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Vincent had a unique way of broadcasting his vulnerabilities to those with the ability to listen. It wasn’t a literal broadcast - there was no call sign, no words traveling through the radio waves to communicate whatever was bothering him. Instead, a scrambled, manic signal emanated from the top floor of the newly-constructed VoxTek offices, needling at Alastor’s awareness as he approached the building. He was, of course, the only one tuned into the frequency, a habit he and Vincent had developed in tow with their professional relationship. To the untrained ear, it sounded like noise, fittingly like television static with the occasional discontent word or sound laced in.
All Alastor could hear, however, was malcontent. A nonsensical mishmash of mania and desperation for approval that fueled all of Vincent’s actions. It wasn’t as easy to read as the media demon’s expressions, but if there was one thing Alastor was adept at, it was reading his little picture box.
Besides, he could hear the interference from the other side of the pentagram - Vincent had to be particularly upset that day.
Typically, there was no need to announce himself when going to visit the media demon, Vincent was constantly listening for Alastor’s own signal. It was cute. Like a dog waiting at the door, wagging his tail. But Alastor could barely hear himself think over the deafening static, he could only imagine the disarray in Vincent’s head distracted him from outside input as well.
Not that Alastor had any intention of announcing himself - the opportunity to spy on a to-be-overlord that specialized in surveillance was too good to pass up.
“Headquarters” was a generous term for the three floors of office space and small warehouse that Vincent’s operation had taken over. The view from his office was nice, sure, overlooking part of the entertainment district, but Vincent’s ambition could hang the stars, and Alastor knew from conversation that he longed for a tower to help him reach.
Still, it was spacious, framed in dark wood panels and furnished with overtly modern pieces that bordered on the impractical. Such as his desk, which was far larger than necessary, with only a glass shark paperweight and an ashtray to fill the space. On the other side, Vincent huddled over his knees, the glare of the evening sun against the glass of his screen obscuring his expression. Mumbled profanities slipped through the static - likely directed at himself, as was often the case when Vincent thought he was alone.
Alastor moved closer, allowing his shadows to fill the corner of the room to better accommodate his nosy endeavor. Despite proximity, Vincent hadn’t noticed him, his attention honed sharply on his right arm. His sleeve bunched at the elbow, leaving the cobalt flesh of his forearm bare beneath the idle scratching of his claws. A crosshatch of neon blue littered his wrist, glowing faintly against the evening sun.
Interesting.
Cyan suited Vincent to a certain degree. It was the color of his mechanized parts, the color his screen glowed when he flustered - presumably, it was the color of at least one of his eyes when he was alive, given the mismatched rings around them as a sinner. They’d been in fights, both together and with one another, and Alastor had even inquired the first time he saw the syrupy, glowing liquid that flowed beneath his skin. According to Vincent, the glowing liquid served as some sort of conductor, something to help him channel the static beneath his skin.
The color was… pretty. Though, Alastor couldn’t help but lament that Vincent would look better in red.
Vincent’s manic broadcast came to an abrupt halt. Alastor realized idly that his amusement over the display had gotten ahead of him, revealing to Vincent that he was, in fact, not alone. His head snapped in Alastor’s direction in the split second before he emerged from the shadows, and still, he jumped, a less-than-dignified noise bubbling from his throat as he swiveled the chair around to face him.
“A-Alasss̵̲͛t̴͚̑ö̶̗́r̷̩͗!” Static rippled through his voice. “What- When d-did̴ ̶y̶o̴u̴-”
With a hum, Alastor rounded the chair, dragging his fingers along the leather to spin it with him. Vincent dug his heels in, struggling for leverage to push the chair away, only for shadows to anchor the wheels in place. His cheeks glowed with the same pleasant blue that striped his arm, eyes wide with something close to horror. Vincent pushed himself further into the seat of his chair to try and put some space between them - not unlike a cornered animal.
It was an absolutely delightful sight.
“Making a mess, are we?”
Vincent stayed frozen, shoulders trembling as he struggled to process the situation. Alastor’s gaze jumped from his face to the arm he clutched tightly against him and the neon blue that bled into the fabric of his sweater vest. Vincent followed suit, hesitantly pulling away to inspect the damage.
“Shit… Al, it’s not- It’s not what it looks like-”
Alastor chuckled. “And it looks like a mess.”
Vincent glanced back to his arm, and then to stains on his shirt, a panicked hum radiating from his antennae.
Twirling his staff over his fingers, Alastor pressed the microphone to Vincent’s chin, tipping the television screen up to face him more fully. “Why won’t you let me take a look, pal?”
Any reservations Vincent had about being perceived in that moment melted away. His shoulders relaxed, if only a little, and he released the breath he’d been holding. Slowly, he offered his wrist for inspection, still failing to meet his gaze.
A sharp tug of his hand brought the two of them closer, Alastor leaning in to observe the damage.
Two jagged, angry wounds stretched across Vincent’s forearm - likely caused by the jolt from his sudden intrusion. Alastor slid his hand up, giving the meat of his arm an experimental squeeze, earning an obscene sound from the man in front of him. After a beat, he relented, watching as fluid formed heavy beads along the edges of the wound before trickling down his arm.
The strange liquid certainly behaved like blood - enough so to pique Alastor’s curiosity, at least. He collected a few drops of electric blue on the pad of his finger, before bringing it to his lips to taste. It was more viscous than blood, almost syrupy, immediately numbing the tip of his tongue. Bitter, chemical effervescence tingled in his mouth, tickling his nose unpleasantly.
From the quirk of Vincent’s lips, Alastor realized he must have made a face.
“Is something funny?” He leaned in. “You’re the one with caustic chemicals where there should be blood.”
Alastor could see a quip bubble to the tip of Vincent’s tongue - though, it was easily silenced by digging a single nail into one of the wounds. He yelped, his body stiffening under Alastor’s prodding fingers. Tears sprung to Vincent’s eyes, resembling condensation on a glass of ice tea on a hot summer’s day.
“Poor thing~ Hurts, doesn’t it?” Alastor hummed, craning his head unnaturally to enter Vincent’s line of sight.
Red filled his vision as Alastor dipped into his line of sight. The demon’s ears flicked and stood straight, his neck bent at an angle that was uncomfortable to even look at, all in the name of what he had to assume was sick curiosity.
“Though, I suppose that was your goal, wasn’t it?”
For the tenth time in as many minutes, Vincent’s fans kicked into overdrive in an attempt to cool his trembling body. He wished, desperately, that Alastor couldn’t read him as well as he often did.
Primarily because he was right - Vincent wanted the shallow cuts on his arm to hurt, and he wanted them to hurt for days.
His reasoning changed with the weather - control, distraction, self loathing, any combination of the three. It was a habit he’d picked up as a living teenager for fuck’s sake, sometime between his mother’s untimely death and his father’s final assertion that he’d never amount to anything shortly before heart disease did him in. Just like any other habit, kicking it had proved much harder than he anticipated, and when he found himself alone and reeling, a razor (or claws, in this case) always felt welcome.
It was so fucking embarrassing.
He made no moves to pull his arm away from Alastor’s grasp, however, only dug his free hand into the armrest of his chair.
“I wonder…” A static drawl peppered the radio demon’s voice. “How deep would I have to dig to get to your actual blood?”
Right. He had human blood somewhere in there.
Vincent swallowed thickly.
Alastor’s amusement, the glimmer in his eye as he pawed at the throbbing cuts on his arm - it was frightening, honestly. Unfortunately, Vincent had long since reconciled the very thin line between “horrifying” and “erotic as fuck” upon which Alastor stood. Denying his curiosity never even crossed his mind.
With a grin, the demon pushed away from the desk, leaving his staff behind him as he slid into Vincent’s lap. One leg balanced him while the other hooked over his knees, cold hands pulling his arm into his lap to more closely inspect the damage. It was shameful, having Alastor poke at his weakness like a science experience - but a deeper (even more shameful) part of himself fucking loved it. Loved the attention, loved the way static accompanied the even rise and fall of Alastor’s chest, loved the fact that he was close enough to even feel that. But more than anything, he loved the discomfort in his arm and the fact that Alastor was the one causing it.
“Demon bodies are so resilient, aren’t they? Usually, superficial wounds don’t leave scars.”
A claw caught on the raised skin of each fading scar it passed.
Vincent ducked his head, though he was sure that the heat radiating off his plastic casing was noticeable at this point. There were a lot of boons that came with being a demon. Vincent’s parts for all intents and purposes, were interchangeable, and his body regenerated with as little as a good night’s sleep (not that he got many). He learned quickly that his body didn’t scar under normal conditions
He had tried not to be disappointed.
“My silly little picture box…” Alastor hummed again, this time much closer than Vincent had realized. His spare hand tapped against the plastic, tilting his head up to look at him. “I’m sure I can leave a scar. Would you like some help?”
Electricity leapt between his antennae, static settling over them. Alastor’s hair stood up in a few places, something that Vincent would comment on in a heartbeat in literally any other scenario, but his mouth had already gone dry. He was expecting Alastor to belittle him for his pass time - humiliate him in that haughty, melodic tone that Vincent found absolutely addicting.
Not that this wasn’t humiliating.
What he wasn’t expecting was “help”. Typically, “help” for people like him meant getting sent to a “nice home upstate”, not… Whatever Alastor was offering. He still wasn’t sure.
But Alastor was right, Vincent really wanted it to scar. Hundreds of times he’d opened fresh wounds from the remnants of old in hopes that he’d wake up with small reminders. That was one thing he missed about his human body - well, besides his dashing looks. He missed the fragility, the sting of fresh cuts to distract him from whatever storm brewed in his head.
Vincent had never felt as close to godhood as he did in that fragile human body, and the sickest part of him missed running his own fingers over the raised skin to remind him of the his victories - even if they were victories over himself.
Alastor found permission in his silence. His grin sharpened along with his claws, the familiar hiss of radio static clouding Vincent’s head. He couldn’t quite interpret the sound, at least not yet, just knew that it was an involuntary reaction to Alastor feeling something strongly. Usually anger or annoyance - which he hoped wasn’t the case.
He trailed his index finger from Vincent’s hand down, the nail tugging at mangled skin along the way until he found a relatively unmarred stretch about halfway to his elbow. His claws were sharp enough that his first cut barely stung, sliding across his skin like pen to paper. The sensation was almost pleasant. Deceptively pleasant, actually.
Alastor traced his work back to the apex, using his free hand to steady Vincent’s arm in his lap. With little warning, he pressed his claw into the wound, shredding muscle and spilling more syrupy blue onto his lap.
Several things happened simultaneously. Vincent let out one of the least dignified noises he’d ever made. He yanked his arm free, his spare hand releasing the armrest of his desk chair to latch onto the back of Alastor’s coat. Wires sprung from the back of his casing, wrapping around Alastor’s hand and waist as if he were some kind of threat -
He was a threat. The radio demon himself sat in his lap and split open his arm with childlike curiosity, as if he were a frog beneath a scalpel in science class. Vincent’s heart hammered in his chest as the initial pain subsided, giving way to the familiar sound of radio static once more.
"Vincent.”
Oh, he was definitely annoyed this time.
“S-S-S̶o̸r̵r̶y̸…” Vincent stammered, voice fizzling to match the pixilated interference on his screen. “I’m sorry…”
Alastor cocked a brow. “Are you done squirming?”
Vincent nodded quickly. After a beat, he let go of Alastor’s jacket, his wires slowly unwinding and returning to him. He hesitated to offer the demon his arm once more, but the look of satisfaction Alastor flashed when he finally did made it worth it.
Once more, Alastor prodded at the fresh wound - his claws looked longer now, needling at the angry flesh as if to test Vincent’s resolve. The sensation was short lived, however, before a razor sharp nail dug into the muscle, this time striking gold.
Blood, angry and vibrant and so, so red, gushed from the wound, quickly spilling over Vincent’s arm, onto Alastor’s lap. Immediately, his head swam - Vincent knew he was a strong demon, it was empirical. He wasn’t quite an overlord, not quite to Alastor’s level, but he had torn sinners limb from limb without so much as breaking a sweat. As such, it had been a long time since he saw that shade or red come from his body.
Leave it to Alastor to draw something so human out of him.
“Haha.” the radio demon’s chuckle lit fire to Vincent’s rapidly dulling senses. “Nice to see you still have a radial artery in this half-mechanical body of yours, pal.”
“O-Of course I do-” Vincent could feel his wires creeping into his peripheral - his body’s natural reaction to being in such danger. “A-Al…”
Muscle gave way to Alastor’s dissection once more, earning more tears and demoralizing whimpers. Satisfied with the damage, the radio demon lifted his arm up by the wrist, watching as blood flowed downward and began to soak his shirt.
Blood loss made it easy to relax into the motion, Vincent allowing his arm to fall limp against Alastor’s grip. He felt like a rag doll, and couldn't help but wonder how long it might take a demon to die of exsanguination. Not that he could truly die, or that drifting off into anemic sleep with Alastor nestled into his lap was an unpleasant way to go.
Alastor, on the other hand, was wide awake and focused keenly on his work. Scarlet eyes shined, pupils wide at, presumably, the sight of Vincent’s blood. He couldn’t help but shudder under the attention.
“Red suits you, Vincent.”
Alastor’s grin split, his jaw unhinging with an anticipatory hum that seized the breath from Vincent’s chest. His tongue rolled out of his mouth as be pulled the bloody appendage closer. He gave the wound an inquisitive taste before wrapping his tongue around Vincent’s wrist completely - clearly, he had no concern for the mess he was making. Blood trickled down Alastor’s chin, staining his shirt collar and lapels.
It was the most erotic thing Vincent had ever seen, honestly. He felt as thought he might pass out if any more blood rushed to his dick-
Actually, he might pass out regardless-
Vincent’s head tipped forward under its own weight, resting against Alastor’s shoulder despite his best efforts to stay upright. Alastor stopped his ministrations, dilated pupils falling to the side to watch him for a few moments. With a final, languid motion of his tongue against Vincent’s arm, he straightened.
“I suppose I shouldn’t bleed you completely dry~”
A shadow snaked up the back of the chair and down Vincent’s arm, twisting slowly around his arm and squeezing almost painfully. Dully, he realized Alastor was attempting stop the bleeding - how polite. The radio demon waved his free hand over the wound, electric green threads weaving through his skin to pull the it closed. It stung, but Vincent couldn’t bring himself to care.
He never noticed the the near constant, quiet radio chatter that accompanied Alastor wherever he went, but their proximity meant that Vincent could practically feel the hum in the man’s chest. It almost comforted him. The flutter of his own heart drowned out the torrent of feelings he’d nearly succumbed to just a few minutes earlier. It felt like hours had passed, and the thought of lifting his heavy head from Alastor’s shoulder made him want to cry.
The radio demon tapped a claw against the casing of his television. “Are you feeling better, darling?”
Vincent struggled to find his words. “I d-d-d̴o̴n̸'̷t̵- hnng…”
How the fuck did he answer that question?
Alastor grinned. “Would you like me to fetch Ethan? Have him take care of this mess you’ve made.”
If Vincent had better sense, he’d tell Alastor to fuck off - it’s not like he was making a mess before he showed up and invited himself in.
(Of course, he had terrible sense, and the fever dream he’d just experienced had his stomach filled with butterflies.)
“N̷o̷o̶-̸o̷-̶o-” Static flooded his speech, a meekness he hadn’t felt since he was a child settling over him like a lead weight. “B-But-”
“Hmm?” God that voice. “Use your words, dear.”
Vincent had no pride left to hold his words back. “Could we just… s-s-s̷t̴a̶y̶ like t-t̴͓́h̴͓̕i̵̹̐s̴͈͠ for a bit?”
A careful hand trailed down his arm again, the pads of Alastor’s fingers pausing over the stitching he’d willed into existence - like he was savoring it.
Alastor dove into his breast pocket, retrieving the pack of cigarettes Vincent had, honestly forgotten about until that moment. He helped himself, plucking one from the box and holding it up expectantly. It took Vincent an embarrassing moment to catch on, weakly summoning a spark to the tip of his claw to light it.
The radio demon took a long drag. “I suppose I have some time to spare given that you gave me such a sweet treat.”
“T-Thank you.”