Toxic!Price getting married, late in life, to Black!Widow Reader:
He's getting up there in years and in his military career. If he manages to actually survive it, it won't last him forever. John knows the brass will find a reason to retire him eventually in favor of someone younger. So, he's found himself a sweet thing that yields just enough to his demands and doesn't speak up when his eyes wander. He's never done anything other than look, of course. Lesser men would have cheated by now. You're lucky that he's so loyal to you. Truly.
And Reader who is just gleeful to have found a well-off man with a job that means he could die anytime he's called away on assignment. Duty and all that. It takes some of the work of your shoulders, only needing to slowly feed him traces of magnesium in his meals when he's home. Letting it gradually build up in his body, knowing that the old soldier would rather be castrated than willingly take himself into medical when symptoms crop up months down the line.
You play the moldable, naively unaware partner because its proven easier to play the prey when hunting your next target. Allowing the Captain to think he is the predator. Letting John's manipulation roll off your back like a duck in water because, well, been there, done that (used those exact techniques on your last, late spouse).
Summary: Alastor pays a visit to an under the weather former weatherman.
Notes: Post-s2, mostly canon-compliant, only somewhat proofread, radi/osta/tic if you squint. This turned out to be both longer and more angsty/introspective than I had anticipated.
Humming a bright tune as he stepped towards the railing overlooking the floor below, Alastor surveyed the lively atmosphere of the hotel lobby. The day’s commotion had become the new norm—the denizens of Hell were flocking to the hotel, eager for the chance at redemption. At least that was the hope.
After Charlie successfully proved that redemption was indeed possible, she and Vaggi had their hands full attending to the whims of the guests 24/7. Alastor had grown quite accustomed to the days of sorely misguided optimism (mostly from Princess Morningstar) and petty squabbles between the few guests they had managed to wrangle before Vox’s little power grab. Alas. Time marches on.
Alastor’s ears pinned tightly against his skull as Katie Killjoy’s voice blared over the television speakers, interrupting his train of thought. He had half a mind to to skin the insolent hotel resident who insisted on keeping the noisy picture box on at all times, and at max volume no less.
“In other news, Hell’s sexy filmmaker-turned-savior, Valentino, has announced that he and Velvette will be stepping up while our deer-obsessed former CEO is on involuntary sabbatical. VoxTek! We’re still working on a new company name!”
His ears perked up. Well now that was news, perhaps it was about time he paid his old pal a visit. Without another second’s delay, Alastor sunk into the shadows.
Unfortunately Alastor had become well acquainted with the Vees Tower due to the time spent as Vox’s prisoner, except in this case it was fortuitous. Normally, he liked to play with his food—really savor the pain he could inflict on his victims. But Vox was different; after all Alastor essentially antagonized the former during his time as a hostage. Now he could truly bask in his triumph.
Re-materializing from the shadows into Vox’s private quarters, he quickly scanned the scene before him, his face scrunched up in disgust. The room, which was previously immaculately kept, looked to be in disarray—clothes strewn about, drawers and cabinet doors left ajar, not to mention the wads of paper that littered the floor. The slovenly state of the room was presumably one of many consequences from it’s inhabitant’s fall from grace. Apparently losing his head body took a toll on his self-care routine.
As Alastor had learned an age ago, Vox was surprisingly fastidious. While this was likely due to his pathological need to maintain his image of “perfection,” Alastor had simultaneously discovered that Vox was a trifle sensitive to airborne irritants. Referring to the other’s sensitivity as trifle was putting it lightly... so the sinner’s meticulousness was possibly a consequence of both theories.
Alastor stopped dead in his tracks, shock flashing in his eyes that luckily the only individual to possibly bear witness, was merely a head and hadn’t realized his presence. Scratch that, it would seem that some wayward sinner showed mercy on Vox—he was no longer a reverse headless horseman, curled up underneath a duvet and surrounded by a rather excessive number of throws and quilts.
“Now what’s this I hear about a ‘sabbatical’? Surely your little news anchor meant to say self-pity party.” Alastor said, leaning against the wall, appearing to be more interested in his recently repaired staff than whom he was addressing.
“What the—?!” Vox whipped his head in the direction of Alastor’s voice. The manner with which the media overlord (could he still even be called that?) sprung up from his bed in such a way it bore a striking resemblance to that of a frightened feline. If he had fur, Alastor had no doubt it would be standing on end.
“And here I was thinking you were doomed to a body-less existence. Alas, a mere fantasy on my part.”
“Fuck off Alastor,” Vox snarled, a spark between his antennae zipped between them.
“Now now, where are your manners? I thought I taught you better than that, hmm?” Alastor chastised Vox, whipping out his staff, putting nearly his entire weight on it in a way that one might wonder how it hadn’t ever snapped in half before.
Rather than responding, Vox only growled, glaring at Alastor from his bed. How curious.
Normally Vox would already be up in his personal space. Not only had he failed to provide a proper retort, Vox seemed smaller than usual, even with his new body. None of the brash, duplicitous charisma that he typically exuded. Granted he had been knocked down a peg or two recently, so perhaps this was just him “licking his wounds” so to speak.
“hh’DZTCHhiew!”
That would explain his odd behavior. Alastor’s grin widened as Vox sniffled and blinked blearily after the expulsion, “Ah, I take it back. Seems like “sabbatical” might be the correct term here.”
“I’m snfSNF!...ihh–ihhH’ZZTSHH! fine.”
“Excuses and lies, as usual,” Alastor tutted. Unsummoning his staff with a flick of his wrist, he strode to the couch opposite the bed and sat on the edge, observing Vox like he was an exhibit at a zoo.
Vox opened his mouth to respond, only to be interrupted by his immune system’s attempt to fight the pathogen. He muffled a series of staticky coughs into a closed fist. Interestingly enough, he didn’t seem to be addressing his illness as well as one should—aside from the used tissues, which Alastor what he had previously mistaken for wads of paper, there was a scarcity of medicine, remedies, or anything of the sort. In fact, Vox seemed adamant on being shirtless in bed, in spite of the fact that few would even consider an intimate encounter in his current state.
“Have you considered, I don’t know, wearing a sweater or robe given your condition,” Alastor taunted. His smirk made it painfully clear how much delight he took in having front row seats to Vox losing a fight with his malady.
“The last person I’m taking any medical advice or pointers from is you,” Vox shot back gravelly, although his response lacked the bite it usually carried. Though this was likely exacerbated by the breathy, uneven quality his voice gained towards the end of his sentence.
“hh’NGGXT! ehh’GNXXTCHh! hih...” Vox made an error in judgment trying to hold back the sneezes. His respiratory system was very much unsatisfied with his actions and made it quite clear to him with subsequent false starts before an urgent inhale spelled the end to his limbo. “hh... ihh?...hh–ihh’TCHHhiew! hihh... Are you kihhdding me? ih’KSHHh’uh! ehh–ehDSHHh! Fucking motherfucker!”
Disgusting.Vox never did take proper care of himself when he was under the weather. How could Alastor forget that one incident he showed up at the radio station on the precipice of infecting the entire staff if Alastor hadn’t forcibly dragged him back to his apartment. Or when Vox had learned that unfortunately, yes, one could get sick in Hell. Just another perk of the less desirable afterlife. It seemed like Alastor had to take matters into his own hands again.
In a flash of green light, a steaming mug of tea materialized onto the nightstand. The gesture evidently surprised Vox, whose eyes darted between the summoned object and Alastor himself before squinting suspiciously.
“I’m not fucking drinking that!” Vox spat, crossing his arms over his chest. “I’ll bet it’s laced with some sort of angelic poison.”
“Aha, there are much more entertaining ways to take you out but suit yourself!”
After gaping at the conjured beverage for another minute, Vox’s expression contorted a smug grin as he propped up his rectangular head on his hands. “Admit it, you like me.”
An indignant buzz permeated through the air. “Oh, hardly the case! The initial appeal of you struggling with your symptomatic behavior has overstayed its welcome.” Alastor scoffed, turning his nose up at the accusation. “To maintain my presence and I can do I what I need to do, I deemed it necessary to provide a means of curbing your disgusting but ultimately involuntary conduct.”
Vox’s screen glitched, tendrils of electricity zipping along the exterior as his grin warped into a disgruntled scowl. On the other hand, Alastor’s smile widened at the rise he got out of Vox with his relatively benign response. He was too easy.
He continued to grin patronizingly at Vox, who returned his steely gaze—his hypnotic eye swirled fiercely, as if he was ready to pounce on him if affronted. Although, Alastor would bet his soul (again) that Vox’s current condition wouldn’t prove much of a threat, if at all. And as expected, Vox’s resolve was undermined by his body’s untimely betrayal. The demon curled in on himself with each cough that scraped out of his throat.
Vox finally decided that Alastor wasn’t plotting to kill him with the cup of tea. Raising the mug to his screen, he hesitantly took a sip. Relief washed over his face as the hot liquid soothed his aching throat and the appreciative warble that followed did not escape the Alastor’s impeccable hearing. However, his brow furrowed as an audible hitch hijacked Vox’s breathing. He was forced to delay further ingesting the drink, hurriedly placing it back on the nightstand before capitulating to the familiar prickling behind his screen.
“Fuhhck, not this agaihh–ihh’DZZTCHHh’uh! IZZSHHuu! guhh...” Vox rolled his eyes as his breath caught again, his features becoming hazy. “ehh... hh! Oh come ohhnn–ehh’KSSHhhiew! hh–hh’KZZSHHYyiuu! snnf! eh’TSHH–ihhyTSHHh!” Vox groaned, grabbing a corner of his monitor in an attempt to reduce the dizziness that the fit produced. He reached for the mug once he had a chance to catch his breath. The steam itself seemed to provide some comfort.
While Vox cupped the mug in his claws, Alastor appreciated the uncomfortable but tense silence that hung ominously in the space between them. That is until Vox went and ruined it. Although, all things considered ‘ruined’ was a bit harsh in this context.
“I was serious you know,” Vox mumbled into his mug before taking another sip.
Alastor tilted his head, his eyes narrowing in suspicion and mild curiosity, but said nothing. Vox rolled his eyes, but seeing that he hadn’t been immediately smacked silly by a shadow tentacle took the other’s silence as a sign to keep talking.
“Back then,” Vox gestured vaguely with his free hand, “I envisioned us ruling Hell, side-by-side. People knew us, people liked us—as a team! During my time on Earth I climbed my way to the top by myself. I acted alone; I never imagined wanting to share the spotlight or power with anyone. To share a life with anyone. But then I met you, and—”
Vox’s voice quavered as if he was choking back the memory. He swallowed, wincing at the pain it produced. His screen buffered and for a moment Alastor caught a glimpse of Vox’s expression before it was obscured by the digital complication. He probably imagined it, but it almost looked like grief. It reappeared hardened as he shoved down whatever feelings had bubbled up.
“Well, you know the rest. I have to thank you for that, by the way. You gave me the spark I needed to really make a name for myself, rise through the ranks. Although, I guess I did get a little carried away,” Vox chuckled wryly at his failed attempt to conquer Heaven.
Vox polished off the rest of the tea, setting the mug back down on the nightstand. He grimaced, pressing a hand to his chest as the congestion shifted with the motion. When he spoke again, it was barely audible. So much so that Alastor strained to hear it. “I-I haven’t been back to that bar since that night. I don’t know if you have but.. We used to be regulars and sometimes when I’ve passed by it I just...” Vox trailed off, rubbing his hand against the back of his neck, a spitting image of himself almost 70 years ago. Before he could stop it, Alastor was thrown back into the memory of the night.
It had started off as any usual night of winding down at one of the local bars, following one of their weekly duo segments. Alastor had to hand it to Vox—an annoyingly persistent individual, his idea to implement the joint radio-video broadcast had become more of a sensation than Alastor expected. He had been skeptical at first, but finally caved to the idea with the hope that it would prove such a massive failure that Vox would finally drop it.
Mimzy had asked Alastor why he hadn’t torn Vox to shreds yet and broadcast his screams on his show. “Aren’t you bored of him? He’s like a lost puppy, just take him out already.” She wasn’t wrong to question their... dynamic. Suffice it to say, Alastor was fascinated by the earnest but bizarre budding-Overlord, and decided to let him tag along as long as he held entertainment value.
Nothing more, nothing less.
“You give yourself too much credit, my dear! I scarcely think about you, let alone any such sentimental drivel,” Alastor replied disdainfully, shoving down the retrospection back to the depths of his mind. As to why he wasn’t here to finish off what he started, well there was still fun to be had.
Vox bristled, his right eye twitching something fierce as he looked about ready to start another fight (that he would lose just like he always had). But to Alastor’s surprise, the television demon rapidly deflated, sighing wearily. Vox scoured the middle of his screen peevishly before staring out the window again. After a beat, Vox turned his attention back to him, gazing directly into Alastor’s face, searching for something. “Can’t we drop this whole thing for once?”
His antennae drooped slightly as he continued,“Go back to how things used to be... Just for tonight?”
Alastor blinked, seemingly unfazed by the abrupt shift in Vox’s attitude, his sharp smile remaining unchanged.
“Typical,” Vox sneered when Alastor stayed silent. “I should have known you wouldn’t have anything to say. You didn’t have a fucking heart back then and you sure as hell don’t now.” He dragged a hand down his dimly-lit screen.
“What did you say again? ‘Being a brat is kinda my thing?’”
Vox’s expression scrunched up in what Alastor anticipated was some half-baked comeback, only for him gasp urgently before hastily snapping down into his elbow.
Vox groaned, flopping back against his pillows as he snuffled into a cluster of tissues. Ew. A cyan flush streaked across his face when he inadvertently made eye contact with Alastor. His eyes glowed crimson at the display. Oh how emotional attachment could muddle the mind. Tossing the used material into the near full trash can, Vox pulled the blankets up to his chin as a shiver coursed through his frame.
“You called me a creep but here you are just hanging around—” Vox said derisively, through narrowed eyes. He paused to stifle a yawn behind a loose fist. “And getting off to my suffering. You’re no better than the rest of us.” Alastor had remained perched neatly on the couch since his arrival, maintaining a generous berth between them. A decision made mostly because he knew it would irritate Vox, but partially due to the other’s ailment. He looked even more pathetic than usual—swaddled in blankets, shaking like a leaf, the cyan glow diffused indicative of more than just embarrassment.
One might even consider it endearing.
“Sweetheart we’re both demons in Hell, and Overlords to boot. We aren’t here by mistake. Plus, suffering is simply entertainment in it’s purest form! I would be doing myself a disservice if I didn’t take advantage of your incapacitation!” Alastor exclaimed brandishing his staff for emphasis.
The radio demon’s eyes narrowed when his snide remark was met with silence. Vox rarely failed to match, or rather attempt to, his barbs. He never could quite keep up with Alastor’s wit. He was about taunt him again when a low, congested snore cut through the stillness. Figures.
Alastor watched Vox’s chest steadily rise and fall, savoring the tranquil moment—an anomalous occurrence in Hell, but even more so between the two diametrically opposed demons. His gaze drifted towards Vox’s screen, which was so dark enough that Alastor initially thought it was powered off. He did a double take when it flickered. Curiosity got the best of him and before he had a chance to second guess himself, he was looming directly over the TV-headed sinner. Vox’s eyes were closed, but his furrowed brow and tight grimace indicated that whatever virus he had picked up was putting him through the ringer.
The faint buzz emanating from Vox’s antennae was hypnotic, lulling him into what could best be described as a trance. It was oddly soothing.
Perhaps he had been too harsh on Vox back then. He always figured that Vox’s business proposal was a ploy to use Alastor as a rung on the Overlord ladder in his quest for power. After all, wasn’t their collaborative segment just the tip of the iceberg? But now he was saying that hadn’t been the case at all. Had he truly misconstrued the interaction that led to the end of their... connection, giving rise to their decades long rivalry? Plus, it’s not like Rosie would have permitted such an entanglement—
He instinctively raised his hand to his neck; only to let remember that he was finally free from the accursed shackles that he had entered Hell with. Alastor leered at Vox contemptuously. He still reeked of desperation, relying on those around him, leveraging his silver tongue to manipulate his way to the top of the food chain. And yet, he had to admit that amidst all of his incessant peacocking, for a moment Vox had garnered Alastor’s respect. Not unlike the respect Alastor once held for him.
An unsettling feeling stirred in his chest—was it nostalgia? No... contrition? Ha!—definitely not. Possibly something else that he dared not to consider. Stepping away from the slumbering demon, he shook his head to clear the absurd ruminations. Nonsense.
As he was about to sink into the shadows and head out, Alastor hesitated, looking over his shoulder at Vox. Gradually making his way back to the couch, he settled onto one of the cushions, before fixating his gaze on Vox once more. Another night away from the hotel wouldn’t hurt.
I adore the concept of a designationless!Reader within an omegaverse AU, the usual concept being that they aren't able to pick up/ interpret pheremones and thus can not read social cues. It's isolating and leaves a major wound for Reader's sense of identity and belonging.
Buuuttttt. And just hear me out. Even small children have the ability to pick up on social cues, like how they can tell when something bad has happened in a room even when they don't understand why or that some people just shouldn't be trusted(stranger danger).
So.
Gimme designationless!Reader who, like all other children, grew up learning about pheromones from their immediate family members. Who learned to understand the burning scent of anger, the woodsy scents of alphas, the sweet scent released when someone is happy regardless of designation, the calming scents of beta family members that naturally move to quell fights , etc. But as time progressed and their friends all started presenting as their secondary genders and started being able to communicate back on a hormonal level... they fall behind.
They can faintly smell the communication happening among friends, but they can never reciprocate. Words falling flat when they all seem to be speaking an entirely different language than Reader. A language they can never articulate no matter how badly they long too.
. . .
Reader's family were, naturally, concerned and brought them to all the doctors they could afford, because love doesn't just stop when the unexpected happens... or well, doesn't happen. The tests... they come back mainly healthy. All except for Reader's scent glands. They're functional, like any young adults, their age, but there's no pheromone production what sort ever. The oil that is produced is akin to sweat under the arms. Rendering them completely mute to a language, they never even got a chance to fully embrace.
So when they get to the SAS through their own merits alone and somehow get snatched up by Price (that man and his strays, I swear), Reader is already used to the isolation and ignorance of the designated masses. They're built like an onion with so many layers constructed over time to keep their heart safe. And wield self-deprecating jokes like a sword master to keep others comments at bay. They can't hurt Reader if Reader beats them to the punch. Right?
I come to you all with a COD omegaverse concept that I've been playing with.
INSPIRED BY:
"Life can not be contained. Life breaks free. Life... finds a way." - Dr. Ian Malcom, Jurassic Park.
CONCEPT:
The birthrate of Omegas has been steadily dwindling as the population only continues to climb in the modern world. As a result, Alpha's have been becoming increasingly aggressive and territorial, all out wars and homicide rates skyrocketing around the world as they fight to claim the remaining Omega available. This lack of Omegan presence has started to set off forced changes in some Betas and Alphas alike, their bodies adjusting to fill the roll of that has dwindled, Omegas. Referred to as a "phoenix presenting," a new secondary gender blooming in the wake of the old one.
On top of all this madness, two new secondary genders have surfaced in the last two generations. Throwing pack and societal dynamics on their heads with the addition of Gamma and Delta individuals.
Follow Mantis, a Gamma, that's been abruptly assigned to taskforce 141 in the aftermath of one of its members having felt the wrath of nature's will, going through a Phoenix Presenting.
Price, pent up, still awake one evening after processing far too much paperwork for just one Captain on their own. Not that he'll admit it's his own fault for continually putting it off.
He finds himself mindlessly scrolling through cute younger men to support on his favorite streaming site, only to come across a gorgeous set of muscular legs covered in sheer thigh-high stocking and a beautiful body draped in soft lingerie. The problem is that he knows that body. He's seen it in the locker rooms, put pressure on its wounds during missions gone wrong, and leaned against it during evac when they'd all been exhausted beyond compare.
It's Kyle.
His sweet, loyal Sergeant apparently makes a little extra on the side with dirty videos and photos offered behind a pay wall. What could he possibly need the money for when their line of work pays exceptionally well? Eh, he'd poke around and find that out later. For now, what sort of leader would he be if he didn't support his men? Well, he doesn't want to know, so Price subscribes to the top tier without a second thought. Gaining him access to all of the younger man's available content. Dirty lad.
If he binges Kyle's videos and photos, who's to say really? That's between him, his cigar, and his hand.
