What would part 2 of Alastor Yandere with his wife be like? Like, now that Alastor has a contract with his son, he makes the reader play the role of his wife, with a ring and everything? For example: sleeping together, having a romantic dinner alone, or even wearing matching outfits (I think he stole that idea from Charlie and Vaggie). I think that, even being manipulative and controlling, he would listen to the reader's wife's opinion, and I saw a post saying that Alastor might be sadomasochistic and sadistic. Imagine Alastor doing something the reader doesn't like just to be punished by her? Maybe he thinks her anger towards him is fleeting, he knows the reader is a good person (cough cough angel), so, with time and coexistence, the reader's good heart will forgive him at some point (it's easy to hate your ex-husband when he's not in front of you all the time). And will the father-son moments where Alastor teaches his son to protect and safeguard his mother actually happen? Or will it end with Alastor revealing 50 unknown facts about how his mother sleeps so sweetly and how her hair gets that morning shine?
➺ Summary: The Seraphims send you and your son to Hell to carry out Charlie's plan for Redemption. Unfortunately, your ex-husband is there and determined to keep you by his side now that he's found you. This is part 2 of "Forever"
➺ Warning: Blood, violence, Alastor our obsessive international red flag
➺ Author’s note : Wow, I'm so shocked and touched that you liked this request! So many of you asked for a second part, so here it is! I also know that many of you wanted to see Abel again and for him to get a chance. I wasn't quite sure how to incorporate his presence into this second part because of Alastor's obsessive control over his wife's schedule. I mean… he literally manages his wife's days down to the minute 💀 I hope you enjoy this second part! English isn't my native language, so I apologise for any mistakes. I'll do my best to make it enjoyable to read!
The room was silent, and aside from the occasional ambient sounds of the bayou illusion from your old home, only Alastor's slow, rhythmic breathing could be heard. You waited for hours, eyes closed, muscles relaxed, feigning a deep sleep. You endured the discomfort, fighting the urge to remove his arm from around your waist, holding you against his chest. Nevertheless, the hours passed, and finally the Radio Demon's grip loosened, allowing you to gently withdraw his arm. Slowly, you sat up, the mattress rippling beneath your weight. Your eyes swept over your ex-husband's sleeping face, and despite the familiar features, the nostalgia of those early days was gone. That sweet, cumbersome feeling vanished the day he dared to use your son in his schemes. You never imagined your marriage would descend into such chaos, yet you never imagined your ex-husband would betray you like this, concealing his crimes until they exploded in the open upon his death, leaving you as the sole target of the grieving families' resentment and a morbidly curious public.
Your hands grip your pillow, your fingers digging deep into the soft fabric. You lift it slowly. You barely breathe as you do everything you can not to wake him. Slowly, ever so gently, you bring the pillow closer to his face until it is violently pressed against it. In a bestial surge, you climb on top of him, pinning him to the mattress as his body thrashes against your attempt to suffocate him. You squeeze harder and harder, until the knuckles of your fingers turn white. Tears well up in the corners of your eyes; rage consumes you, blinding you. You aren't sad, or perhaps just a little, because there was always that nagging thought in the back of your mind wondering how your marriage would have continued if he hadn't been a murderer. You're angry, you're furious, for everything he did in his human life that you never got to shout at him, for everything he forced you to do in Hell, and worse still, for everything he did to keep you there, even using your son against you. You press the pillow against his face until his movements weaken. So what if you lose your wings, so what if you're banished from Heaven after this? Your desire to kill is stronger than anything.
Your muscles go numb, Alastor's laughter rises into the air as if you were hearing it over a radio. Your chest tightens with apprehension, your heart breaks with disappointment at the failure of your murder attempt. Of course, your failure was obvious; you don't kill an Overlord with mere weapons, but you had that faint hope…no, it wasn't hope. You didn't act according to a precise plan…you acted out of desperation, cornered until the only option left was to kill your ex-husband to free yourself and your son from his grasp.
“It's fascinating. I wondered how long it would take my little angel to succumb to her dark side.” He mocks you. “Tell me, what's it like being a murderer like me?”
“I'm not like you.” You spit bitterly at his provocations.
A mysterious force pulls you from him, pins your back against the mattress, your arms stretched out at your sides. Tentacles hold you captive. You grimace, no longer bothering to feign anything, fully displaying the hatred you feel for this man. Alastor laughs, he always does when you reveal your true intentions, he always says you're far more beautiful when you're not pretending to be an angel. Do you feel his power pulsing against your wrists in time with his laughter, or is it in time with your heartbeat? His claws trace a path along your abdomen, which buckles beneath his touch, moving up your solar plexus, lingering on the curve that hides your heart from his view. He feels the frantic throbbing against his warm fingers, his former warmth dissipated, leaving only a ghostly echo against your own, more pronounced, almost human heat.
Silence falls. Each of you gazes into the other's eyes, searching for something intangible, something that might still bind them, a trace of the past that could sustain this complex relationship. You are resolute, certain you hate him. But the nostalgia for the past remains, the memory of who you once were, slightly softening the edges. Like an anesthetic balm on a gaping wound, it only soothes, never resolving the problem. You stop struggling, no longer wanting to waste your strength. His fingers slide from your heart to kiss the curve of your cheek, his thumb wiping away the nascent tears. He doesn't speak; his eternal smile has faded as his pupils capture the light reflected in your tears.
"Why?" This simple word slides off your tongue like a bitter pill you refuse to swallow. A simple question that contains so many others: Why did you kill? Why did you destroy the life we had together? Were you already like that before our marriage?
Alastor smiles, not mockingly, but out of habit. You ask him why… Ah, that question… the one that has burned on your lips for decades, with no answer to soothe the lingering pain. He knows exactly, through your dilated pupils, your trembling irises, what you want to hear. You seek a confession that will allow you to bury your relationship for good, or a confession that will allow you to justify all the horrors he committed. You look for a weakness, a crack in his persistent smile. But that would be a lie, a way of deluding yourself into thinking you have a fleeting dream. He was never a broken man; life wasn't kind, but he never gave in. He didn't slide into murder the way one slides into vice. He didn't kill by accident, out of necessity, or out of madness, but simply because he could.
Because the world, already cruel, rewards those who take rather than those who ask. And above all, because controlling the very nature of humanity has always seemed more honest to him than the gospels dictated every Sunday.
His claws gently trace your face, still wiping away the incessant tears as the silence drags on, as the waiting knots your stomach with discomfort. You didn't create this monster; you loved him before he gave him a name. And that…that makes him strangely grateful.
“My dear…” His voice breaks the thick tension with a human gentleness, without artifice, without radio static. “You torment yourself for answers you aren't ready to accept.”
“Alastor, I want to understand.” You insist. He had no right to refuse you this explanation. You clench your teeth, swallowing the bitter sting of frustration.
“No, you want me to choose for you how to end the conflicting feelings that plague you.” He corrects you, his shoulders tense.
He tilts his head slightly, his scarlet eyes fixed on yours. His knees are on either side of your hips, the mattress shifts beneath him as he repositions himself, his weight pressing down on you a little more.
“Very well, I’ll give you an answer.” His smile tightens, his calm breath brushes against your damp cheeks. A moment of emptiness falls, just enough for a small spark of hope to take root. “I didn’t kill because I lacked something. I never killed out of anger, or weakness, or because I was lost. I killed because I could.”
“That’s the essential point.”
“You have no regrets.” It’s an affirmation, the conclusion of your listening.
His eyelids narrowed almost imperceptibly as the full extent of the darkness within your ex-husband hit you. Imagining and theorizing about reasons never prepares you for the stark, unvarnished truth. The relief of having been right was eclipsed by the pain of a poignant reality you never truly confronted.
“I regret that you found out.” That you had to live with consequences that weren’t yours. Yes, regret is perhaps the most human emotion he could feel in this moment.
“…Were you already like this when you married me?”
Ah…the question he’d been avoiding. The one he didn’t want to answer completely, the one that, no matter the answer, would break you more than you cared to admit. Your gaze dulled, an old weariness; the weariness of a soul that had waited too long, hoped too long, simply lived too long.
He wipes away a final tear, the one that escapes when the others have already dried on your skin. A last tear, containing the remnants of your raw emotions. Your lips tremble; you open them, then close them again, hesitating over the necessity of sharing your thoughts. Was it worth it? Would it lead to anything? But this was surely the last time Alastor allowed himself to appear so accessible.
“So…it was all a lie?” you ask yourself. It was a ridiculous question, full of gullibility, a question that didn’t resemble the mother you had become but rather the young woman in love you had to bury so early in your life.
“No…What’s wrong is the idea that love makes us better.” His human voice envelops you, unable to comfort you despite the nostalgic affection it awakens in your heart. “I loved you, I still love you, but I won’t change.”
And that’s all he’ll let you know. That’s all he’ll allow himself to divulge. And that’s already more than he should have shared.
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“I thought that discovering who my father is would help me understand things about my mother, about myself! Do you know how hard it is to be a father without a male role model? Imagine if I had ruined my children’s lives by making a mistake? And then for my own development too… my mother died when I was young, but I was lucky enough to share fifteen wonderful years with her…” Mikhâ’êl sighs deeply as he recounts his story in a disjointed stream of consciousness.
“If you ask me, he was right not to have known his father before…” Husk murmurs, earning a laugh from Cherry Bomb.
The angel is participating in today’s exercise because Charlie suggested he join them rather than wander around the library feeling guilty and avoiding his mother for fear of facing disappointment. The angel is lying on the floor, his head on a comfortable pillow, staring at the ceiling as if contemplating not the monochrome white but the film of his memories flashing before his eyes.
“I know what you need. Stop whining about your fate like a piece of shit and come enjoy the life that's right here. There are tons of things those stuck-up asses in Heaven certainly don't have that you need to try. A new nightclub just opened,” Cherry interjects.
“I've never had the chance to enjoy nightclubs or bars. From a very young age, I had to take on a string of odd jobs to help my grandparents. Mechanic, delivery boy, clerk, janitor…”
“Okay, okay.” Cherry cuts him off mid-list of jobs. “Damn, his life is so depressing. Come on. Who's in?”
And so, Mikhâ’êl, Cherry Bomb, Husk, and Angel Dust sat at a table in a corner of the colorful establishment. The lights and flashes made the brown-curled angel squint. He swore under his breath that even the light of the Speaker of God wasn't that blinding. His comment made his companions laugh, and they wondered what life was like for a Winner.
"Wait, wait, are you telling me that Adam paid people to come see him perform so he wouldn't flop?" Angel Dust slammed his fist on the table, his laughter still audible over the loud music.
"That's not what I said. But… he was the type to give out generous gifts at his concerts when ticket sales weren't going well." Mikhâ’êl hummed, a smile hidden by his glass as he took a sip of his drink. He grimaces; the alcohol is stronger than anything found in Heaven.
“That’s putting it politely, he was bribing people to avoid flopping.” Husk sniffs, a smile playing on his lips.
“So you were his DJ?” Angel asks.
“I was everything he needed: DJ, bassist, or drummer. Eternity has taught me a lot.”
“You think you can put on a show for the Sinners?”
“Angel, Angel, Angel… I can do much better. I can get most of the girls onto the dance floor.”
“SHIT! I want to see that!”
“How much do you want to bet?”
“Ooh, a Winner making a deal with a Sinner,” Angel Dust purrs, almost provocatively.
“My father’s bad influence.”
“You learn fast, kid.” Husk teases.
“Fifty bucks.” Angel Dust offers.
Mikhâ’êl leaps up from the plush banquette and strides confidently toward the stage where the DJ has been spinning tunes for the past few hours. The angel doesn't know where he finds all his courage, especially knowing he should be keeping a low profile, but if he's condemned to stay here for ten years, he might as well enjoy himself a little instead of living in the shadows. Besides, he can always blame it on the alcohol… and in the worst-case scenario, he'll sell out his partners in crime to direct his parents' wrath at them. It's never too late to get through your rebellious teenage phase.
“SINNER!! WHERE THE GIRLIES AT?” Mikhâ’êl shouts as he starts fiddling with a few knobs on the DJ deck.
Rihanna's “Only Girl (In The World)” blasts from the nightclub's powerful speakers. With one hand raised, the angel starts jumping up and down, encouraging the sinners to join the dance floor. Contrary to Angel Dust and Cherry's beliefs, it only takes ten short seconds to convince most of the girls to join him on the dance floor and sing along with Mikhâ’êl.
"WANT YOU TO MAKE ME FEEL LIKE I'M THE ONLY GIRL IN THE WORLD! Angel Dust, you owe me 50 bucks! LIKE I'M THE ONLY ONE THAT YOU'LL EVER LOVE!"
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From the outside, they looked like a perfect little family, or almost. Dressed in red, perfectly groomed and styled in the fashion of the 1930s, the parent-child trio was out at a restaurant. It was the idea of the Radio Demon, who hummed cheerfully, his microphone in hand while the other was offered to you—an act of courtesy that wasn't received as a kind gesture but as a silent obligation to conform to the ideal imposed by your ex-husband. You felt the weight of their stares. A truce had been granted between Heaven and Hell, but that didn't mean the Sinners had forgiven the years of extermination, and you had the distinct impression that if you weren't attacked in the street, it was thanks to your ex-husband's terrifying reputation. You glance briefly at Mikhâ’êl, whose straight back and confidently raised head do not fool you; his gaze is drawn to the ground, as if he were trying to bury himself six feet underground.
“Mikhâ’êl! You can’t draw attention to yourself like that! Imagine if there were resentful Sinners around?!” You scold him, worry making you lose your composure.
“Mom, nothing happened! I wasn’t alone, nothing would have happened to me!” your son protests. “You always treat me like a child!”
“Because you act like one! You don’t know what could have happened, you haven’t seen what a Sinner is capable of! You…” But you bite your tongue to hold back your words, desperately trying to control your emotions.
But Angel Dust falls silent instantly under your furious gaze. You had forgotten about them, but they are the reason your son found himself surrounded by Sinners who could have shared a—justified—hatred for Heaven and put your child’s life in danger.
“What your mother is trying to tell you is that a bullet between the eyes happens much faster than you think,” Alastor interjects, but despite his smile, the dangerous glint in his eyes, which linger on the three Sinners of the Hazbin Hotel, contrasts sharply with the radio-like hum of his voice.
Mikhâ’êl bites his lower lip but stops defending himself and simply accepts the reproaches. He could understand a parent’s worry for their child, but he simply hoped you would stop seeing him as the teenager he was. He had to survive without you on Earth; he’s capable of doing it in Hell.
“Mikhâ’êl…” You begin, regret burning in your stomach since the very night of your argument.
“Here we are.” Alastor interrupts, gesturing with his microphone to the storefront of a vintage restaurant that, unsurprisingly, perfectly matches the old-fashioned tastes of the deer demon.
You click your tongue against the roof of your mouth, a frown etched across your face in growing frustration. You shoot a murderous glare at Alastor, who receives your irritation with a broad, irritating smile, and you know then that he is deliberately trying to prevent you from speaking to your child. Is he really trying to create a rift in your relationship with Mikhâ’êl? Is he trying to isolate you, to take your place in your son’s eyes to have more control over your actions? Or perhaps you are becoming too paranoid? Perhaps you're imagining things, that he's letting you get carried away and sabotage yourself without him lifting a finger? You hate the constant tension he creates within you. You hate how he now impacts every aspect of your life.
Alastor opens the door wide, steps aside to let you in first. He's always done this, for you, for other women. He's always been a gentleman, and it was his politeness to everyone that initially attracted you. A man who is kind to all women, without ulterior motives, without needing to be attracted to a woman to behave properly… that was rare, and you liked it. It's in everyday life and its habits that you truly get to know someone, that's what your mother used to say. But she was wrong. Alastor is living proof that even everyday life can be distorted over the years. Your ex-husband's hand lingers on the small of your back, inviting you to step through the doorway. A shiver runs down your spine. As if he'd just electrocuted you, you shy away from his touch, stepping sharply into the restaurant.
Jazz plays in the background, accompanied by the whispers of conversations, each trying to remain discreet, and the clinking of cutlery against plates. Your gaze softens slightly, and nostalgia for the past takes root in your heart like a wildflower. This restaurant…it reminds you of the one he used to take you to regularly. It wasn't very expensive; in fact, it was quite affordable in those times, but you wanted to come often to support the elderly couple who ran it. They were so kind and caring, helping you through your pregnancy despite all the hatred New Orleans held for you. You feel tears welling up in the corners of your eyes. Your heart had been torn when you had to leave the city for your son's safety and your own.
Before you knew it, Alastor had shown you to your table for three. He said nothing, didn't break your contemplation of the restaurant's exquisite decor. He didn't want to interrupt you as you soaked in the memories this place evoked. He simply smiled, his eyes crinkled with mischievous satisfaction.
“Oh! My sweet child, you are still as radiant as I remembered… oh… Mikha…! You have grown so much, you are as tall as your father, perhaps even taller! I remember you were no bigger than three apples the last time I saw you. Alastor was right when he said you came down from Heaven, I thought he was a fool, haha!”
Your lips tremble as the time-worn figure of an old Sinner approaches your table. A gentle smile plays on her lips as she observes you through her round glasses. That voice…that appearance…you would recognize her anywhere, despite all the changes Hell makes to the human body. It was the old lady from the restaurant!
“Come now, don’t cry, my dear child!” the old lady laughs warmly.
“Even after death, we always wanted to continue serving our meals. It’s gratifying to see the satisfied smiles of our customers. And thanks to Alastor, we were able to continue to prosper without any problems.”
“Huh? Alastor?” You turn mechanically toward the scarlet demon, who seems uninterested in the praise without appearing disrespectful.
“The first extermination, my dear child. It was atrocious. But he saved us; he mentioned that you would be sad if we were to die…” she explains, sometimes pausing mid-sentence to search for distant memories.
Your heart skips a beat, your breath catches, your eyes widen. He… It’s impossible… Had he truly committed this ridiculous act without the certainty that one day they would meet again? This generosity doesn’t fit the image your mind has constructed of him. Hesitation and uncertainty are slightly but surely cracking the certainty you have about your ex-husband’s wretched character. Not enough to call everything into question, but enough to offer him an opportunity to seize.
Absorbed in your introspection, lost in Alastor’s scarlet gaze, you don’t notice the movement of the shadow snaking across the floor. Not even when the shadow's sharp claws hand a generous wad of bills to the old woman's husband behind the counter, sealing their deal.
"Wait…you know me?" Mîkhâ’êl asks after giving you a moment to share in your reunion.
"Of course, I witnessed your father's courtship of your mother and all the important milestones in their lives. I helped your mother during her pregnancy; there's almost nothing better than Grandma's remedies for soothing morning sickness," the grandmother chuckles affectionately, pulling a notepad from her apron. "But we can talk about it after your meal. This is your first family dinner out, I believe? What can I get you?"
"The daily special for me; I want to be surprised," Mîkhâ’êl exclaims.
"The usual for me." Alastor says, he continues before you have a chance to speak. “And for her…”
You freeze. How…? How does he know what dish you want? No, the real question is…why does he remember such a trivial detail? Your eyes narrow in incomprehension, but also with a feeling you can’t quite name, something powerful…it’s the pure and simple rejection of the absurd idea that maybe he wasn’t lying the night he answered your questions. That maybe…just maybe, he loves you.
“It’s always the dish you order when your emotions overwhelm you. What did you call it again…? Ah, I remember…Comfort food?”
Nausea rises in your throat, the world seems to crumble beneath your feet as you hear the contemptuous, despicable image of Alastor cracking in your mind. Just a little more. It was impossible. A monster cannot love. This isn't love; it has to be a plan. He still has a deal with your son to keep you under control. He isn't in love; he simply wants you to live in the past with him, unable to move forward. You excuse yourself from the table, rushing to the back room where the restrooms are located, under your son's worried gaze and Alastor's ever-present smile.
"What's gotten into her ?" Mîkhâ’êl asks in a drawling voice.
"Women and their mysteries, you know how it is." Alastor hums cheerfully, earning a raised eyebrow from your son.
"I suppose so… Sometimes I forget that my mother is a woman too."
“Don’t let her hear you say that, she hits pretty hard when she’s angry.”
For the first time, father and son shared a laugh, though Mîkhâ’êl's was more reserved. A friendly conversation flowed naturally, as if they had never been apart, as if they had always had this bond, this connection. And as strange as it might seem, the angel felt at ease. Not as if he were with a father, but as if he were with a presence that could become close to him. It was difficult to replace the father figure who must be waiting for him in Heaven; sometimes guilt gnawed at him when he spent time with his biological father, as if he were betraying Abel and the bond they had built over decades.
The dishes were placed before them, and the angel’s chocolate-brown eyes lingered on the thick steam rising from your plate. He then remembered the conversation from about twenty minutes earlier.
“My mother used to say, ‘I remember’ is more romantic than saying ‘I love you.’ I didn’t understand until I met my wife.”
Mîkhâ’êl smiled tenderly at the memories of his wife. She was still alive, and he still waited for her, without hoping she would join him, for that would mean passing through death. Yet, despite the erosion of time on memories, the smallest features of his wife were etched in his mind, every tiny detail, including the intonations of her voice and the slight accent that emerged when emotion overwhelmed her.
“I always bought mild toothpaste because I know she can’t stand it when it’s too strong; she finds it stings her nostrils. I stopped cooking dishes with orange because she hates the taste. And even after my death, I continued to feed the pigeons in Heaven because we used to do it, and she was deeply saddened that birds brought into cities by humans were now considered pests.” The angel’s voice softened with palpable affection as he recounted a non-exhaustive list of what he remembered about his wife.
Ordinarily, Alastor would have flashed his famous smile, not really listening to the lovestruck banter. Or perhaps he would have mocked such a display of weakness, as he had done years before with Vincent. But something resonated within him; it was faint, almost invisible, something he could ignore if he wanted to. Yet he doesn't, because his son's words resonate with his own past. Everything he learned about you to seduce you, furthering his professional ambitions and gaining access to your family's contacts, he remembers perfectly now. Superfluous information, etched in his memory. Reciting your favorite perfume or your favorite color to wear on a Wednesday—which he always found ridiculous—he remembers as easily as breathing.
"She also said that the most beautiful love language was 'not having to ask,'" Alastor shares, drawing his son's attention.
Alastor didn't know why, simply that his words flowed from his tongue as easily as water. The tension at the corners of his lips intensified; he felt control slipping through his fingers, yet he reassured himself. Everything was progressing smoothly. Sharing a brief moment of complicity with his son would allow him to reach you more easily in the long run. He has ten years to possess you again.
“Don’t you think she’s taking a long time?” the angel observed, her face turned toward the clock.
Thirty-five minutes had passed, and you still hadn’t returned.
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You watch the Media Demon rack his brains for several minutes. In his quest to understand why Alastor is so interested in you, Vox never misses an opportunity to hurl insults at you without any subtlety. The fear of your abduction has dissipated, replaced by growing irritation. So not only is your ex-husband a sadistic murderer who shows no remorse for his actions, but he also has an obsessive fan who has decided to target you to understand why he married you? You’re not sure if he’s jealous of your former marriage or not. A loud sigh escapes your lips, interrupting his insulting musings. His gaze hardens with an indifference that doesn’t match yours. A long silence falls before he rests his head in his claws, gesturing for you to speak.
“Ah? Can I finally speak? Have you finally stopped talking about my ex-husband as if I were the one disrupting your one-sided situationship?” You mutter under your breath. “I spent over ten long years with him, and I only learned what kind of monster he was after he died. Even now, I don’t know what he thinks; he’s so unpredictable! So don’t ask me how I get his attention or how I managed to get him to ‘team up with me’ because I haven’t a clue! I don’t even know my own ex-husband. And I’m emphasizing the term ‘ex-husband’ because apparently, it doesn’t stop his obsessive fan from kidnapping me when I want nothing more to do with him!”
Your breathing is labored at the end of your monologue. Your words cascade from your lips like a river pouring into the ocean. It’s fast, frantic, and wild. All the frustration born from the tension of the events you've been subjected to suddenly explodes. Your wings swell behind you, like a feline trying to appear more imposing in the face of a threat. The difference is that you're not trying to feign anything; your fury is very real. Vox remains speechless, frozen by your sudden outburst. Silence falls like an avalanche; no one dares move in the restaurant owned by the Vees. And strangely, he perceives a certain similarity between your stories. You are both victims of Alastor's cruel game.
You sigh loudly as you straighten up in your chair. The cables around you are uncomfortable, but aside from a slight grimace of displeasure, you keep quiet about the discomfort. It's not as if you're going to be able to convince your captor to release you from your bonds… Hmm? The cables loosen around your figure. It's not enough to set you free, but enough to allow you to breathe comfortably and shift slightly in your chair. You blink, unsure how to process this unspoken information, and slowly raise your gaze to Vox, who remains indifferent as if he knows nothing. Clearly, he shares this irritating trait with Alastor: never answering questions. Nevertheless, you're not about to turn your nose up at this meager freedom.
"Do I really have to repeat myself?"
You're inert, frozen, paralyzed by this irrelevant question, but above all by his audacity and insolence. You inhale slowly, biting the harsh words that burn your tongue. Rule number one for survival: never offend your kidnapper.
"Me too, especially white fish." You raise an eyebrow, silently acknowledging his good taste. He continues. “You like sharks?”
“…I suppose so? I prefer more traditional pets, though.” You reply slowly, frowning in incomprehension.
“You don’t know what you’re missing. You should meet Shock.Wav, you’d change your mind immediately.”
Is the world gone mad, or are you the one who's gone mad? What's going on? One moment he was subtly insulting you—almost explicitly—by bringing up everything your husband did to him, and the next he was asking you personal questions as if you were on a speed dating show and only had thirty minutes to get to know the person in front of you. What changed in the meantime? Was it because of your emotional outburst that he felt compassion? Impossible. Or was he trying to become like you to lure Alastor into a 'partnership'? But what kind of partnership? You weren't even sure if you and Vox shared the same definition of partnership, given his irrational obsession. Oh…another thing he and your ex-husband have in common. Maybe they really are meant to be partners. Preferably far away from you.
When you snap out of your introspection, Vox is still deep in a monologue about an anecdote between Shock.Wav and someone named Val…whom he clearly intends to introduce you to. You're having a lot of trouble understanding his intentions, but you know you have to find your son, left alone in Alastor's clutches. You have to win Vox over to then convince him to free you, and, with a miracle, to come with you.
“What's your favorite movie?” you ask, playing along with his question-and-answer game. You were expecting a shark movie like ‘Jaws.’
You blink. Did you hear that right? Oh Lord Almighty…You feel like you're going to die tonight.
“I really like the plot of the movie.”
“German doctor sews three people ass to mouth.”
God have mercy. You silently beg, imploring the Almighty to come to your rescue. Even Adam risen from the dead would do at this point. You can perfectly picture Vox stabbing you in a dark alley.
“I admire the narrative of character growth.” He explains, a broad smile on his screen.
Okay, this is too much for you. He’s going to eat you alive, literally. You’re going to be the main course of this meal. Is that why the waiters haven’t come to take your order yet? With a forced smile, you nod to everything he says about the film’s qualities, which he describes as a masterpiece. A waiter walks by, and you try to get his attention by blinking in Morse code, pleading for help with an S.O.S.
“Why are you blinking so much?” Vox asks, a predatory smile on his face, as if he's enjoying toying with your discomfort.
"I've got something in my eye."
"Here, let me get it out." Vox's sharp claws approach your eyes. A shiver of horror runs down your spine.
"No thank you, I don't want to die." You politely refuse, shielding his claws from your face with your hands.
"Bonjour, miss was blinking at me, is this because your date is a freak?"
The waiter slips in beside you, and you jump. You didn't hear him coming, a bit like a ghostly apparition chilling the atmosphere. He whispers in your ear. In unison, you watch Vox, leaning over the table, his face resting on the backs of his hands. He relishes every second of your discomfort, and you hate how similar he can sometimes be to Alastor. But where you were certain Alastor wouldn't kill you, you couldn't say the same about the Media Overlord. His wide grin reveals sharp teeth, his eyes narrowed with sadistic pleasure. You steal a pleading glance at the waiter, hoping he'll save you.
"No." But your voice practically screamed the opposite.
"Very good then, bon appétit." The waiter bows and leaves, leaving you utterly stunned.
"Well, where were we, doll?"
Oh, please, someone set you free.
──── ✧《✩》✧ ──────── ✧《✩》✧ ──────── ✧《✩》✧ ────
“You should have seen your face, doll!” Vox roars with laughter, tears welling in the corners of his eyes, and even though they're pixels, they have the same effect on you as if they were real.
Your cheeks are flushed with embarrassment as you endure Vox's relentless mockery for the past ten minutes. He's been toying with you like a cat with a mouse. He's been stressing you out throughout the meal, only to mock you and reveal the truth behind closed doors in his office at the top of the Vees tower. You clench your fists to stop yourself from punching that high-definition screen and shattering it into a thousand pieces. Especially when he has the audacity to rest his head on your lap. You tried to free yourself by bouncing your legs, which is how you ended up with your legs tied to the sofa he'd dragged you onto.
“You know what, Val was right. And I even think he shouldn’t have reattached you to your body so soon.”
“Whoa, doll, that’s almost insulting.” Vox sniffs with amusement. “You’re a sore loser.”
“Look who’s talking.” You tease each other back.
“You know what, I should have let Val put you in one of his movies. Maybe you would have learned to save your lips for something more useful than talking.”
“Whoa, look who’s getting hurtful now.”
The teasing exchange continues for a few more minutes, neither of you wanting to admit defeat. It was strange getting along so well with your kidnapper, if you could call it a cordial understanding. On the other hand, the tension in your muscles has eased; it’s been a long time since you’ve had the chance to talk and laugh without the weight of Alastor’s threats hanging over your shoulders. Nevertheless, you haven't forgotten your primary objective: you must return to your child. Who knows if Alastor hasn't taken advantage of your absence to create a rift in Mîkhâ’êl's heart?
"You know, Vox…" You break the comfortable silence that has settled in. "My son…"
A tremor shakes the entire tower. It's different from an earthquake; it's as if an explosion is shaking the tower's foundations. Before you can react, the glass windows shatter into thousands of shards behind you. The impact sends them flying across the room, some pieces cutting into your arms. Thin golden rivulets run down your arms, soaking patches of your scarlet robe. You hiss in pain, a grimace contorting your face.
"WHAT THE FUCK?!" exclaims Vox, who suddenly straightens up from your thighs, turns towards the intruder before becoming paralyzed.
Before you can even turn around, two deep black tendrils, wrapped in a neon green glow, slam Vox away from you, pinning him against the opposite wall. Your eyes widen in horror, your scream echoing through the office. The tendrils pierce the shoulders of the media Overlord, blood gushing from the gaping wounds. The screen crackles, a trickle of blood runs from his lips, and despite it being mere pixels, your stomach clenches with pure terror. Your breath comes in gasps, as if the air struggles to pass your throat and fill your lungs. Your eyes are unable to look away from the horror of the spectacle unfolding before you.
The slow, rhythmic sound of footsteps behind you echoes louder than the numerous explosions erupting in the tower's lobby. One, two. One, two. An agonizing rhythm, growing louder and louder until it stops. You don't need to look back to know he's right behind you. You hear his calm breathing, too peaceful for what he's just done. Alastor's claws caress your neck, almost tenderly, like cherishing a possession finally regained. He moves up, slowly, very slowly, prolonging the moment as your nerves, on edge, burn at his touch. Your chest rises rapidly, in time with your ragged breathing. Until his claws capture your chin, delicately, like porcelain, and force you to lift your face to him. His fingers are warm, wet, sticky… the metallic scent fills your nostrils. Blood. His fingers are coated with the blood of those who stood in his way to find you. When you're confronted by his wide smile, you know. Large but tense, his jaw clenched, anger boils in his blood and is reflected in the dangerous glint in his eyes as he watches you like a Sinner breaking a contract.
Bloodstains his face; he, usually so clean, has deliberately kept blood on his body so you would realize the lengths he's willing to go to in order to get his hands on you, to reclaim you. Perhaps he loved you, but you know his love is not pure. Tears well up in your eyes. What can you do against someone capable of besieging the tower of three Overlords single-handedly? What can a mere Winner like yourself do against someone with no limits?
"My dear…" The radio crackles, distorted and intense; you swear you can hear cries of agony that aren't his. "It seems our meal has unfortunately been interrupted."
“I won’t let that happen again.” The dark promise behind his words sends a chill down your spine.
“…” You open your lips, but no words come out, only a strangled gasp.
He smiles darkly as he leans forward. In his movement, as if to emphasize his threat, he forces his tendrils deeper into Vox’s shoulders, his scream echoing in your ears, searing itself into your skin. Your ex-husband’s breath mingles with yours, bringing you no comfort, not even a flicker of nostalgia for your shared past. The cables around your body hang limply, yet you can’t move, paralyzed by a visceral fear.
“And I also hope you’ll do everything to ensure this never happens again… it would be a great shame if, during your absence, I couldn’t look after our son, finding myself in such an unpleasant situation…” His lips brush against yours as he whispers his threat in a velvety voice.
“Shh, my love. The only word I want to hear from you is ‘yes.’”
His other hand captures your left, lingering on your ring finger until you feel a cold strip slide against your skin. You clench your teeth, tighten your jaw, and close your eyes… with a resigned voice, you seal your fate.
