Au idea that begins as requited murdermedia, husbands without the certificate, with rings on the wrong fingers, on necklaces, with hidden smiles and forehead kisses in the dark corners of the world. In speakeasies where people have learned not to speak. Begins with a Vincent and Alastor who are in love--queerplantonic, romantic or not, but love all the same. Friends, lovers, or just together, partners who will never look at another, because who could see the other and smile at the blood and the sadistic joy, at the small domestic things? Who could look into their eyes and say "You're mine" and their heart and soul believes it, feels safe in the knowledge of it, in the respect of their gestures and the comraderie?
Years spent between murders where they realize that the world is a little better when itâs not spent quite so alone, for all that alone didnât factor before. Now it does, for all the problems it reveals. And thatâs okay, because the world is fun and a challenge and annoying because they have to hide aspects of themselves that they know they shouldnât have to (love, itâs love, for all they never say the words, never think them specifically.)
But then Alastor dies as per usual, as he does in a hundred different universes, and Vincent spends the rest of his time trying to summon Alastor as a demon bc Alastor mentioned Hell ONCE and that he believed it (had contacted it), so that means Vincent must, too, now that Alastor is gone.
Vincent doesn't end his life immediately (to hopefully go to Hell) bc Alastor made him promise not to. "Live for me, Vincent. Tell me of the world when we meet again. I know you'll make it a fantastic story for me." But he doesn't want to be without his husband during the rest of his human life. He doesn't want to wait to tell Alastor about how humanity grows up or down. About how many necks he wrings for being racist assholes, about how he finds himself adopting some of Alastor's targets as his own because it makes him both nostalgic and he can practically hear the way Alastor used to bristle at the insults. About how he has to temper his anger because Alastor isnât there to remind him to be careful. How heâs just that little more reckless in a way that Alastor would absolutely scold him for.
He misses him. Like the blood he spills in his name, from the veins of victims and his own. Like the breath in his lungs.
So, summoning Alastor. He deep dives into Alastor's old research, brute forces some of the ritual magic, but what really manages to work is the pure intent. What works is intent and blood and memory.
What works is love. Connection. Oh, the irony, to summon a demon with it. The way it would have worked even if Alastor were an angel.
It doesn't happen immediately; doesn't happen for years, actually. There are a lot of little things he needs to get right before brute force could bridge the rest. Some of the symbols arenât correct. The circles arenât perfect. The lines donât connect properly.
But the power grows, heavy with promise, bowing his back, his head. Vincentâs hands shake with something other than blood loss. One deep, dark midnight, he finished the circle and calls and calls and calls. He bleeds and his eyes close, and he shivers with the cold in his veins and the warmth in his gut. He pictures Alastor: his mad, bloodthirsty grin, his calculation, his natural drawl and then his transatlantic radio accent. The callouses from his preferred weapon on the hand that held Vincentâs own. Lips, slightly chapped, against the skin of his wrist. Darling, and dear, and mon cher, my love, my husband. The warm glow of the lights in brown-red eyes and on his curled brown hair and against his brown skin.
Vincentâs eyes flutter as he says Alastorâs full name, a whisper of worship and desperation, of grief and longing. Of please.
He doesnât feel the circleâs activation; doesnât feel how it draws on him, how it latches onto soul and blood, mind and heart with sharp, spindled claws. How threads lace him and something else together.
What he does feel is a hand so much larger, sharper, hotter than his own human hand, brushing and cradling his cheek and cupping his head in a palm. There are no callouses but something is familiar in how it cradles him. His consciousness leaves him as his soul recognizes a job well done, a goal recognized and accomplished.
âOh, mon cher,â Alastor hums, holding the small human body against his own. The radio demon in him salivates, drools at the fresh blood and desperate, clinging soul in his grasp. Scents the salty tears of grief and relief with a humored, sharp grin. The human part, however, bridges the gaping maw of something monstrous into something less so. Ours, says the human, curling into other soul. Remember? Heâs ours. Remember the laugher, the glee? The murderous planning, the teasing, the match we made? Heâs ours, ours, ours.
The demon remembers, considers. Traces the salt on the manâs cheeks with a large, singular and careful claw. The thinner frame (the human hums with disapproval), the new scars from poorly healed bloodletting. Green-glinting red eyes travel around the room; spots the books and the papers and effigies, and the magic and the barely-stable power radiating from each line of body and ritual. There is potential and force in the air, in Vincent.
Ours, concludes the radio demon. He doesnât like the thought of somethingâsomeoneâelse being drawn here. Of other sharp things digging into the flesh and blood and power of this single human. Vincent Whittman belongs to Alastor, the Radio Demon. He accepts the bind, the thread, the laced fingers with his own, the new ring around his heart and on the right finger this time, and curls around the other in the middle of the poorly made but sparklingly powerful ritual circle. Static fluffs his fur and hair, swishes his fluffy deer tail, sits heavy on his long, sharp tongue. But his gaze is all contented.
Heâd missed this stupid, foolish, loyal man. His husband in more than name, now.
(Vincent is in for a surprise when he wakes up in the morning.)
i love explaining the etymology of the word "rickroll" because the story starts with "ok, so at one point 4chan applied a filter to everyone's posts that changed the word egg to duck"
At Toba aquarium in Japan, after closing time, some clever little otter pups help their grandpa tidy up their toys. As a reward, he gives them ice cubes
Soothsayer Vincent Whittman AU whose blue-green heterochromic eyes see more than past and future, but sees different universes. Heâs desperately trying to play 4d chess to figure out which lifetime heâs in. Sees Alastor, sees Valentino and Velvette, and falls in love and friendship with them. Looks forward to going to this place he doesnât know is Hell at first. Sees a world of deals and souls. Sees himselfâdoesnât realize itâs himself at firstâthat heâs Vox in the future.
Sees Alastor as a human, doesnât put together the pieces until later in life. Sees his deal with Rosie. Realizes the human and his deal are the same person as the deer demon heâs been seeing. Sees the plan that could workâstrongest Sinner in Hell, hm? He can plan for that. He can do that. As a human, he sees these things out of order, but it all rearranges itself in order as a demon, where the details solidify.
Then he meets Alastor exactly as he saw. Realizes the little things match up; heâd seen a lot more than heâd thought as a humanâprobably dreamed them but couldnât remember. Itâs a strange mix of deja vu and second guessing himself.
But, oh, the feelings. It takes him awhile to sort through how he feels about Alastor, because these feelings are way too personal. Theyâre way too strong as a demon.
He wonders privately: is he seeing these things, or has he lived them?
This is a Vox and an Alastor that is closer, because Vox doesnât push his touchiness so much. Heâs aware of not pushing. He pokes just right, fumbles a little when he has to give (he obviously doesnât want to but he respects Alastor, seeing everything, but to Alastor it looks like heâs restraining himself), and it gets Alastor going. It annoys him how well Vincent can read himâis he suspicious, because Vincent seems to mesh so well with him. But Alastor relents, because how can he not? Vincent caresâabout him, about how he is and his past and in the little things. Itâs almost too much, when he thinks about it alone in his home, away from Vincent. But then he meets up with him at the bar, and itâs like, âHeâs not asking for anything from me. All heâs asking for IS me, how I am.â And he hopes, and fears, and bristles with it all.
And then Vincent has a choice. Does he tell Alastor? Does he say, âIn a hundred universes, I have met you. I have walked beside you, I have stood against you, I have beaten and been beaten down by you. My skin has been bloodied by your claws and your knives and your teeth. My throat has been torn, my voice and agency destroyed, by you. I have been built with your hand in mine, rebuilt with your signal in my ears, your voice on my tongue. I have been encouraged to live anew, in a world where you have used me and cared, in world where you did not care, in a world where you cared and never used me.â Does he say, âAlastor, I have loved and hated you. I have been your friend, your lover, your brother in arms, your enemy and rival, your binary star in so many universes that in so few have I been me, myself, and I alone. Alastor, I know of your chain. I know of your arrogance and your hope and your fear and, yes, your foolish deal.â Does he plead, âI want to help you; let me help you. I will become The Strongest Sinner in Hell as long as you keep looking at me. As long as you love meâfamily, friendship, lover, soulmate, and all the things in between.â
Or does he take a step back. Does he propose a path well establishedâdoes he let his heart be broken by cruel words and misunderstanding, even expected, knowing that in many worlds, it is broken irrevocably, with no reconciliation? Is he strong enough for that possibility? Does he propose a business partnership, when what he really wants is so much more? He has had a hundred lifetimes to know how the future is, how society builds. He is no longer afraid, ashamed, of love and want and attraction or lack thereofâonly in how it can be rejected. How can he, when he has seen lives spent curled with Valentino, with Alastor? When he can remember kisses and held hands and soul bonds and how fear hadnât let that build.
He is selfish, he knows it. In every universe he has grabbed things greedily, but in those others, he hasnât Seen like this. The way it can lead into regret. He has choices but he is frozen by them.
Vincent is a Soothsayer without a guide, a prophet without a God. He is a human, just a man, with far too many choices, too much to lose, and that terrifies him.
areudirty
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