering hard enough for Alastor to feel it pulsing on his tongue. Claws curled tighter into his hips.
There was something cathartic about being reduced to this. To nothing more than a pathetic, whimpering heap in a demon’s clutches. All the poor bastards whose souls he’d saved had no idea what they were missing, if this is what had been waiting for them just beyond the veil. Of all the sex he’d had in life, it all paled in comparison to this.
“Hhah-- fuck, yes,” He mewled, throwing his head back against the floor hard enough to skew his glasses. He could feel the pleasure winding in his groin begin to hit its peak, just like it had before. His legs quivered with desperation. He was so close, so fucking close. His inner thoughts came out in breathy whimpers. “D-Don’t-- Don’t stop, please--”
This time, Alastor didn’t. His claws curled deeper into his flesh, holding him still as his tongue continued its merciless assault. He could feel his own blood start to trickle down his outer thighs, around his knife-life fingertips. Every twitch, every flick, every touch was pulling him deeper and deeper into the pit of no return. He could feel Hell’s flames lapping at his very soul. The cord that bound his soul to Heaven finally snapped. And something about that realization is what finally pushed him over the edge.
It was even better the second time. His body spasmed with the force of the orgasm that tore out of him. The world spun, and his muscles ached, and tears pricked the corners of his closed eyes, but all the negatives were sublimated, smoothed by the euphoria that crashed over him like a wave. A high, desperate cry tumbled from his throat, before mellowing back into those exhausted little whimpers the demon seemed to have been enjoying before. The relief was nearly overwhelming.
This time, when the continued stimulation became enough to get the poor human to whine, and twitch, Alastor pulled away. And this time, when it was gone, Vincent missed it. But at least it gave him a second to breathe.
Claws released their grip on his outer thighs. Before reeling back entirely, Alastor tilted his head, and licked up the blood that had started to drip around his prodding nails. He hummed in satisfaction.
“Good boy,” He praised. “Every part of you is delicious, my dear.”
Vincent shuddered over even the slightest praise. Alastor’s grin widened.
The demon stepped up onto the stage once more, arms folded behind his back politely. And he watched, as the man sprawled out beneath him breathed slowly, chest rising and falling in an uneven pattern. When Vincent felt his stare, his eyes fluttered open, dreamy and tear-filled as they were. And he just…looked at him, for a moment. The light from the window behind him created the ironic silhouette of a halo behind his head. It didn’t seem so fatally damning, now, to see him as the handsome man that he was.
The tentacles unwound for his limbs, and he wasn’t possessed by the desire to chase them, this time. He let himself relax, as they worked away from his aching joints, and retreated back into the floor by Alastor’s feet. Vincent pulled his arms out from behind him, rolling his shoulders and instinctively placing both palms against the cross still dangling around his neck. Imagery that made Alastor snicker softly to himself. And made Vincent blush once more.
He let the silence hang for a few more moments. He sat, still and obedient, under the quiet scrutiny. But when Alastor started to pull back, breaking their eye-contact and stepping back towards the edge of the stage, it spurred out a question.
“...Why?” Vincent asked, suddenly.
Alastor’s ear flicked. Vincent didn’t elaborate, but the tension in the air made it clear that he had no reason to. The demon knew what he was asking. He turned halfway, back to look at him, and his red eyes examined him clinically. His smile quirked in a way that almost seemed genuine.
“I quite enjoy putting sinners in their place, is all,” He said with a shrug, hopping off the stage once more and onto the ground. “And you seemed like you needed it.”
Vincent couldn’t deny it. In fact, he felt a smile of his own tug at his lips. Still, ashamed, he lifted his hands, rubbing his face with his palms, skewing his glasses worse than they were already. When he looked up again, propped up on his elbows, he saw Alastor standing just in front of the entrance of the hallway. At the boundary of where the light from the window could reach. He was going right back where he came from.
Before he could process the implications of such an action, or perhaps think of better parting words, he watched the demon take a polite bow.
“I’ll see you in Hell,” He said, and took a step backwards. The darkness swallowed his form. He dematerialized, his edges blurring and melting into the shadows, until it could no longer tell where they ended and he began. And when he blinked, he was gone. Like he’d never been there at all.
Vincent stared for a moment, processing. Waiting for a change in the shadows. When none came, he flopped down onto his back once more, the fog in his glasses finally starting to clear as they settled back onto his face. The last words felt burned into the back of his eyelids. Burned onto his brain. Burned into his soul.
See you in Hell.
He’ll be there.