Chapter Text

He had not arrived in Hell as an Overlord. No deal had been struck on his behalf, no careful preparations arranged before his plunge into the infernal abyss of the Pride Ring. His death had been abrupt and humiliating in its suddenness - and thus he appeared in Hell without ceremony. No fanfare, no ritual, merely the twitch of shadows as his new form settled into place. His features warped into a mockery of the manner in which he died, his human flesh contorted and rebuilt around his eternal spirit into something more suited to the nature of a sinner.

Alastor began with nothing. As all sinners did upon being cast into the overpopulated, ever-hungry metropolis that sprawled beneath Hell’s choking sky. He was just another face among the hordes, greeted with suspicion, amusement, and thinly veiled contempt. Hell had no space for the soft or the slow, no compassion for those who stumbled. It devoured and exploited the weak once they were identified among the bemused masses. 

Had he arrived as a Beta - entirely ordinary, unremarkable and sterile - he would have been forced to claw his way up the hierarchy brick by bloodied brick. The masses would have overlooked him entirely, their eyes glancing across the deer that boasted a perpetual grin, a sharp tongue and delicate hooves. 

But his designation had survived death. When he emerged in Hell, he carried with him a scent that curled through the air like a siren's melody - subtle, but impossible to ignore. A far cry from the dull, middling odors of the majority. And it was not something that could be concealed. Hell’s air seemed to amplify it, subduing every artificial fragrance he applied and heightening the truth of him instead of masking it.

It was entirely inescapable.

A blessing and a curse in equal measure.

Alastor had long ago learned the dangers that accompanied being a minority and a pretty-faced Omega on top of that. Hell clung to archaic ideals with rabid devotion: usefulness defined by biology, instinct interpreted as destiny. They placed him neatly back into the same suffocating box he’d clawed against in life.

How amusing, he supposed, that even damnation demanded the same performance.

Hell’s laws were tenuous at best, its order a thin membrane stretched over chaos. Omegas were treated as pawns in the unending game of dominance. Consorts, bearers, mates, toys - roles heaped upon the shoulders of the select few whom occupied the land of the damned. Even his scent was a lure: predators drawn toward conquest, opportunists toward possession.

But he had played this game before.

And he was far better at it now.

He would weaponize their expectations, as he always had. Hell demanded suffering; he would meet it with teeth bared behind a polite smile.

What other choice did he have?

❧

The first year in the Pride Ring was - blessedly - uneventful. Alastor kept his distance, feigning indifference while observing every hierarchy and unwritten rule with razor-sharp precision. He memorized alliances, rivalries, power balances, emerging threats, and silent wars unfolding beneath forced civility.

He watched sinners forge pacts in alleyways and the desperate and needy simper before their superiors, wide-eyed and hopeful. He catalogued the scents of dangerous individuals, categorized the rhythms of their movements, and learned which of them would eventually rise from the mediocrity of the majority and ascend within the curious hierarchy of Hell. 

None of them earned even a flicker of his true interest.

Sanctuary came from an unexpected place - Cannibal Town. An established settlement, picturesque in the way a smiling skull might be. Orderly. Controlled. Full of sinners who carved out a way of life with remarkable discipline for Hell. It was indisputably progressive by the realm’s miserable standards.

They welcomed him and he quickly found work as their Overlord’s assistant. His respective sex easing his way. Alastor's flourish, charm and his spiced fragrance putting them at ease. 

A temporary arrangement. A place to bide time. Tedious, yes, but tolerable. And, in its own way, oddly satisfying. Routine offered structure, and structure offered clarity. It did not compare to the thrill of broadcasting his voice to the masses in his old life, but it kept his mind sharp and his intent precisely honed.

Eternity stretched before him. There was no real need to rush.

A little “dilly-dallying” harmed no one.

❧

“The radio?”

Rosie sipped her tea with dainty precision. The drink was over sweet, its cloying scent mingling with her natural aroma of freshly trimmed grass - a fragrance that marked her unmistakably as a Beta, despite her rise to Overlord status.

She was swathed in expertly woven maroon fabrics, the muted tones complementing her pale-gray skin. Setting her cup back onto its platter - perfectly centered - she regarded Alastor with hollow, calculating eyes.

“You want to become a radio host?”

“I most certainly do,” Alastor replied brightly.

His vest and trousers were tailored in a style she found appropriate for an Omega. The fit emphasized his narrow waist, the elegant curve of his hips that declared him suitable for child-bearing. Rosie approved of the aesthetic while disapproving of his occasional attempts to dress above his station. Her corrections gentle yet firm. 

“You do good work here, dear,” she said. “The customers fancy you and that sharp wit of yours.”

“Well,” Alastor answered, adjusting his posture primly, “I do aim to please.”

He sipped his tea - hot, unsweetened, bitter. A pleasing contrast to her saccharine brew. After setting the cup aside, he folded his hands neatly in his lap.

“But I believe it’s time I consider my future in Hell,” he said. “I fear I’ll stagnate otherwise.”

Rosie’s painted lips thinned.

“You’re an Omega, Alastor,” she began, gently but firmly.

The edges of his smile tightened. Only slightly.

“I’m aware,” he said.

His tone cooled. Rosie’s eyes narrowed, sensing it.

“You’re safe, Alastor,” she continued. “With us. It’s a miracle you found your way here before someone snatched you off those dainty lil' hooves of yours.”

His smile did not falter - but it strained. Rosie’s gaze flicked to his eyes, where the smallest betrayal of irritation shone beneath the surface.

“Allow me the opportunity to explain myself, Rosie,” he said.

He dipped his head, lowered his eyelids - small acts of deference, perfectly timed. Appropriate for an Omega, and therefore powerful when wielded by one who understood the strings they tugged.

Betas often delighted in such gestures, even when they recognized them as calculated. Rosie was no exception. She indulged in the illusion that he belonged to her in some soft, unspoken manner. An unclaimed Omega was a rare thing. And he made for quite the lovely ornament whenever she was granted the opportunity to show him off. 

Alastor allowed it.

It cost him nothing.

And such illusions, he knew, could be useful later.

The Omega carried himself like one of Rosie’s own. But behind his pleasant smile, his thoughts simmered with far darker ambitions. He intended to rise, to carve a place of his own into Hell’s hierarchy, not as some obedient ornament but as a power to be feared. Yet such elevation required patience, calculated steps and the illusion of support from those already established.

So he opened his mouth to speak, his expression mild, his tone honey-sweet, declaring his intentions with a purposeful openness meant to soothe rather than provoke.

“The life of a radio host is… covert,” he began, tentative. “Listeners remain entirely unaware of my face, my scent, or even my name. I could present a pseudonym to the public. Something memorable. I was considering ‘The Radio Demon.’”

Rosie lifted a hand - an elegant, sharpened gesture bidding him to pause.

“‘The Radio Demon,’” she echoed, brow arching.

He nodded.

“I see.”

Silence unfurled between them, contemplative and cold. Her lips tightened ever so slightly, a faint pinch to her expression revealing her displeasure. Alastor noted every twitch, every shift. He did not dare interrupt; instead, he mirrored her stillness, projecting patience while his mind raced ahead and reshaped his plan depending on the direction her judgment fell.

“And where,” Rosie asked at last, tone deceptively light, “would you source the material required to run this little show of yours?”

“I intend to outsource,” Alastor replied smoothly. “I already possess the talent. I need only showcase it.”

Incredulity flickered through her dark gaze.

“On your own?”

“With your support.”

Rosie laughed - short, sharp and derisive. Alastor responded with a polite smile, though inside he felt the scrape of irritation. She tittered behind her hand, as though he had told a charming joke. When her amusement faded, a faint sneer curled at the edge of her lips.

“How very assumptive of you, my deer.”

The condescension in her voice was deliberate, heavy.

“Alastor,” she continued, “do you understand why Overlords are typically Alphas?”

“You,” he interjected warmly, “being the exception, of course.”

Rosie preened at the flattery, a soft hum slipping from her as she lifted her chin. Only then did she continue, entirely satisfied.

“Indeed. Alphas and Omegas were minorities above, and they remain such below. Their souls and biology set them apart. Alphas are predisposed to certain forms of strength - certain instincts, if you will. They possess natural talents that place them at the forefront. They are the faces the world sees. The voices that command attention. The ones who control and influence the masses.”

Alastor listened, still as a statue, smile unmoving. He understood this entirely, but to interrupt would be to surrender ground - and he planned to cede nothing.

“Omegas,” Rosie said, her tone now taking on a didactic, almost priestly cadence, “were sculpted by divine design to serve as companions. To provide comfort and continuation. You are creatures best seen and rarely heard.”

Her words rang with the authority of someone who believed them implicitly.

Rosie had afforded him liberties: a voice in her presence, freedom to roam her territory without fear, an existence unmarred by the predatory pressures of the wider Pride Ring. She sheltered him, valued him and protected him from a world that hungered for Omega flesh and Omega submission.

But protection had strings.

They always did.

And Alastor could feel those strings tightening around him - familiar restraints, cloying expectations, the suffocating insistence that he remain small and manageable.

He chafed beneath them.

He tolerated them because they were useful.

And because for now - only for now - Rosie believed she held him safely in her grasp, Alastor allowed the illusion to persist. She did not know, could not know, that he intended to wrench himself free of her influence the moment it became advantageous. True independence required patience, and patience he had in abundance.

“I - ”

He barely formed the first syllable before Rosie cut him off with a sharp, chastising tut, soft but slicing in its dismissal.

“Enough, Alastor.”

Her voice was smooth, but laced with iron. 

“Know your place. I may not be an Alpha, but you remain under my protection. Appreciate the freedoms afforded to you because of my intervention. Continue your work here. Remain grateful. Or cast yourself into the abyss and hope - and pray - that one of my peers takes mercy on you.”

He did not flinch outwardly. But inside, indignation writhed like a trapped thing. A part of him snarled at the reminder. He was not bound to her by contract or oath. No collar, no brand, no claim marked his skin.

And yet - ... 

The truth was undeniable; in this territory, under her shadow, he was given liberties nearly unheard of for an unclaimed Omega. Freedom to wander. Freedom to speak. And freedom to exist without someone attempting to tear him from the ground by scent alone.

Rosie was generous. Dangerously so. And she was not wrong to remind him of the precariousness of his situation.

He had little choice but to acquiesce… and wait. And wait. And fucking wait.

Alastor should not expected assistance in pursuing his ambitions. Nor acceptance. Omegas did not receive such things. They bartered for scraps. They groveled for space. They survived through cleverness where strength was denied them.

He swallowed the bitter truth and bowed his head.

“Of course, Rosie,” he said softly. “I am not ungrateful. Forgive me.”

Her pleasure in his submission was immediate, palpable. He felt her gaze warm with proprietorial satisfaction.

“You’re forgiven, pet,” she crooned. “Now be good and finish your drink.”

He obeyed. His movements were stiff but practiced, the grace of one who had endured such rituals many times before. He lifted the cup and swallowed the cooling tea as Rosie resumed speaking - her voice almost musical.

He smiled where she could see.

And behind that smile, something dark and patient coiled tighter, waiting for the day he would shed this role - and remind Hell exactly what an Omega could become when he stopped pretending to be harmless.

❧

His home was a splendid thing - an isolated building neatly wedged between a mail room and a butcher. A convenient arrangement. His meals were delivered directly to him, yet another form of compensation for his usefulness. Savory cuts carved from the flesh of fellow denizens, neatly sliced, still steaming, always presented with a kind of reverence.

Alastor preferred his meals raw, warm and fresh. He accepted the parcel in quiet thanks, the thick wrapping paper already seeping with heat. But he couldn’t find it in himself to enjoy the offering today. Irritation simmered beneath his carefully maintained exterior, threatening to curdle into something uglier.

Once within the safety of his home - one of the few places where his privacy was nominally honored - he stripped off his restrictive vest. It hugged too tightly around his ribs and waist, a garment chosen for him rather than by him. The laces came undone in moments beneath sharp, deft fingers.

“'Best seen and not heard,' she says,” he groused under his breath, mockingly.

And there it was again. That familiar frustration that had stalked him through life and continued its chase into death. A restless gnawing, demanding outlet. Tobacco and bitter alcohol had long become his means of dulling it - of tolerating the humiliations and conditions pressed upon him.

Patience.

All he required was patience.

A slow, deliberate kind. The kind that starved out one’s enemies while they still believed themselves in control.

He set his meal aside for later, appetite soured, and drifted into his elegantly furnished living room. Every piece of décor had been selected by Rosie - her silent mark of ownership etched into every corner. Even her scent remained a constant. As though it had been woven into the very fabric of the furniture's material.

He was her Omega, after all. Her carefully kept, heavily monitored prize she had stumbled upon.

Though she could never claim him the way she truly desired. And Alastor was anything but oblivious to that truth.

Not oblivious at all.

Alastor sank heavily into the too-soft couch, the cushions swallowing him in a way that felt almost mocking. He lowered his head into his hands, fingers curling into his hair as he tugged sharply at the roots - painful and grounding as several strands tore free and were almost immediately replaced. 

“Think, Alastor. Think.”

His own voice sounded hollow in the quiet of 'his' home, the silence pressing against him like a judgment. A cage with velvet walls was still a cage and he could feel every inch of it.

So he forced himself to stillness. To breathe. To plan.

He would climb his way to the top - inch by inch, tooth by tooth. It would be painful. It would be unbearably slow. Every step would require precision and a predator’s patience.

But it would be inevitable.

And when the moment came, when the last shackle slipped loose, Hell itself would finally learn what an Omega who did not know his place was truly capable of. 

Chapter Text

Alastor had begrudgingly returned to his daily routine in the wake of their conversation. Outwardly, he seemed compliant - quiet in his acceptance, careful not to betray the ceaseless machinery grinding behind his pleasant smile. His mind, however, was anything but still. The exchange with Rosie had only confirmed what he already understood: if he wished to rise, he would need an ally of real power. Someone willing to look past the confines of his biology.

On paper, the plan was elegant. He would “outsource,” just as he’d promised her, stepping beyond the suffocating safety of her territory in search of a benefactor elsewhere. Someone strong enough to deter Rosie’s meddling. Someone useful enough to serve their purpose before he inevitably outgrew - and outmaneuvered - them.

Or, failing that, someone malleable enough to be manipulated.

Clever Omegas had managed such feats before. The precedent existed, however buried.

But even in fantasy, the plan felt precarious. An Omega wandering into foreign domains was little more than prey presenting its throat. And the chances of encountering an Alpha - much less an Overlord - willing to disregard his designation and consider an actual partnership was laughably small. They preferred pliant, decorative creatures that clung to them. Things that bowed instinctively and offered soft obedience.

His odds were negligible, pathetically so in this era. Hell presently clung to its hierarchy with a fervor that rivaled the living world. Its caste system was ancient, rigid and endlessly self-replicating. A creature like him pushing against it was almost comedic. And while he was spared the racial prejudice tied to his inherited features, his biology still undermined him.

But Alastor knew something most did not: nothing remained immutable forever. Cultural norms shifted slowly but inevitably. Views on race, beliefs and social roles had crumbled before; entire societies had even reinvented themselves over time.

He need only wait - just enough to appear idle, never enough to become complacent. He had no intention of spending eternity as Rosie’s prized, empty-minded puppet. He would dance to her tune, yes. But only until he found the scissors.

And in the meantime, he listened.

Listening was always his greatest talent. He gathered information in slivers and scraps, gleaned from idle chatter and careless tongues. His questions were light, curious and ultimately innocent enough to avoid scrutiny. But every answer was catalogued with precision.

❧

Days bled into weeks, weeks eroded into months and eventually years. Rosie seemed perfectly content within her comfortable dominion and scarcely ventured beyond it. And Alastor, ever the dutiful companion, played his role with flawless precision. He attended to her needs, mirrored her expectations and wore the mask of the appreciative Omega who accepted the rigid hierarchy he had been forced into in both life and death with a strange, sharp-toothed gusto.

There was comfort in the solitude she allowed him outside their daily midday meals - thin pockets of freedom where he could breathe, think, and sharpen his ambitions. And amid the suffocating politeness of his existence, he found a peculiar easing of the constant strain through an unexpected friendship.

Niffty was an oddity in every sense. Quirky, jittery and delightfully unhinged. She constantly swung between excitable industriousness and bouts of near-manic instability. Most would have dismissed her as little more than a nuisance, a Beta with frayed nerves and too much energy to contain. But Alastor found her chaos strangely… refreshing. She did not peer at him through the lens of biology or caste. She did not regard him as an Omega to be managed, coddled, or subdued. She simply saw him as a friend, a presence she enjoyed without pretense or expectation.

Still, he remained mindful. Niffty’s lack of restraint could easily grate on Rosie’s nerves, and Betas were far too easily deemed disposable. They were afforded freedoms he himself was barred from, yet held none of the protection. A misstep from her could cost far more than she realized.

And so Alastor kept a gentle, watchful eye on her madness. The deer curiously fond and acutely aware that in a world dictated by power and biology the fragile, unfiltered sincerity of a friendship like theirs was a rare and dangerously precious thing. He’d gently direct her, an expert at managing her little bouts. She’d even taken up space within his humble abode, the Omega not minding her presence within the boundaries of his home.

She kept his home immaculate without him ever needing to lift a finger. Niffty’s fixation on cleaning bordered on compulsion - likely a leftover shard from her mortal life, a lingering affliction that refused to fade even after death had devoured her. She moved through his space with sporadic energy and uncanny precision, scrubbing and straightening as though the world might fracture if she paused long enough to think.

Alastor found her little quirks and neutral designation useful. More than useful, in fact.

He relied on her to gather information from beyond Rosie’s domain, a task no Omega - certainly not one under Rosie’s “care” - could attempt without drawing unwanted attention. Niffty returned with neatly folded newspapers and scavenged clippings. Media wasn’t forbidden per se, but no real delivery or distribution system existed within Cannibal Town. If one wanted news, one had to acquire it deliberately.

He would greedily devour each page provided to him, his eyes skimming every column, every crude illustration, every rumor about the shifting terrain of Hell. His mind catalogued it all: the state of the hierarchy, the movements of Overlords, the subtle changes in alliances. Lately, however, one undeniable truth emerged.

Hell had grown stagnant.

Beyond the usual territorial skirmishes between Overlords - ritualistic violence that meant little in the grand scheme - nothing significant had shifted. No dramatic upheaval. No unexpected power vacuums ripe for exploitation. Just the same tired machinations turning endlessly in the dark.

Niffty would help him tuck away the papers afterward, and he would mull over the information as he prepared tea for them both. A small ritual, almost domestic - two sinners simply enjoying one another’s company.

Recently, his attention snagged on scattered and old reports concerning Hell’s former royal family. Once, it seemed, the Pride Ring had boasted a triad: an Alpha King, an Omega Queen and an Omega Princess. But centuries before Alastor’s arrival, the royal line had fractured. The Queen and her daughter had ascended to Heaven.

It was this great change that nearly dragged the entirety of the afterlife into war.

The King, incandescent with grief and possessive fury, attempted to drag his family back by force. But the Archangel Adam opposed him and their clash left a permanent scar across the Pride Ring - a wound permanently etched into the very bedrock of Hell.

The details were infuriatingly incomplete, blurred by rumor and propaganda. But the end result was clear enough: Adam lost. Captured, bound, and abandoned in the depths of Lucifer’s domain, where the King twisted the angel into something monstrous. Something obedient.

An ‘Executioner’.

Old news, perhaps - but relevant.

Lucifer now sat as the sole monarch of the Pride Ring, a desolate tyrant ruling with iron certainty. He demanded obedience. Those who defied him met their end through loyalist zealots or his Executioner’s hand - publicly torn apart in displays meant to reinforce the unbreakable nature of his rule.

Alastor noted something else as well.

The laws governing Alphas, Betas and Omegas had hardened significantly after the Queen and Princess departed. Before the King’s grief solidified into cruelty, Omegas had apparently enjoyed far more freedom and comparatively less scrutiny.

But that era was long gone and Hell was still paying the price.

❧

“Who’s the bitch?”

Alastor froze the moment he stepped through the door of Rosie’s Emporium - stalled mid-stride by the crude question and the soft chime of the entry bell. His eyes adjusted quickly, taking in the shop’s familiar interior. Everything remained exactly as it should be: shelves still half-stocked, merchandise stacked in neat piles awaiting arrangement. It was early - too early for anyone to be here.

And yet someone was.

A hulking figure loomed at the counter, shoulders hunched beneath the low ceiling. Dark, draconic wings curled tightly against his back, the membranes twitching. A thick, scaled tail slithered from beneath tattered remnants of what had once been holy robes. Garments now twisted into a grotesque parody of their former sanctity.

The masked face shifted toward him, metal catching the dim light as the creature sized up the newly arrived Omega. Alastor only tipped his head politely, that smile frozen in place, though his pulse thrummed beneath the surface.

This was unexpected.

Rosie’s expression was stone-still, her posture rigid as she turned her head ever so slightly to acknowledge him. The sharpness in the air made sense a moment later.

“This is Alastor, sir,” she said, voice tight with a level of deference he had never once heard her use.

The Omega’s right ear twitched. Rosie bowed her head, the action deep and an open display of submission.

And he understood why.

The scent hit him fully - thick, suffocating Alpha musk, saturated with brimstone and coal. Heavy enough to choke on. A predator’s scent.

Hell’s Executioner.

“Well shit.”

Adam was a fallen and twisted creature. Shackled in service to the King. A winged beast carved down to obedience and brutality - Lucifer’s carefully constructed weapon of choice. No one dared speak the truth of what he was. A slave. A powerful slave. But a slave nonetheless.

“You’ve got a bitch of your own?” Adam scoffed at Rosie. “How the fuck did you manage that?”

Alastor slipped his hands behind his back, keeping his posture decorous beneath the Alpha’s scrutiny. He blinked slowly, offering an image of compliant calm as the two exchanged curt words.

It did not last.

Adam’s crimson gaze slid back to him - heavy and appraising. With a single crooked finger, he summoned the Omega forward.

Alastor obeyed instantly. His nature compelled him to obey - obey - obey.

Imperceptively, he gritted his teeth.

A spindly, clawed digit hooked beneath his chin, tilting his head up. Adam turned his face left, then right, examining him like livestock. Like property.

“Oh, yeah,” the Executioner breathed, voice dipping into a feral purr. A leer spread beneath the mask as Alastor met his gaze before lowering it politely. “This one’s good. I can tell. Fuckable. Pretty, too. I’m loving the look.”

Heat crawled down Alastor’s spine, but he kept his expression serene.

Adam withdrew his hand and turned fully to Rosie, whose eyes narrowed even as she kept her head respectfully lowered.

“Both of you will present yourselves to King Lucifer,” Adam ordered, flatly. “All Overlords are expected in three days. You’ll receive a formal summons with exact time and location. Is that understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

Rosie dipped into a curtsy.

Adam looked back to Alastor once more. Sharp teeth glinted. His tongue dragged slowly across them.

“You’ll be seeing me again, little doe.”

With a guttural chuckle, his form unraveled into shadows - inky tendrils sliding across the floorboards before vanishing entirely. His stench lingered behind like a physical weight, saturating the room long after his departure.

Equal parts cloying and disruptive.

Alastor remained perfectly still, smile thin and unmoving as the last trace of Adam’s presence finally began to fade.

❧

Rosie hadn’t reopened the shop after Adam’s unexpected visit. She simply hung a sign announcing its closure for the rest of the week. They needed time to prepare. And by unfortunate chance, Alastor had been chosen as her companion for their journey to Lucifer’s kingdom. After decades of being successfully hidden away, he’d been glimpsed by another. Now he was to be presented before the upper echelons of their barbaric society.

The prospect thrilled him as much as it unsettled him.

It would be his chance, perhaps, to leave a favorable impression on those powerful enough to lift him from mediocrity. But the price such beings would demand of an Omega would be far steeper than anything Rosie ever asked of him. He risked being drawn in, consumed, and reshaped by those eager to exploit every biological shortcoming his designation offered.

He was given three days to prepare - an insultingly small span of time to rehearse conversations and steady his frayed nerves. Rosie coached him as best she could, though he noticed the strain beneath her calm exterior. Tiny cracks revealed the anxiety she attempted to hide, and with good reason. It wasn’t unheard of for Lucifer to cull Overlords on a whim.

Everyone feared their terrible king.

❧

Niffty reacted poorly to the lingering scent Adam had left on him. Even the briefest proximity - and the slightest touch - had been enough for the Alpha’s signature to cling stubbornly to his skin and fur. She bared her teeth in open disgust as she tugged at his sleeves and collar with quick, irritated motions, muttering her displeasure all the while.

“Reeks,” she hissed, genuinely offended. “It reeks, Alastor.”

He allowed her to fuss over him without protest, amusement softening his features. She stripped him down with brisk efficiency, depositing the bundled garments into a wooden hamper as though they’d personally wronged her. Beneath the fabric, his lithe, furred form emerged; freckles dusted across his thighs, hips, shoulders, and spine like constellations. He soon eased himself into a steaming, scented bath prepared just for him, sinking into the water infused with soaps meant to neutralize whatever odors clung to him throughout the day.

It surprised him, at first, that Adam’s scent persisted - bold and unmistakably Alpha. It clung like a warning, like a claim. But eventually, the water won, and the last of that overpowering signature dissolved.

What an interesting fellow, he mused silently.

Niffty’s indignant squawking echoed from the next room as he slid deeper into the tub, letting the warmth swallow him. Her voice rose and fell with exaggerated outrage, likely as she scrubbed at his clothing with unnecessary force. He let her fuss; it was easier than attempting to soothe her ruffled nerves.

His own thoughts drifted back to the Fallen Angel. Adam’s presence - his posture, his reputation, the cruel shape his fall had carved into him - lingered far longer than his scent. Alastor pieced together what little he knew, the fragments of rumor and the reality he’d witnessed mere moments ago.

And then, naturally, his curiosity shifted to Lucifer.

How did the king compare to the creature he had remade?

To the monster he kept as a weapon?

To the being who ruled their world with unchallenged, unrelenting authority?

Alastor exhaled slowly, the bathwater rippling around him.

He knew so pathetically little.

The Omega supposed he could simply rely on his usual approach - maintain the integrity of his personality while presenting whatever polished facade the situation demanded. It had always served him well before.

And this was his chance to leave an impression.

Once clean and dried, he paused in the quiet of his home. His gaze drifted across the too-soft furniture, the muted hums and clatters of Niffty puttering about and the small personal touches he’d added over the years. Things that made the space feel lived in, even if it was never entirely his.

As he stood there, something within him shifted, a faint stirring of discomfort. A prickling sense of foreboding wound itself through his chest, whispering caution. Warning him to tread carefully. To measure each word and every gesture.

A single misstep could result in - …

In what, exactly?

He didn’t know. And that uncertainty, more than anything else, unsettled him.

Alastor’s grin became more apparent.

He’d manage. As he always had.

❧

Rosie had selected a slightly more elaborate variant of his usual attire - an effort, however subtle, to reduce the likelihood of him drawing unnecessary attention. His outfit consisted of a dark, long-sleeved top, a red-and-black laced corset vest, and fitted black trousers that clung tightly to his waist, thighs, and softer flesh. He went without shoes, as always; his freshly polished hooves gleamed in the low light. A discreet tailhole had been sewn into the back of the trousers, allowing the small, furred limb to flick freely, its presence both functional and faintly decorative.

Niffty had taken it upon herself to tame his hair, muttering under her breath as she dragged a brush through the unruly strands. A lightly scented oil aided her efforts, smoothing down the stubborn wisps without overwhelming the nose.

“You look so pretty, Alastor,” she crooned at last, stepping back to admire her work.

“Do I?”

Alastor let out a soft chuckle, eyes drifting over his reflection in the mirror.

“Let’s hope I’m not too pretty, Niffty, my girl. I wouldn’t want the Alphafolk to start falling over themselves.”

She tittered, her lone eye gleaming with delighted mischief.

He sobered only slightly as he met his own gaze.

The smile remained, fixed and eternal.

Chapter Text

Transportation from Rosie’s humble domain came in the form of Hell Horse-drawn carriages. The creatures arrived without need of reins or driver - curiously intelligent beasts of burden that lingered in patient stillness until their passengers boarded. Alastor let his gaze drift over them, fascinated by the sleek musculature beneath their hide, the simmering heat radiating from their bodies and the strange, ember-like glow in their eyes. He wondered idly about their breeding… and what sort of creature had first decided to break them in.

He did not linger long. With one last curious glance, he slipped inside and took his place beside Rosie. When the door clicked shut, the carriage jolted forward, followed by a sudden, weightless lift as the beasts took to the air. A faint grimace tugged at his mouth at the initial lurch, but the discomfort faded as quickly as it came.

“How exciting,” he drawled lightly. “A formal arrangement between the Overlords of the Pride Ring and the King of Hell himself.”

Rosie shot him a withering look, having easily detected the note of amusement threaded through his voice.

“Nervous?”

He verbally prodded her, fishing for reaction.

“Seems someone made the grievous mistake of offending Lucifer,” she answered flatly. “Take care you don’t do the same, pet. Don’t think I’m blind to that conniving mind of yours. Play your part and we're sure to get out of this alive.”

Alastor hummed softly, a contemplative sound accompanied by the faint dip of his head - acknowledgment wrapped in politeness.

“I’m left with the distinct impression that this arrangement isn’t commonplace,” he ventured. “Unless you’ve been sneaking out without me noticing these past few decades?”

Rosie crossed her arms tightly over her bosom, gaze shifting toward the window. The sprawling, hellish landscape rolled beneath them - structures rising, falling and reshaping themselves according to the whims of the newest generation of sinners. The architecture was always in flux, an ever-evolving monument to chaos. 

“No,” she said at last, tone clipped but honest. “There hasn’t been anything like this since I arrived. Last I heard, the previous ‘formal arrangement’ ended with half the Overlords being publicly executed for the King’s entertainment.”

Extortionary. So many lives snuffed out within the span of a few moments, Alastor mused privately.

“Well,” he replied, entirely unbothered, “let’s hope we don’t go the way of the dodo.”

Rosie exhaled sharply, a faint sigh slipping through the tension and silence settled once more between them as the carriage soared onward.

❧

The Morningstar Castle made for a grim, foreboding monolith to most who dared look upon it. Petitioners were accepted, yes - but very few willingly sought an audience with the King. His reputation, paired with that of his Executioner, ensured that the majority of Hell’s denizens granted what remained of the royal line a wide and cautious berth. As a result, the castle perpetually teetered on the edge of desolation. The great structure felt less like a seat of power and more like a mausoleum for a dynasty no one wished to disturb.

Alastor, however, found it impressive - both at first glance and at the second. His crimson eyes drank in every towering spire, every shadowed balcony and every inch of carved stone that seemed to press down upon the very landscape. He felt the faintest itch beneath his skin; a primal warning that caused tightness to etch itself within the corners of his smile. 

The carriage slowed, hooves landing with a thud that reverberated through the ground. Once they came to a stop, Alastor moved at once. He opened the door and stepped out, the chill air wrapping around him. With a crisp turn, he extended his hand to Rosie and offered a light, practiced bow. She accepted his paw and descended with the grace befitting an Overlord. He fell into place behind her - steadfast and attentive  - as several sharply dressed imps glided toward them.

Their escorts were severe  and impeccably efficient.

The pair was guided through an unnecessarily vast corridor and into an egregiously spacious ballroom. Alastor’s gaze flicked from wall to wall as they approached; the long hallways were dimly lit, the air thick with the faint scent of wax and old stone. Candles served as the only illumination, their flames small and flickering, casting warped and shifting shadows across the walls.

The atmosphere was oppressive by design. His instincts bristled. A subtle tightening in his chest urged him to tread softly, to remain aware, lest he be swallowed whole.

Conversation hummed faintly beyond the archway before they entered the ballroom proper. The smell of food - savory and enticingly rich - washed over him, his nostrils flaring despite himself. A lengthy table boasted a decadent spread of cooked flesh and delicate, stuffed  pastries, accompanied by wines both bitter and sweet.

“Don’t wander beyond this room, Alastor,” Rosie murmured, repeating the command she had given him thrice already. “But you may mingle, eat and enjoy yourself while you can.”

There was, it seemed, no predetermined moment when the King would call the Overlords to the Throne Room. Until then, all were left to languish in a state of uneasy anticipation.

Good, he thought, a small, unassuming thrill curling deep in his chest.

This provided him a splendid opportunity. It granted him time enough to observe and understand this strange and treacherous world in its full color.

Rosie drifted away, already gravitating toward familiar faces. Alastor stood still for a moment longer, scanning the gathered crowd. He breathed deeply, letting scents roll over him in layers.

Alphas. Betas. Omegas.

All three mingled here, though eventually the crowd naturally split - hierarchy reasserting itself in subtle, instinctual ways. The presence of Alphas dominated the room, their natural signatures rich, layered and imposing. Omegas were fewer, though not rare; many, he realized, likely shared roles parallel to his own.

Companions. 

He would blend in among them easily.

Alastor made the deliberate choice to orbit the familiar before venturing into the unknown. Predictability, after all, was a shield of sorts. And so he drifted toward the cluster of Omegas gathered in a loose circle near one of the long banquet tables. Their eyes flicked toward him as he approached - measuring him, cataloguing his attire, his posture, the careful elegance in each step.

Suspicion softened the moment his fragrance reached them and recognition dawned. He was one of theirs. Not a threat. Not competition. Simply another Omega navigating the treacherous landscape of Alpha-dominated politics.

He could have slipped quietly into their ranks and remained a polite, subdued presence.

But muted subtlety had never suited him.

Alastor intended to be seen.

With a genial smile and just enough theatrical charm to hook their attention, he offered a few light remarks - fanciful turns of phrase sharpened into playful wit. Laughter rippled through the circle, tentative at first, then warmer as they relaxed into his presence. Once he found the rhythm of their amusement, he stepped neatly into the center of it, allowing his voice to carry in that smooth, musical cadence he had perfected in life.

He moved with the crisp confidence of a performer taking the stage, his gestures deliberate and expressive. Bits of showmanship - glimpses of the radio host he once was - slipped naturally into his mannerisms. And the Omegas responded as most audiences did; eager for entertainment, grateful for distraction and drawn toward a pleasant brightness in a place that allowed them so little room to truly shine.

Eventually, only hunger forced him to pause. He reached for the platter at their side, selecting a neat cube of seared flesh. The meat yielded easily beneath his pointed teeth, seasoned lightly, the flavor rich and warm against his tongue.

As he chewed and satiated himself, crimson eyes glimmered with quiet calculation.

Having secured his place as a favorable presence among his fellow Omegas, Alastor allowed his attention to drift outward, evaluating the broader landscape beyond their softly chattering circle. What struck him first was the absence of encroaching Alphas. None had bothered to press into their group or to posture in a way typical of their sex. Curious - until he realized the reason.

Every Omega present was already claimed.

The signs were unmistakable; healed over bite-marks that decorated their throats or shoulders, soft bruising at the glands, and - most telling of all - the layered fragrances clinging to them. Their scents had been altered and partly drowned beneath the dominant signatures of their mates. A public declaration to whomever breathed their essence. 

His own scent, unmarked and unmingled, stood out like a lantern in the dark.

Unclaimed Omegas were a rarity - almost an anomaly. Their curious glances betrayed that fact. But none dared comment aloud, at least not where others might hear. Too risky. Too political.

Once Alastor felt satisfied with the impressions he had cultivated, his interest began to wane. He fell quiet, expression pleasant yet distant, as he surveyed the room. Remaining among the Omegas was safe enough, but safety rarely bred opportunity.

He needed someone to gravitate toward. Someone useful.

So he observed. Unpartnered Alphas lingered at the edges, some confident, some arrogant, some already bored with the evening. A few Betas caught his eye - figures of notable reputation, accomplished and influential in ways that would benefit him if handled with care.

Any one of them could serve as a stepping-stone.

But he needed malleability. Someone who could be nudged, cultivated, manipulated if necessary. A creature with ambition - but not enough cunning to be dangerous to him. A difficult combination to find, especially in a room where hierarchy was a bloodsport.

His crimson gaze swept across the gathering, slow and methodical.

And then it snagged on a particular figure.

Broad-shouldered, stiff posture, an unmistakably square - almost boxy - head shape.

His interest was immediately sparked. 

Yes.

That one.

❧

His name was Vox - or, at least, that was his pseudonym. A simple title that conveniently rhymed with “box,” a playful nod to the creation of the television, an invention that had followed the radio as its natural successor. His real name was, in truth, Vincent - something he shared after only a bit of light probing. Alastor had already noted the lack of Omega scent clinging to his cashmere fabrics and he naturally gravitated toward him once he caught the shy, almost fleeting glance the man directed his way. It was that small glimmer of weakness that sealed his interest. Alastor waved over an imp balancing a tray of drinks, gingerly pressing one into the taller man’s hand.

It was effortless to get him talking, an almost dizzied smile twisting across the projected lips of the Sinner.

He’s young, Alastor observed, pleased.

That was good. Very good. He took a sip of his drink as Vox spoke.

“So you were a weatherman as well as a television host,” the Omega remarked, neatly regurgitating the information. “That’s quite the ascent, Vox.”

“Is it? Haha.”

An awkward laugh escaped him as he absently scratched the back of his curiously-shaped head. His gaze flicked from his drink to the grinning Omega.

“How long have you been an Overlord?” Alastor asked, conversationally.

“Oh - um. A couple of years. Didn’t take me long to manage it.”

The Omega arched a brow.

“A natural then. That’s no easy feat.”

Alastor smiled sharply, already deeply satisfied with his choice.

“A shame that you found yourself here of all places. A bit anxiety-inducing, you know? This whole…”

The Omega gestured vaguely.

“…royal summons business. Does anyone even know why we’ve been brought here in the first place?”

Vox released an aggrieved sigh, his shoulders slumping slightly.

“Yeah. I nearly shit bricks when Adam showed up at my doorstep. I thought it was my time, ya know?”

Alastor nodded in agreement. He could only imagine the array of reactions sparked by a Fallen Angel descending at random with a summons in hand.

“So enough about me,” Vox said, eager to steer the conversation somewhere lighter. “Tell me about yourself, Alastor.”

A soft chuckle escaped him before Alastor obliged, sharing small portions of himself - the place of his birth, his interests and his successful career as a radio host.

“The radio?”

Vox’s eyes widened, visibly impressed.

“You managed that…?”

“It wasn’t easy,” Alastor replied. “But I did it. I had a successful career leading up to my death. I was in my… mm. I was nearly forty when I died.”

The Alpha’s expression softened. 

“Ah. I’m guessing you had a family,” he said, sympathetically.

“Oh. Ha! No. No.”

Alastor took another drink as Vox blinked, visibly bemused. But the man chose not to probe further, wary of causing offense.

“So, tell me more about your endeavors.”

Turning the conversation around, Alastor listened as Vox outlined his ambitions - building a sprawling network, forging a media empire from scraps and capitalizing on the scattered companies throughout Hell that attempted the same.

The Omega blinked, his right ear giving a little flick. The subtle action drew the man’s gaze for a moment. 

“A merger?”

Vox’s eyes brightened. “Exactly that.”

“And how will you manage that? By force?”

A sharp look flickered across Vox’s features, a faint smirk tugging at his projected lips. “If it comes to that. Most certainly. I’ve done worse.”

“Oh?”

Alastor leaned in, studying him with overt interest. Vincent faltered under the sudden proximity, his television screen warming as the Omega’s spiced scent curled around him - pheromones acting like a siren’s call. He swallowed, the sound unmistakably loud.

“I’d love to hear more about it. Don’t spare me the details.”

Vox hesitated only a moment before his smile returned. Then he began recounting the sordid pieces of his life - the blood, the first kill and the manufactured accidents. Alastor’s approval was immediate and unmistakable. A glimmer of heat sharpened the crimson of his gaze as Vox went on and eagerly shared detail after violent detail.

A pause settled over their conversation as music rose through the ballroom. For a moment, the crowd stilled - instinctively responding to the shift in atmosphere. A band of imps began to play their stringed instruments, the soft yet ominous melody urging the gathered sinners to clear the floor. Those eager to dance drifted forward; the rest watching on with mild interest. 

Vox’s attention hung on the spectacle - until a hand slipped into his periphery. A single fingertip tapped beneath his chin, guiding his gaze back to the Omega standing before him.

“Would you like to dance, Vincent?”

A quiet, embarrassed stutter escaped him, heat blooming along the edges of his screen.

Alastor’s grin sharpened, unmistakably predatory.

“Come on then.”

They stepped out first, the pair of them crossing the threshold of polished marble as the crowd instinctively parted. Vox moved ahead, guided by some mixture of eagerness and nerves and Alastor allowed him the illusion of leading. The Alpha’s movements were stiff at first - jerky, uncertain, like a man suddenly aware of every limb he possessed.

Alastor found it charming.

He offered quiet, precise instruction: the placement of a hand, the shift of weight, the subtle sway that guided the body into rhythm. And Vox, to his credit, adapted quickly. What began as awkward, faltering steps smoothed into something confident. Fluid. Their bodies found a cadence and, within moments, they occupied the center of the floor as if the dance had been designed for them alone.

Only then did others dare to truly join, emboldened by the sight. Pairs drifted forward - Alphas with their Omegas, Betas accompanying one another - forming neat rings around the central pair. The ballroom swelled with movement: skirts swirled, polished shoes whispered across stone, and a hundred mingled scents braided together beneath the candlelit air.

Through it all, Vox kept glancing down at him - flustered yet captivated  - while Alastor moved with unbothered grace, every line of his body measured and deliberate.

“...”

His attention lifted, instincts pricking. Across the room, framed by shadow and flickering light, Rosie watched him. Her expression was hollow, her gaze fixed upon him with an obvious weight.

Alastor’s grin sharpened, the graceful deer amused by her scrutiny. And with a small, mocking tilt of his head -  almost a bow - he acknowledged her.

Then he dismissed her with a blink and turned wholly back to Vox, gifting the Alpha his full attention once more as the dance carried them deeper into the slow, elegant whirl of the floor.

❧

Adam’s appearance was abrupt - almost violently so. One moment the band played, strings trembling with elegant precision, and the next a shadow bled across the far wall, stretching long and thin before snapping into the shape of the Fallen Angel himself. He materialized without ceremony or sound, as if the darkness had simply decided to stand up and become a malformed man.

The music died instantly.

Everyone had expected a thunderous announcement, something loud and theatrical to mirror the way he’d delivered his summons days before. But Adam seemed to take a certain delight in the collective jolt that rippled through the ballroom. His smile - wide and terrifyingly sharp - cut across the room as every dancer froze mid-step.

Alastor and Vox remained locked in one another’s hold, bodies stilled, the remnants of their momentum hanging between them.

“Hey now,” Adam crooned, voice carrying effortlessly across marble and candlelight, “re-lax. Enjoy your fun. King Lucifer ain’t ready yet.”

A snicker. Casual and dismissive. A wave of his hand encouraged the room to return to its revelry.

“Go on. Eat up. Drink up. Might as well enjoy the perks while ya can.”

The attempt at reassurance did nothing.

“Scary fucker,” Vox whispered, barely audible.

“Isn’t he?” Alastor murmured, equally soft.

The crowd tried to resume its earlier cadence, but something had shifted. The atmosphere thickened, uneasy and brittle. Conversations tightened into small, cautious clusters. Those who had danced retreated to the perimeter as if the very floor had become dangerous to occupy. No one dared step too near the Fallen Angel, who basked in the space afforded to him. He snatched a goblet from a passing imp and barked an order for an entire platter of choice meats, his presence turning the entire ballroom into a held breath.

Vox leaned closer. “Let’s go.”

He reached for Alastor’s hand, desperate to guide him away - but the Omega slipped from his grasp with effortless precision.

“A moment, Vincent.”

His voice was light. Almost cheerful. “I can’t help but be a little curious. This is Adam, after all. Where will I get another opportunity to speak with someone like him?”

Vox stared at him as though he’d announced an intent to walk into an open furnace.

“You can’t be serious.”

“I am,” Alastor replied, primly. “I’ll manage.”

“But he’s - he’s - ”

“I’ll be fine.”

“I - ”

“We’ll continue our discussion later,” Alastor promised, offering him a soft, placating smile.

Vox remained rooted to the spot as the Omega stepped away, projected lips flattening into a tight, anxious line. His fingers twitched with the urge to reach out again - but he didn’t. He merely watched, unease radiating from every line of his posture, as Alastor moved toward the most dangerous entity in the room with shining, crimson eyes.

Chapter Text

Adam was a being who commanded fear in Hell - not through subtlety, but through sheer, unapologetic force. His presence grated, abrasive as sandpaper against raw flesh. His words were brutish, obscene and purposefully crude. And yet, beneath that vulgar exterior thrummed a power that had not dimmed since his Fall. He was still every bit the Executioner, every bit the weapon Lucifer had forged.

To witness him in person was an experience few forgot… and fewer dared to seek.

Yet Alastor stepped forward willingly.

A heat rippled through him, excitement skittering down his spine in a pleasurable shiver. His scent thickened with every step he took toward the Fallen Angel, rolling off him in steady waves he could no longer temper. A lesser Omega might’ve fled from the impending danger.

But Alastor advanced with a rarely matched bravado.

Adam’s crimson eyes snapped to him quickly, catching the movement. A flicker of surprise tugged at the expressive mask he wore before it split into a lecherous grin. His gaze raked over Alastor in one long, vulgar sweep.

“Oh, I remember you,” Adam purred, voice dripping with crude amusement. “Aren’t you a damn sight for sore eyes.”

He exaggerated a look around the ballroom, jaw set in mock expectation as if daring someone - anyone - to meet his stare. None did. Not a single Overlord, Alpha, or stray sinner. All averted their gazes on open submission. 

Adam scoffed harshly.

“Outta all you pathetic fucks,” he announced, loudly enough for half the room to hear, “it’s the goddamn deer - an Omega, no less - who’s got the balls to come talk to me?”

He whistled, clicked his tongue and snatched a piece of meat off the platter an imp shakily held at his side. He tore into it with feral indelicacy.

Alastor bowed deeply. 

“Sire.”

Adam’s eyes glittered, amusement sparking. An amusement that was paired with approval as the Omega bent beneath his heated gaze. 

Good, Alastor thought. Good.

“I was hoping to make your acquaintance,” he continued, smoothly.

“Well, I don’t blame ya,” Adam said through a mouthful of meat. “I’m pretty damn amazing.”

Alastor’s eyes shone with well-feigned admiration.

“I’ve no doubt. Your exploits are legendary. I was hoping you might be willing to share a few - with a drink.”

The murmuring that drifted through the room was immediate and sharp. 

Alastor’s left ear gave a slight twitch, the right swiveling. 

Adam paused mid-chew, eyes narrowing with puzzled intrigue as he studied the poised little Omega before him. Then, slowly, a grin crawled across his face.

“You got some guts, Bambi,” Adam remarked, leaning down until he was inches from Alastor’s throat. He inhaled audibly, a low hum rumbling in his chest. “Fuck. You smell good.”

Another bite. Another wet tear of meat.

Then:

“Shit,” he said with a shrug. “Why not?”

Alastor’s heart thudded sharply, not with fear but with the rush of success. Adam extended a bent arm - more like a command than an offer - and Alastor placed his hand upon it with delicate elegance.

The reaction was immediate.

The crowd recoiled, granting them a wide berth as though Adam’s aura seared anyone who came close. Alastor felt the weight of borrowed power wash over him - a fraction of Adam’s presence bleeding into him through proximity.

It was temporary and fleeting. 

But he relished it.

Adam looked insufferably pleased, chest puffed, lips curled in a smug, predatory smile. An unclaimed Omega hanging off his arm was a trophy - and he brandished it with all the finesse of a barbarian.

“Move,” he barked at a group of onlookers who were too slow to step aside.

They scattered.

Adam led him toward a quieter corner - quieter only because the rest of the ballroom fled from his orbit. The Fallen Angel moved like a man who had never once been denied space in his life, his long strides demanding it. Alastor kept pace easily, his light steps a contrast to Adam’s heavy, swaggering gait.

Once they reached a marble pillar, Adam stopped abruptly. Alastor halted with impeccable timing, offering neither stumble nor hesitation. The Fallen Angel’s grin sharpened.

“Good reflexes,” Adam commented, licking grease from his thumb with no sense of propriety. “Most Omegas trip over themselves trying to impress me.”

Alastor allowed a soft laugh - warm and pleasant.

“Do they? How tragic.”

Adam snorted. “Tragic? Nah. Hilarious.”

He leaned in. Entirely too close. His shadow swallowed Alastor whole, the heat of him rolling like desert wind.

“So,” Adam said, voice dropping low. “What’s your angle, babe? Don’t bullshit me. You didn’t come trotting over here just to flutter your lashes at the big bad Fallen Angel.”

Alastor tilted his head slightly, crimson eyes brightening.

“I assure you,” he replied, “I’ve no intentions beyond your company. Though I’m hardly immune to curiosity.”

Adam barked a laugh. The sound alone was enough to startle those who stood at a distance.

“Curiosity, huh? Dangerous trait for an Omega.”

He jabbed a thumb roughly against his chest. 

“Especially ‘round me.”

Alastor’s smile didn’t so much as tremble. “Danger often makes for the most memorable experiences.”

That got Adam’s attention.

He dragged his eyes over Alastor again, more assessing this time. Less crude, more analytical - if Adam could ever be described with such a word.

“Alright, Bambi,” he said. “You want stories? I’ll give you stories.”

He jerked a hand toward a passing imp.

“Oi! Drinks. Strong ones.”

The imp sprinted.

Adam continued, rolling his neck until the vertebrae cracked audibly.

“You wanna hear about the time I wiped out an entire bar ‘cause some Alpha fuck thought he could mouth off?” he asked, grin widening.

“Delightful,” Alastor murmured, feigning intrigue. “Do tell.”

Adam launched into it immediately.

And with each crude, violent detail, the two of them drew more eyes. More whispers. A ripple of confusion spread through the room at the sight of an Omega - an unclaimed one - calmly standing in the shadow of Hell’s most volatile executioner. After all, such a soft creature was afforded little in the way of true protection. 

Adam gestured wildly as he told the story, reenacting portions with unnecessary flourish, laughing at his own barbarity. And Alastor listened - rapt and offering little nods and soft hums of encouragement.

When the drinks arrived, Adam downed his in one swallow and shoved the second glass at Alastor. His look was an expectant one. 

“Go on. Drink. Let’s see if you can handle something that isn’t dainty Omega shit.”

Alastor accepted it with the etiquette of someone being offered fine wine.

He took a measured sip. It was bitter. Delightfully so. And it burned on its way down his gullet. 

Adam watched, expectant.

Alastor exhaled lightly, placing the glass against his chest with a pleased hum.

“Crisp,” he said. “I quite like it.”

Adam stared.

Then he laughed. 

“You’re a strange one,” he said. “A strange, bold little Omega. Not sure if that means you’re clever or suicidal.”

Alastor’s smile glinted.

“Perhaps a bit of both.”

Adam leaned in close enough that Alastor felt breath against his cheek.

“I like you,” he growled. “You’re entertaining.”

Alastor bowed his head, voice honey-sweet. 

“I’m pleased to hear it.”

The Fallen Angel smirked so widely it nearly split his face.

“You’ll be sticking with me tonight, Bambi. I wanna see what else you’re made of.”

The ballroom buzzed with fresh, uneasy whispers.

And Alastor - every bit the polite, well-mannered Omega - simply smiled, accepting the Alpha’s company. When Adam finally shifted his attention elsewhere, Alastor visibly sobered, casting a glance toward a particular spot. A lone tv-headed Alpha stood there, looking unmistakably anxious.

Pathetic.

Still, he’d play his part. He sent a helpless, chastened look in that direction - as though he’d done something wrong; as though Adam’s continued proximity had been accidental and unwanted. Vox caught the fleeting expression immediately, likely already convinced of Alastor’s innocence.

Alastor smothered a quiet bubble of laughter, relishing the moment he watched the tiny seed he had planted in the young Alpha begin to take root.

In life and in death, Alphas remained such stupidly simple creatures - driven by instinct and so easily led astray by soft words and a pleasant face. Alastor had always found it amusing. Predictable. Even comforting in its own way.

Adam was no exception.

As the Fallen Angel’s attention swung back to him - midway through another half-formed story, slurred with enthusiasm - he fixated on Alastor with the intensity of someone who had just rediscovered the concept of beauty. His gaze sharpened, hungry, his wolfish grin widening as though Alastor himself were the room’s lone source of light.

And Alastor offered him precisely what he wanted; a patient smile, a tilt of the head, the courteous hum of someone utterly enthralled. A carefully curated illusion. 

The Fallen Angel absorbed the attention greedily, his hand soon drifting, settling with bold familiarity along the curve of Alastor’s hip. They slipped easily into conversation, Adam’s anecdotes punctuated by boisterous laughter and the occasional theatrical gesture, while Alastor answered with polite amusement and just enough warmth to keep the Alpha hooked. Together they indulged in drink after drink, and though Alastor was far from drunk, a pleasant buzz began to loosen the edges of his tongue.

Eventually, he leaned in with an expression that bordered on playful.

“Tell me, Adam,” he asked, voice silky-smooth, “can you dance?”

The Fallen Angel blinked once before a bark of laughter burst out of him.

“Can I dance?” he scoffed. “Babe, please. I was cuttin’ floors before half the schmucks in this room were even born. Better question - ” he jabbed a finger lightly toward Alastor’s chest, “ - can you keep up with me?”

Alastor’s lips curved into a perfectly honed, challenging smile. It had the same sharpness as Adam’s grin, but refined - razor’s edge disguised as charm.

“Well,” he replied, eyes gleaming, “that depends. Does this little orchestra know anything resembling jazz?”

Adam’s laughter boomed across the space, startling a few nearby demons.

“Aw, hell yeah they do,” he declared, snapping his fingers. “Lucifer made sure the band’s got range. C’mon, sweetheart - lemme show ya somethin’.”

Alastor’s smile lingered, cool and knowing.

“By all means,” he purred, “lead the way, Sire.”

❧

Alastor had originated from an era where jazz reigned supreme - when swing had reached its blistering crescendo and the world seemed to pulse in time with brass and bass. As an Omega, he’d learned early on how to navigate spaces that throbbed with that music: smoke-thick clubs, polished dance floors and speakeasies lit by golden lamps and bad intentions. He learned to move like the flappers he admired - loose-limbed, sharp, theatrical - his every step a deliberate invitation or dismissal. He spent innumerable nights in his twenties weaving through crowds, skirts and suits blurring around him, learning how to command a room without ever raising his voice.

Adam, much to Alastor’s surprise, was no slouch either.

For all his crassness and brute confidence, the Fallen Angel moved with startling precision - raw and undeniably skilled. There was rhythm in him, some molten core of showmanship that predated even Hell’s oldest vices. And the instant the music shifted - an imp’s trembling voice rising into an excitable tune, the swell of strings folding into the sultry cry of saxophones and the steady heartbeat of drums - they stepped into motion as though answering a challenge neither had spoken aloud.

The crowd fell instantly silent.

Demons paused mid-conversation, glasses hovering halfway to lips, as the pair overtook the dance floor with effortless command. Where other couples had moved with polite grace, these two carved through the space like rival storms - fluid yet forceful, polished yet feral. Their steps weren’t simply synchronized; they pushed against one another, testing limits, probing weaknesses.

It wasn’t a dance.

Not really.

It felt like a bid for dominance dressed up in rhythm and charm - Adam’s wild, Alpha-driven energy clashing against Alastor’s razor-edged poise and perfected elegance. A contest masked as entertainment, every spin and dip a quiet threat, every shared grin a quiet challenge. 

Alastor felt alive - truly, blisteringly alive - as he moved. For a fleeting moment he was no longer an infernal spirit bound to Hell’s endless grind, but flesh and bone again, breathing air thick with cigarette smoke and possibility. His memories bled over the scene: silhouettes in era-appropriate dress, sequins catching low light, the ghost of a gramophone’s static buried beneath trumpets and laughter. The dance floor around him became crowded with echoes - his past layered over the present, so vivid he could almost taste it.

He let himself sink into the rhythm, let the music pull him under, let the world blur at the edges until there was nothing but motion and heat and Adam’s heavy presence circling him like a bird of pray. He was so swept up in the moment that he failed to catch the shift - failed to see the sharp, predatory glint that flashed in Adam’s eyes. Failed to sense the Alpha’s grip tightening, his arm guiding the next movement with sudden, deliberate force.

In a blink, Alastor was spun away - hard, fast, the world tilting.

And he collided with someone else entirely.

He knew instantly that the body catching him was wrong - not the towering bulk he’d grown familiar with. The scent hit him like a blow: crisp and unmistakably sweet. Apples. Pure and overwhelming. His breath caught in his throat as his senses locked onto that fragrance he’d only ever heard whispered about.

The Omega went rigid, every instinct sharpening like a blade.

His eyes snapped open.

This was no stranger. No overreaching demon. No careless reveler.

It was him.

Lucifer.

He lurched back on pure prey-driven instinct, muscles locking as though a gunshot had cracked through the room. His ears folded tight against his skull; his eyes wide and glass-bright with astonishment. The music continued to thrum on, steady  - because the band knew better. They would not halt unless commanded by the very mouth of Hell himself.

“Dance for me,” the King of Hell said.

The words were sweet - sickly so - like honey left too long in the sun. And despite Lucifer’s deceptively slight frame and soft voice, Alastor could feel the power coiling beneath his skin the instant a hand closed around his wrist. Firm. Unyielding. Absolute.

His retreat had been denied. 

“Sire,” Alastor managed, a thin, strangled sound. “I - ”

Lucifer’s expression did not shift. His face remained a perfect mask, carved from porcelain and cold authority. No raised brow. No curl of lip. No glimmer of irritation or amusement. Nothing to grasp, nothing to anticipate. The blank, terrible neutrality was worse than anger - worse than anything Alastor had expected.

He struggled to anchor himself, breath hitching as the King’s grip tightened just enough to remind him who, exactly, held him.

And Lucifer watched in perfect silence.

Unblinking.

Unreadable.

Waiting.

He did not repeat his question. 

He would not repeat his question. 

“Yes, Sire,” the Omega replied, haltingly. “I’m yours to command.” 

The nature of the dance shifted at once - no longer a shared rhythm, no longer mutual momentum. Instead, a rigid hierarchy settled over them like a shroud. Lucifer’s hands never once loosened, never drifted, never faltered. They held him precisely where he wished him to be. Every step was dictated. Every turn is predetermined. Every motion is an assertion of power.

It was a far cry from Vox - who had been uncertain, eager, malleable - and utterly unlike Adam, whose dominance was indulgent and ultimately permissive.

He led with Vox.

Adam allowed him to roam and flourish in a grand display.

But Lucifer…

Lucifer was an entirely different creature.

There was a thin, razor-edged cruelty threaded through each crisp movement, hidden beneath the elegance of perfect form. A subtle violence in the way he redirected Alastor’s balance. A quiet warning in every shift of pressure. Alastor felt it in the tightening of his features, in the burning of his lungs, in the vise of the King’s fingers at his waist - on his hip… 

He was not being guided.

He was being handled.

Forced to execute each maneuver exactly as Lucifer intended.

It was suffocating.

And beneath it all, alarmingly intoxicating.

To be in such close proximity to power - true power - warmed him in a way he couldn’t immediately name. It sank into his bones, an intoxicating heat that threatened to soften his focus, to lull him into something perilously close to submission. The Omega buried deep within his psyche stirred in recognition, humming its quiet encouragement, enthralled by the presence of its king.

Alastor gritted his teeth. His eyes flashed - not with fear, but with fury at himself, at his biology and at the insidious thrill rising in his veins. An outrage that the control he had maintained had been broken. The night partly ruined.

But the lapse lasted only a moment - 

He glanced at Lucifer’s face and startled. 

The King regarded him with that same inscrutable, unyielding mask of calm. There was only a chilling blankness that made mockery of any attempt to read him. 

And yet in that frozen heartbeat, Alastor understood with absolute certainty:

His mask had failed.

Lucifer had seen everything.

A bolt of primal alarm shot through him, sharp enough to make his breath hitch. To make him falter and miss a crucial step in their dance. 

He needed to get away.

He needed distance.

A moment to breathe - to think. 

He needed -

Chapter Text

Alastor had overstepped.

This much was obvious. It pulsed in the air like a second heartbeat—his mistake, loud and damning. And everyone present knew it. The Omega who dared wander too close to the metaphorical flame had strolled straight into the fire - and was moments away from being burned alive beneath the gaze of two of Hell’s most merciless powers.

That Lucifer had released him at all was a mercy. A small, terrible mercy. The ghost of the King’s touch still lingered along his wrist, cold and electric, sinking beneath his skin like an invasive brand.

The music died abruptly, strangled mid-note. Lucifer allowed him a moment - only a moment - to gather himself. Alastor stepped back, hands before him, fingers interlaced tightly. He bowed deeply, a perfect display of polished humility.

“Your Majesty,” he said, voice steady through sheer force of will. “It was an honor.”

Lucifer answered with silence.

He was perfect. Composed entirely of sharp lines, immaculate tailoring and a regal poise carved from celestial arrogance. Not a wrinkle. Not a crease. Nothing out of place. Nothing comforting nor familiar. A stark contrast to the flawed beings that surrounded him. 

The quiet stretched outward from their axis like a ripple in dark water. No one dared speak. No whisper. No breath louder than a prayer swallowed in terror.

Then - 

“The fuck are you all waiting for?”

Adam’s voice cracked across the room like a whip. 

“Get those heads down. Or I’ll start takin’ them off myself.”

The temperature spiked. The air shimmered with heat despite the cool stone of the ballroom. Something massive and cruel manifested at Adam’s side - an executioner’s weapon, glowing with promise. Alastor did not turn to look, did not dare break eye contact with the King.

But his peripheral vision caught movement - 

- the entire hall folding at once.

Not merely bowing.

Prostrating.

Bodies dropped to the ground with heavy, unified thuds - Alphas, Betas and Omegas alike pressing their foreheads to the floor, trembling in reverent submission.

Alastor held his breath.

He was still standing. Lucifer was still standing. And Adam loomed close behind him, drawing nearer with slow, deliberate steps.

Too slow.

An obvious warning. 

A moment to correct his mistake. 

Alastor dropped.

He moved with practiced grace, of course, sliding into the posture expected of his station. It should have been natural - shouldn’t all Omegas submit so readily? But every inch of the pose grated against his true instinct and whatever presently remained of his pride. 

His forehead met the floor as his teeth clenched with disgust. 

A low, amused rumble sounded above him.

“Pretty,” Adam drawled, the mockery thick. “Look at you. Fuckin’ adorable when you’re scared.”

Alastor’s fingers curled. Claws pricked his palms, little blossoms of pain grounding him. He was grateful - pathetically so - that his bangs concealed his expression as fury sparked bright in his crimson eyes.

Why had Lucifer revealed himself now?

Why without warning?

He’d expected something that allowed him - at the very least - a single moment to prepare himself. But the King had appeared suddenly and without preamble. 

He should have anticipated it.

He should have planned for it.

How pathetically short-sighted of him. 

Rosie would have words for him - sharp ones - if they both survived this blunder. He had entangled himself in the orbit of beings whose whims could shatter the foundation of Hell. And worse yet, he had danced straight into the arms of the devil himself.

A laugh threatened to claw free - wild and wholly inappropriate considering the severity of the moment.

Instead, a shiver passed through him. A small tremor, just noticeable enough.

Anger.

But it could pass for fear. 

A comparatively acceptable emotion. 

And that, at least, was safer than the truth.

He didn’t rise of his own accord.

Adam seized him. One massive hand clamping around Alastor’s bicep, fingers digging in with careless strength. The Fallen Angel hauled him upright as though he weighed nothing, the motion rough and startlingly abrupt. Alastor’s muscles twitched with the instinct to wrench himself free, but such an attempt would be a waste. There was no hope in breaking Adam’s grip. 

Resisting would only amuse him and warrant a swift punishment. A physical correction, at worst. 

“C’mon, Bambi,” Adam said, voice a gravelly purr of mockery. “Field trip time. We’re headin’ to the Throne Room.”

The words hit like a blow.

Alastor faltered, his gaze darting toward the masses still pinned to the ground. He sought Rosie out among their number but the bowing bodies melded together. A sea of trembling limbs and lowered heads. She was there. 

Somewhere. 

“My Beta is - ”

He froze as Adam’s grip tightened to a bruising vise.

The Fallen Angel leaned in, his breath hot against Alastor’s ear, thick with the scent of cooked meat and something far more animalistic. His pheromones curled around the Omega like smoke - clinging to both skin and fabric. Alastor hated how easily it seeped in and left its mark with ease. 

“What was that?” Adam murmured, the false softness in his tone terrifying. 

A second chance.

A rare, generous second chance.

“Of course, Sire,” Alastor corrected swiftly, bowing his head.

The tension in Adam’s fingers eased, the brute’s satisfaction palpable. He straightened, lifting his gaze to Lucifer. A silent exchange passed between them as he released his grip upon the Omega. 

Lucifer did not even glance at Alastor.

He simply turned on his heel.

The king began walking toward the great doors, his pace generally unhurried. What need was there for a lord and master to hurry within his domain?  His hands folded behind his back in a posture that radiated control - a control so complete that the air itself seemed to tighten around him.

His entourage soon fell into place: the hellborn monarch at its head, the Fallen Angel at his flank and the solitary Omega trailing between them like a lamb among wolves.

❧

Adam’s weapon was a stringed instrument, casually slung over his shoulder. In truth, the thing was far more malleable - reshaping itself at will to produce music or, with a shift in intent, to serve as an executioner’s axe. It was a weapon specialized for cleaving through the necks of Sinners.

Beheading. How delightfully grotesque. A very fitting method for the Executioner.

Alastor had been granted the rare privilege of studying the weapon up close. He stood at the Fallen Angel’s side, positioned just beside the King’s throne - an honor not afforded lightly and one he did not take for granted. His gaze drifted discreetly toward the instrument, cataloging its details with a predator’s curiosity. His posture remained impeccable: shoulders squared and every inch of him controlled. His eyes stayed lowered in deference. And though his permanent smile remained etched across his face, it softened - its corners curving with a restrained, almost reverent interest.

Lucifer lounged upon his throne with practiced ease, one leg elegantly crossed over the other. His chin rested against a curled fist, his expression one of detached boredom. The flicker of candlelight along the obsidian floor cast shifting shadows across his features, lending him a strangely serene yet unmistakably dangerous air.

“Let’s begin,” he drawled, his voice carrying effortlessly through the vast chamber.

The heavy doors groaned open moments later, admitting an Alpha Overlord and their Omega counterpart. The air shifted with their entry, thick with hierarchy and the muted hum of unease. Their names and titles were announced with crisp clarity, echoing through the hall before fading into silence.

Upon reaching a respectful distance from the throne, the pair knelt. The Omega lowered fully, both knees touching the cold floor. The Alpha, by contrast, dropped to a single knee - a measured, intentional display of rank and pride. The disparity was not a slight; it was tradition, a wordless acknowledgement of their places in the order of things as they bowed before their Lord.

Lucifer lifted one languid hand. A white script materialized before him, coalescing into the form of a partially unrolled scroll hovering in the air. He paused, crimson eyes scanning several passages with slow, deliberate interest. The chamber remained utterly silent, every soul present suspended in anticipation - waiting for his verdict. 

The scroll brightened faintly in response to his attention, its letters shifting in elegant, celestial script as Lucifer’s gaze lingered on whatever truths or decrees lay written within.

“You may leave,” he declared.

The pair’s relief was palpable. They rose with measured care, determined not to appear overly eager as they retreated. Their unified bow was appropriately reverent. Still, the Omega wavered - pale and unsteady - leaning heavily into their Alpha’s side as they made their exit. Alastor’s gaze followed them until they slipped past the great doors, his attention shifting between the departing figures and the King perched upon his throne. He found himself silently speculating about the contents of the scroll and the intentions that lay behind Lucifer’s seemingly idle judgments.

The procession continued. Dismissal after dismissal played out in swift succession - pairs or solitary petitioners summoned forward, awaiting either their freedom or whatever punishment their lord deemed appropriate. The rhythm of it became ritualistic: step forward, kneel and quietly pray for mercy.
 

The first few left relieved. 

Then a lone Sinner stepped forth. A figure vaguely resembling a cactus - stubby, uneven spikes protruding at odd angles. A Beta. Meager in stature. A creature so thoroughly unimpressive that one might have dismissed him outright.

But appearances in Hell were rarely trustworthy.

Lucifer’s gaze sharpened. His eyes caught upon some unseen detail and his expression shifted - subtly, almost imperceptibly. A single, perfectly sculpted brow arched. A small, cold spark of interest ignited.

He lifted his hand.

And snapped his fingers.

The sound was soft. 

Yet it rang through the throne room like a death knell.

The meaning was unmistakable.

Adam stepped forward with open, hungry relish, his grip tightening around the haft of his weapon. Alastor remained where he stood, still as stone, every instinct urging him not to draw attention to himself.

“Looks like you’re fucked, boy-o,” Adam crooned, voice thick with amusement. “Now - are we doing this the easy way, or the hard way? Go on. Make my day and say the latter, yeah?”

The Sinner trembled violently, his wide eyes darting between the Executioner and the King, as though salvation might flicker in either direction.

“I - I didn’t - ”

Adam cut him off with a crude mimicry of speech, flapping a hand and rolling his eyes, malice radiating from every inch of him as he stepped closer.

“Y-ya didn’t what? Fuck around and find out?”

The Sinner’s mouth opened - then closed. No answer came. No plea. Only terror, raw and choking, sealing his throat shut. The Executioner inhaled noisily, appearing to relish the fear scent that oozed - as though the taste of it stirred him. 

“I just love the smell of fear.” 

The axe raised. And fell only a moment later.

A splash of gore splattered Alastor’s face. 

❧

The bodies were removed swiftly after each execution - dragged away by silent attendants, scrubbed from stone and sight. But no amount of cleaning could erase the truth. The scent lingered. It seeped into the marble and into the very air itself. Fear. Blood. The oily, disgusting tang of spilled essence. It clung to the throat like smoke. And though the chamber appeared immaculate each time a new Sinner entered, the scent betrayed the lie.

It whispered the truth: that the moment the King’s cold eyes fixated upon them, they were already tipping over the edge of death.

“Lemme get that for ya, babe.”

Alastor didn’t have time to flinch. A narrow tongue - rough and uncomfortably warm - flicked against his cheek, gathering a smear of gore that had begun to dry there. Adam drew back with a wet slurp, grinning like an animal who’d stolen a treat.

Alastor resisted the urge to wipe his face clean, his eyelids lowering slightly as his features crinkled lightly at the edges. 

Adam, perceptive in all the worst ways, chuckled low in his throat and dragged his tongue slowly across his own lips as though savoring something exquisite.

The Fallen Angel seemed to derive a disturbing degree of pleasure simply from being close to him. As though Alastor were some pampered consort rather than an unwilling witness. Adam’s massive tail occasionally slithered across the floor to brush against his ankles - light, teasing touches that made his skin crawl beneath his clothing. The brute shifted nearer whenever possible, leaning in until his breath hovered at Alastor’s ear, murmuring a quiet insult or a crude commentary about whoever dared step before the throne.

He revelled in it.

His interest - well, it wasn’t the worst thing Alastor had endured.

For all his barbarism, Adam possessed a strange quality Alastor could appreciate: honesty. Brutal, unfiltered honesty. No mask. No civility. No false manners to obscure his intentions. Everything he felt - lust, irritation, delight, bloodlust - spilled openly across that monstrous, expressive face. It repelled most. It, admittedly, fascinated Alastor.

And it was obvious - glaringly so - that Adam wanted to fuck him. The Fallen Angel’s scent betrayed him every few minutes, a hot spike of arousal threading into the air on occasion. After each death, Adam’s gaze inevitably drifted toward him, hungry and hopeful, as though awaiting praise for a job well done.

Approval. From an Omega.

How extraordinarily typical. 

It was far from uncommon for Alphas to posture in the presence of a potential mate - preening, puffing up and seeking validation like overeager wolves. A pretty face could manipulate such primal urges to their advantage. There was always a price to pay. But it could be worth it. 

So Alastor gave Adam precisely what he craved.

His perpetual grin sharpened at the edges, acquiring just a hint of wicked delight. His eyes gleamed with a spark of excitement. 

Yet his attention drifted from the Fallen Angel, tugged inevitably toward the indomitable figure seated upon the throne. Lucifer did not merely sit - he occupied, as though the structure itself had been carved around him. Effortless elegance. Terrible poise. Every subtle motion is precise. A deity in his own right, untouched by the desperation that flooded the room.

He remained unmoved by the pleas of those condemned. Unmoved by the Omegas mercilessly torn from the corpses of their Alpha mates - ripped away by sharp-toothed Hellhounds that dragged them - often screaming - through a secondary exit, their fates sealed behind doors no one dared follow.

One had attempted to intervene on behalf of her doomed mate. She earned Adam’s backhand for her trouble. The crack of it echoed through the chamber, violent in the way it snapped her head sideways. She collapsed in a limp heap, stunned silent and was hauled off like discarded property by waiting attendants.

Alastor had pondered what fate awaited her as his crimson gaze followed her partly crumpled form as it was dragged. Not out of compassion. The well-being of the Omegas were, ultimately, inconsequential to him despite the cordial rapport he’d cultivated among their number. It was mere idle interest. A morbid curiosity, he supposed. 

That idle curiosity led to a more pressing thought.

Why was he here?

Standing beside the throne as though he belonged among the ruling class of Hell?

Not that he particularly minded. This perspective was intriguing. 

His gaze drifted toward the towering doors of the chamber. The temptation to leave flickered in the back of his mind - an instinctive, intrusive twitch toward escape, or at least distance.

But even that brief fantasy withered.

Adam would never permit it. The Fallen Angel would correct him with malicious glee, dragging him back by the scruff if necessary. And Alastor had no doubt - none - that he would be treated little better than the punished Omega should he attempt to defy the position Lucifer had allowed him to occupy.

He straightened his posture, generally accepting of his fate. Alastor would puzzle out his predicament. 

For now there was no leaving. Not while those eyes - Lucifer’s and Adam’s - were fixed upon him. Alastor took care not to attract their attention, playing the part of the statuesque beauty. His ears flicked on occasion, the shape of his smile experiencing subtle shifts here and there. Little movements that made him alive - but didn’t draw the weight of their combined gazes. 

❧

Vox entered in a flicker of static, his projected lips pressed into a thin, strained line. The moment his presence hit the room, Adam’s head snapped toward him - sharp and curious. His nostrils flared, then his gaze cut to Alastor with sudden incredulity.

“That’s the one I smelled on you,” he muttered, surprisingly quiet. “The fuck?”

He cocked his head, eyes narrowing into an assessing squint as Vox knelt. The Executioner looked him over with the same scrutiny he gave a soon-to-be corpse - except tinged with genuine confusion.

“What’s so interesting about some box-headed, borderline twink-freak?”

A low, velvety hum slipped from Alastor. He tilted his head up just enough to meet Adam’s stare, ears folding slightly in a gesture that was half-demure, half-provocation. His smile sharpened as he spoke, voice a soft purr that slid effortlessly between them.

“Envious, Sire?”

The words left him like a croon - light and boasting a teasing edge meant to invoke a reaction. 

Adam’s response was a deep rumble that vibrated through the floor, his tail tip flicking in irritation. He held Alastor’s gaze for a beat too long before looking away, the non-answer loud in its silence.

Judgment resumed.

Lucifer barely spared Vox a full heartbeat before his verdict drifted out like smoke: innocent.

Dismissed. 

Relief prickled up Alastor’s spine - not emotional, but practical. It would’ve been dreadfully inconvenient if Vox had been reduced to paste and scattered metal pieces on the immaculate floor. He’d find no use in a corpse. 

Vox lingered just long enough to risk a glance at him.

Alastor did not move. He only offered a polite smile that betrayed little. 

The soft rumble from Adam beside him turned into a low, territorial growl - teeth bared. 

Vox immediately flinched and hurried toward the exit, static stuttering around him as he fled. The small exchange did not go unnoticed; the Executioner’s eyes followed Vox’s departure before sliding back to Alastor with a look that was equal parts suspicion and possessive annoyance.

❧

Rosie was also deemed innocent.

 But before dismissing her, Lucifer shifted in his throne - an almost lazy movement, yet deliberate enough to command the room. He  initially reclined with the poise of a lounging cat, every line of his body relaxed, but not a single ounce of vigilance lost.

His voice slid into the hush like a blade.

“Your Omega intrigues me.”

Rosie stiffened. A polite smile flickered across her face, thin and brittle as cracked porcelain.

“I’ve not encountered one who left such an impression,” Lucifer continued, eyes half-lidded. “Not in eons.”

“You flatter me, Your Majesty,” she managed, the edges of her voice fraying.

The king hummed - a soft, thoughtful sound.

“My Executioner seems taken with him as well.”

At that, Adam perked up, tail flicking with a smug, open interest. Rosie did not look at him. She did not dare.

Lucifer leaned forward, elbows resting neatly on his knees, fingers steepled. The movement sharpened his silhouette. 

“What use,” he asked, “does a Beta have for an unclaimed Omega?”

The pause that followed was suffocating.

Rosie dipped her head, but the crack in her composure was visible. Her voice came soft and trembling at the edges.

“He’s quite the companion, Your Majesty,” she said. “Hard-working. Loyal. Smart. A temperament to die for. I’d… truly hate to lose him.”

Lucifer’s expression did not change in the slightest. His stillness was oppressive - entirely judicial.

“That,” he replied, “is not up to you, girl.”

Rosie went silent. A single breath too quick betrayed her fear.

Lucifer let the moment stretch, taut as wire, before delivering his verdict:

“… you may keep him.”

Her relief broke over her in a palpable wave, her hand flying to her chest as though to keep her heart from leaping out. She exhaled shakily, head bowing lower in appreciation.

Lucifer’s next words came cool and unhurried.

“For now.”

A chill scraped down Alastor’s spine.

The king’s gaze drifted to Adam, who straightened instinctively under the weight of it.

“Return him.”

Adam’s face twisted into a deep scowl - pure, displeased frustration. But he obeyed. He always obeyed.

He jerked his head at Alastor.

“You heard His Highness,” he growled, his irritation barely contained. “Go on - get to prancin’, babe.”

Alastor dipped his head with impeccable grace and made his way back to Rosie’s side. Her fingers brushed his arm in a silent check - Are you intact? Are you still mine? - a gesture quick enough not to attract attention.

Both bowed. Rosie executed an immaculate curtsy; Alastor folded into a deep, respectful bow.

Lucifer regarded them both in silence before offering a final, deceptively mild statement:

“You’ll be hearing from me again.”

The weight of it settled over them like a grave being filled.

Alastor’s pulse quickened. Rosie’s breath hitched. They bowed deeper, as one - two creatures silently acknowledging the promise - and threat - hidden in that single sentence.

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” Rosie said, voice steady by force alone.

Neither dared to raise their eyes until Lucifer dismissed them.

Chapter Text

Upon returning to Rosie’s territory, her displeasure became immediately - viscerally - known.

It was the first time she had ever struck him.

The crack of her palm against his cheek echoed through the small parlor, sharp against the silence of the empty space. Alastor’s head snapped to the side from the force, but he did not stumble. Slowly, with the eerie calm of a doll being re-positioned, he turned his face back toward her.

He smiled. As he always did. His crimson eyes, however, were empty - hollow wells reflecting nothing at all.

Rosie launched into a tirade, her voice trembling with a fury she could barely contain. A torrent of words - scoldings and reprimands paired with clipped insults - poured from her in a rush. Alastor stood in silence, hands folded before him, posture impeccable. Not a furrow tugged at his brow. Not a flicker of annoyance marred his expression.

He accepted the blow and the berating that followed, with the graceful passivity expected of an Omega. Quiet and attentive, as though he was minding her - and her words. 

When she finally exhausted her rage, what followed was his punishment. 

Isolation.

Alastor was to be confined to his home for the foreseeable future - “to reflect,” she’d said through clenched teeth. To reflect on his actions and careless words.  And the catastrophic reality that the highest echelon of Hell now knew his name, his face and his scent.

For Rosie, the consequences were dire.
 

A Beta “owner” of an unclaimed Omega was already precarious.

But a Beta who owned an Omega that Lucifer and Adam had both noticed…?

That placed her at a devastating disadvantage.

Alphas would sniff at her borders before the week was out.

She feared losing him - that much was obvious from the venom in her words. 

Alastor, meanwhile, felt none of the anxiety she carried. He had drawn the spotlight to himself intentionally. Flaunting himself and his natural signature with an unrivaled boldness. He had glimpsed an opportunity and seized it with both hands. 

There had been missteps. A moment of recklessness, yes. A brush against death he could have avoided with more care.

But all things considered… he could work with the pieces now on the board. Though he’d be forced to patiently await the consequences that would inevitably come about. 

His punishment offered something valuable:

Time and solitude.

The luxury to dissect each memory with ruthless precision. To reassemble the puzzle in the privacy of his home without fear of interruption.

Dismissed with a cold flick of Rosie’s wrist, he bowed and withdrew with flourish, returning obediently to his abode as commanded.

The house greeted him with a suffocating silence. He had barely stepped inside before it was broken by the skittering sound of tiny feet and a sharp gasp.

Niffty barreled into him like a tiny whirlwind.

Her nostrils flared rapidly - once, twice - before she climbed him like a ladder, perching on his shoulders. Her hands tugged at his collar, fingers probing the juncture of his neck with frantic precision. The diminutive woman frantically searching for a claiming bite. 

When she found none, she sagged with relief before her expression twisted into utter offense.

“You’re reeking, Alastor! Strip! Strip now - now!”

He raised a brow but complied, unbuttoning and peeling away the layers of fabric. The scent of Adam clung stubbornly to cloth and skin, thick and oppressive. Niffty grabbed the bundle of clothing with a hiss and marched it straight outside, dumping it unceremoniously into a wash basket as though it were toxic waste.

“If that stays a minute longer, the whole house’ll stink like Alpha!” she snapped. “Gross. It’s gross, Alastor.”

A bath was drawn with record speed. Steam curled from the tub in heavy waves as Niffty dumped entire handfuls of scent-neutralizing soap into the water. The mixture soon thickened into a cloudy solution, pungent enough to burn the sinuses.

She insisted on joining him - for efficiency, she claimed, though her tone left no room for argument. Alastor slid into the bath with a soft hiss at the heat, sinking into the comforting warmth as she hopped in behind him.

Her hands were small, quick and remarkably strong. She worked the soap into his fur with brisk efficiency - scrubbing his hair, lathering his shoulders, washing away every last trace of Adam’s invasive scent. She muttered under her breath the entire time, half of it complaints and the other half fretful observations.

There was a strange comfort to it.

Niffty’s touch was a rare blend of professional detachment and genuine care. It was equal parts thorough and methodical. A quiet, soothing balm after the day’s excitement.

Alastor let himself relax - just barely - as her fingers scrubbed circles into his scalp, her little hums vibrating through his bones.

His eyes drifted half-shut and a sigh escaped him. Low. Heavy. Almost human.

For the first time since the throne room… he allowed himself to breathe and relax. But even in the warmth of the water, even beneath Niffty’s diligent hands, his mind continued to turn. He reweaved threads of power and future manipulations within the boundaries of his imagination. 

And beneath the surface of the water, his claws flexed with slow, deliberate intent.

He’d planted the seeds. He needed only to wait for them to properly take root. 

❧

Alastor sipped his hot drink with quiet contentment, savoring the warmth as it spread across his tongue. His comforts - supplies, food, tea leaves, the usual small luxuries - had been delivered earlier that morning and tucked away neatly into cupboards and polished cabinets. Rosie’s displeasure at him had not eclipsed her instinctive compulsion to provide for her Omega. Even in irritation, she ensured his needs were met. It was an unconscious act of care, ingrained into her very biology.

She visited him once or twice a week. No more. No less. And each time, the sharpness of her anger had cooled from a roaring flame into something simmering - still hot, but manageable in the absence of his immediate presence.

During these visits, he prepared everything to her satisfaction. He cleaned the space meticulously, prepared fresh tea and greeted her with the impeccable politeness expected of his designation. He listened to her words with rapt attention, gleaning details she hadn’t meant to reveal. Every tossed-off comment and passing complaint - he tucked them away, assembling a quiet map of Hell’s shifting landscape.

While Rosie remained shielded within her territory, the world beyond Cannibal Town was spiraling. Entire territories lay unclaimed in the wake of numerous Overlord's executions. The survivors now vied to seize districts, reshape their borders and claim the freshly untethered souls. Order had cracked, leaving a screaming vacuum eager to feed.

Rosie, ever cautious, spared him the bloodiest details. She spoke instead of market crashes and of the unstable economy - grievances she could voice without breaching her self-imposed limits.

“…though I suppose we can’t complain about the meat supply,” she conceded once, irritably swirling her tea. 

Indeed, Alastor had noticed. The cuts he received had grown better - softer, richer, from denizens of varying species and origins. War, while destructive, was remarkably generous to the cannibals.

They made for delightful additions to his recipes.

“Ah. Before it slips my mind,” Rosie said suddenly, clearing her throat.

She reached into her small purse - stiff fingers betraying a hint of reluctance - and withdrew a neatly folded letter.

“This, my dear,” she said tightly, “is for you.”

Her painted lips pinched as she surrendered it to him. 

“Oh?” he murmured.

Interest lit his eyes as he accepted the envelope. His hands were careful, almost reverent. He had never received a letter in Hell. Not once, in all the decades since his arrival. A faint, familiar scent clung to the paper - a static undercurrent of ozone and warm circuitry.

He broke the seal.

Slid the paper free.

And read.

His brows climbed high.

“Oh,” he repeated, softer.

A formal request for courtship.

Among Overlords, such documents served to maintain peace while expressing intent to pursue an Omega under another’s jurisdiction. Marriage requests were rare and political. Courtship requests - more frequent, more negotiable - served as a probationary phase. A chance to test compatibility and much easier to dissolve if either party lost interest. 

His eyes found the name.

“Vox,” he breathed.

His smile sharpened, eyes half-lidded with amusement.

“How bold of him,” Alastor mused. “Given my reputation. Though I suppose I can respect the initiative.”

Across from him, Rosie took a measured sip of her tea. It was brewed precisely to her liking, because Alastor always ensured her comfort - even when tension simmered between them.

“You swept him right off his feet,” she said. “Especially after that little jig of yours.”

Alastor lifted his gaze to her, the curve of his smile unchanged.

“Will you accept his offer?” he asked.

Her eyes narrowed.

“Will you?” she countered, her tone clipped.

He tucked the letter neatly back into its envelope, careful not to crease it. He would not accept it yet. That would make him appear overeager. Desperate. He was neither. Let Vox wait. Let Rosie stew in uncertainty.

Control was found in timing.

“I’ll need a moment to consider the proposal,” he replied, lightly.

Rosie’s fingers tightened around her teacup. The porcelain strained beneath her grip.

“Do not forget,” she warned quietly, “that any agreement reflects upon me.”

“Of course,” Alastor replied smoothly. “And I would never act without considering the consequences for my… benefactor.”

❧

It was pleasant - delicious, even - to wield control over something so seemingly small, yet so deeply consequential. The knowledge that both a Beta and an Alpha were waiting with frayed nerves for his answer gave him a quiet thrill. It was a rare thing in Hell for an Omega to make others wait. To dictate the pace at their leisure. 

So he took his time.

A purposeful pause stretched into two full weeks. Long enough to unsettle Vox’s nerves. Long enough for Rosie to grow restless and increasingly sharp in her reminders. Long enough for both parties to understand - consciously or not - that Alastor’s compliance was a gift, not a guarantee.

When the time finally came, he penned a response with his usual elegant script. He brought the draft to Rosie, offering it with courteous deference while carefully watching her expression. She reviewed it with pursed lips, made several changes, struck out a handful of lines and even added two of her own. They engaged in a quiet tug-of-war over phrasing - his subtle flattery versus her political caution - until a compromise was reached.

Then, at last, Vox received his answer.

Alastor had accepted the proposal.

But he hadn’t passed the interim in idle contemplation. No - Alastor rarely wasted time.

He used the quiet weeks for study. He sifted through the newspaper clippings Niffty smuggled to him, paying particular attention to Vox’s ascension. He revisited their conversation in the ballroom, every boast and confession catalogued with meticulous precision. Piece by piece, he constructed a clearer image of the Alpha behind the static.

And the image was promising.

Vox’s empire - still fledgling, still finding its footing - was expanding in the wake of the power vacuum left by the slaughtered Overlords. Where others scrambled blindly, Vox advanced with startling efficiency. His techniques were crude in places, clever in others, but undeniably effective.

Influence, Alastor understood, was rarely born from brute strength. In Hell, it came from information.

Control the media and you controlled the narrative.
 

Control the narrative and you shaped perception.

Shape perception and power invariably followed.

Alastor found himself intrigued - genuinely so. Vox possessed cunning, the kind that could be molded and directed. He was ambitious enough to be useful, inexperienced enough to be malleable. It was a very promising combination.

He also understood - keenly - why Rosie had ultimately consented.

A courtship between their territories could solidify a much-needed alliance. One that offered protection and prestige - a shared uplifting of their respective reputations.

And of course, aligning herself with an Overlord who was rising at such an unprecedented pace was simply good strategy for a Beta with limited reach.

Rosie accepted the proposal for safety.

Alastor accepted it for opportunity.

And Vox?

Vox had sent it for infatuation.

Such a delightful imbalance.

He found himself smiling as he folded the final copy of his reply, his crimson eyes shining with a private amusement.

After all, he thought - It was always easier to steer a man already tipping forward.

❧

It wasn’t long before the gifts began arriving - first in polite intervals, then in near-abundant waves. Alastor found himself plied with bouquets crafted with suspicious attention to detail, each arrangement curated with flowers chosen for their color, fragrance or symbolism. Trinkets followed - odd little knickknacks clearly meant to charm rather than impress. And then the clothing began: finely tailored garments, each fitted precisely to his measurements despite Vox never having touched a tape to his skin.

Every parcel included a letter.

Vox, surprisingly, was good at them.

Very good.

His words were appropriately chaste for a formal courtship, but desire simmered beneath the politeness, a steady hum just shy of indecent. He wrote the way a young Alpha pined - with earnestness and a youthful eagerness entirely unfitting of an Overlord but deeply flattering all the same.

And Alastor replied to each one.

His responses carried the sharpness expected of him - clever, flirtatious without being saccharine, carefully measured to maintain the persona he’d displayed at Lucifer’s castle. He sprinkled his letters with genuine interest - questions about Vox’s work, gentle prods about his achievements, seemingly innocent requests for elaboration.

It was a subtle method of gathering information.

And Vox - his poor, ardent Vox - was astonishingly forthcoming.

Alastor’s scent marked every letter he sent in return. A calculated gesture, one Rosie found both strategic and mildly galling.

Her next announcement came with a forced calmness that could’ve cracked with the gentlest push.

“It seems,” she said, “we’ll be hosting a proper meeting. He’s been granted permission to court you within my borders.”

She didn’t voice the real meaning:

Your safety relies on my territory. Your behavior reflects upon me.

But Alastor heard it all the same.

She continued, tone brisk.

“There have been… incidents. Recent ones. Involving foolhardy Alphas overstepping in neighboring domains. I won’t tolerate such nonsense here. You will be supervised and he will be monitored.”

A faint look of displeasure tightened her features before she added:

“And I’d rather you dress in something… Omega-appropriate. Something form-fitting.”

Of course she would.

Alastor offered no protest.

But the effort Rosie put into “properly” presenting him often veered into a level of theatricality he found equal parts amusing and suffocating.

Within an hour he was corseted again, the garment cinched tightly enough to force his waist in and his shoulders back. The material bit into his ribs and spine, demanding shallow breaths. The laces hugged a crisp white, long-sleeved shirt; the dark trousers clung to his hips and thighs, fitted so snugly he could almost hear the Beta’s internal monologue:

If one must tempt an Alpha, one should at least do so elegantly.

Alastor eyed himself in the mirror.

The outfit echoed the ensemble he’d worn at the castle - deliberate, memorable. It would stir Vox’s recollection of their first encounter and likely provoke a reaction stronger than flowers or letters ever could.

He adjusted the corset with a small tug, ensuring it sat perfectly.

“Well,” he murmured to himself, a faint, wicked smile curving his lips, “if he wished for a courtship… it seems like he'll be getting one.”

Chapter Text

Vox was, in many ways, a likable Alpha.
 

In all the expected ways, he was typical - possessive, hierarchical in his thinking and steeped in archaic notions of Omega propriety. And yet he packaged these instincts in a strangely gentle, almost permissive exterior. He wanted to lead, yes, but he also wanted Alastor to participate, to smile at him and approve of him. He wanted harmony - not ostentatious dominance - so long as he was still the one guiding the arrangement.

He arrived at Alastor’s door with a bouquet in hand; another extravagant bundle of hellish roses, their petals deep red and their thorns wickedly sharp. Alastor accepted the offering with a demure grace that made Vox’s projected face warm with flickering static.

He reached with the hand adorned with the blue bracelet Vox had gifted him days prior. The Alpha’s expression brightened the moment he noticed it, satisfaction blooming openly across his screen.

“I’m quite fond of red,” Alastor murmured, peering down at the roses.

He lifted them to his nose, inhaling their red-hot fragrance with a delicate sniff. The way he dipped his head - soft with lashes lowered - allowed him to peer up at Vox from beneath them, his smile quiet but unmistakably charming.

Vox’s breath hitched.

It was subtle, but not subtle enough.

Alastor's smile sharpened just a touch in reaction.

“Well, come in,” he said, lightly. “I’ll put these in water. I’d hate for them to wilt.”

He stepped back into the small home, allowing Vox to cross the threshold. The Alpha hesitated - just a single heartbeat - as he walked into the wall of Alastor’s scent. It wrapped around him instantly, warm and spiced, clinging to his senses.

When the door closed behind him, Vox got his first real look at Alastor’s living space.

And he was… surprised.

It was small. Pleasant. Tidy. Nothing extravagant or indulgent. Everything an Omega would “need,” neatly arranged, easy to access.

Vox softened visibly.
 

This, to him, was right.
 

This was natural.

Omegas belonged in pleasant little spaces, surrounded by order and warmth. A home like this was a reflection of their inner virtues.

Alastor, humming softly, filled a vase with water. He worked meticulously, arranging each thorned stem with delicate precision. There was such contentment on his face as he tended to Vox’s gift - it made the Alpha feel something warm coil in his chest, something tender and old-fashioned.

He trailed behind Alastor’s movements with open fascination.

He’s perfect, Vox thought.

Curves accentuated by the corseted outfit Rosie forced him into. Clothing that hugged his legs and waist. The subtle sway of that soft, furred tail when he moved that matched the subtle swish of his hips.

And that scent - sweet and spiced and utterly intoxicating.

Vox had never courted an Omega before. He’d spent life and afterlife chasing career, fame and empire. A wife, a mate and a family - those things had been dreams for later, always postponed in favor of ambition.

Now eternity stretched before him and suddenly “later” was here.

His gaze lingered on Alastor’s waist, the slope of his unmarked neck and the serene diligence with which he arranged flowers. Vox imagined him in a home far grander than this - his home - wrapped in silks, wearing jewels that accented his eyes and fur. Well-fed, pampered and protected. A ring on his finger. A mark on his throat. His scent layered permanently over Alastor’s.

A beautiful Omega deserved nothing less.

And if Alastor had lived unclaimed in life that was nothing short of a tragedy. Vox could not fathom how such a rare beauty passed through the world untouched. Spinsterhood in an Omega was… well… deeply unfortunate.

But he was here now. And Vox could fix that.

He could give Alastor the life an Omega ought to desire.

He adjusted his tie, steeling himself with a renewed wave of confidence. He was an Overlord, after all. A rising star in the Pride Ring. A man of power, influence and ambition.

More than capable.
 

More than worthy.

He glanced up again - only to realize Alastor was already standing before him, grinning with that unerring sweetness he wielded so precisely.

“Hungry?” Alastor asked. His eyes glittered with faint amusement, as though he’d caught Vox lost in thought.

Vox blinked hard, static flickering around the edges of his screen. The Omega’s head cocked lightly, fixated upon his face with interest. 

“I - uh - yeah. Yeah, definitely.”

He clapped his hands together, forcing a more composed stance.

“What’s for dinner?”

Alastor’s smile deepened. 

“Something special,” he said.

Vox beamed. 

❧

Not only was Alastor a lovely Omega with a temperament that seemed tailor-crafted for courtship, but he could cook. Vox was nearly giddy at the discovery. He sat at the small dining table with the posture of a man accustomed to luxury and yet delighted by domesticity, watching as Alastor plated his meal with practiced ease.

He hardly lifted a finger.

The Omega glided from counter to table with effortless grace - placing dishes before Vox, adjusting the angles of plates and pouring drinks with a deft flick of the wrist. There was a flourish to every movement, a faint theatricality woven through the domestic ritual. Even his voice carried a gentle lilt, like a melodic note threaded into each sentence.

Vox felt… pampered. Cherished, even.

And the meal was impressive.

Carnivorous in nature - several varieties of meat cooked into spice-heavy dishes that resembled beef, shellfish and fish. Rice balanced the heavy flavors. The drink accompanying it was peculiar: a homemade lemonade, both tart and sweet, its flavor bright against the richness of the meal.

Vox took a sip, blinking in mild surprise.

“That’s - wow. That’s different.”

“Too sour?” Alastor asked.

“No, no - it’s… good. Really good,” he insisted, taking another sip as if to convince himself. “Just unique.”

“I enjoy striking a balance,” Alastor murmured. “Sweetness without losing bite.”

Vox chuckled, charmed.

“Guess that fits you pretty well, huh?”

The Omega only smiled, soft and inscrutable, turning away to sit across from him with his own, smaller portion.

Light conversation flowed effortlessly between them. Vox found it shockingly easy to talk to him - not because Alastor was especially chatty, but because he was a remarkable listener. He tilted his head at all the right moments and made small noises of curiosity. 

It helped, of course, that they shared a rare overlap in passions. Broadcast media. The ever-developing craft of shaping a narrative and feeding it to the masses.

Vox spoke eagerly about his rising media empire, the networks he had devoured thus far, the inefficiencies he intended to correct and the innovations he planned to bring to Hell’s stagnant broadcast culture.

Alastor listened with the faint smile of someone amused by the future - because he had died in the past.

“It’s strange,” Vox admitted as he wiped a bit of sauce from the corner of his screen. “I mean - you talk about radio like it’s brand new. Like it’s still magic.”

“In my time,” Alastor replied, gently swirling his drink, “it was.”

“I forget…” Vox leaned back, studying him with growing wonder. “You’re older than me. A lot older.”

Alastor arched a brow.

A silent invitation.

Go on.

“How many years between us?” Vox mused, rubbing the back of his neck. “Decades? Honestly, I didn’t expect to be courting someone who - well - lived and died before I was even a twinkle in my parent’s eye.”

Alastor’s lip quirked. “Does my age trouble you, Vincent?”

“What? No - no!” Vox nearly choked on a laugh. “If anything, it’s impressive. You’re… seasoned.”

“‘Seasoned,’” Alastor repeated, tone amused.

“I mean that in a good way!” Vox insisted. “You’ve lived. You’ve seen things I’ve only ever heard about. It’s kinda incredible.”

He caught himself rambling and stopped, cheeks flickering with static.

Alastor watched him fondly, tapping one claw lightly against his glass.

Inside, he catalogued every word and every assumption. Every little slip that revealed Vox’s worldview. 

“How strange indeed,” Alastor murmured, his voice smooth, “to find yourself courting someone older and wiser.”

Vox swallowed, deeply enthralled.

“Yes,” he said, quietly. “Strange… but lucky.”

And Alastor, ever the gentleman Omega, simply smiled - small and sweet - while behind it all, his mind turned like a clockwork mechanism, already calculating the next step as Vox squirmed beneath the intensity of his gaze. 

“So - I - uh - was wondering,” Vox began, the hesitation in his voice palpable. He shifted in his seat, straightening his tie as though bracing himself for something delicate. “You mentioned… not having a family before. I mean - beyond the one you were born into, you know?”

Alastor didn’t tense. He didn’t blink. He only lifted his gaze with a soft, knowing look. 

“Let me guess,” the Omega replied, voice smooth as lacquered wood. “You’re wondering why.”

“Well. Yeah.” Vox’s projected brows knit together in earnest confusion. “I just - ”

He gestured vaguely in Alastor’s direction, an awkward sweep of a clawed hand as though motioning to the entire creature before him.

“You’re… pretty stunning, you know,” he said, sincere. “I can only imagine what you looked like when you were alive.”

Alastor's eyes glinted with amusement behind the rim of his glass.

Vox, oblivious, pressed on.

“I mean - usually an Omega with your looks… your presence… someone would’ve snapped you up. Provided for you. Made sure you were taken care of.” He smiled as though stating an obvious kindness. “Back then, a good Alpha wouldn’t have just let someone like you live alone.”

Alastor tilted his head. It was a slow, deliberate movement that carried just the hint of a predator coiling behind silk curtains.

“Oh?” he murmured. “How fortunate that you think so.”

Vox leaned an elbow on the table, his projected expression softening into something warm and openly admiring.

“I just don’t get it,” he admitted. “Were the Alphas back then blind? Or stupid? Or just cowards?” He snorted lightly in disbelief. “I mean, my God - if I’d met you back then, I’d have put a ring on your finger before anyone else even breathed in your direction.”

The words were ‘sweet’.
 

Staggeringly ‘sweet’.
 

And painfully telling.

“It is flattering,” Alastor said mildly, swirling the condensation on his glass with one claw, “to hear you think so highly of me. But circumstances in life were rarely kind to Omegas in that era - especially those who strayed from expectation.”

“Strayed?” Vox echoed, leaning in like a man preparing for a secret.

Alastor’s smile sharpened, just faintly.

“I may have been… particular.”

Vox blinked. “Particular?”

“Discerning,” Alastor corrected, gently. “Selective. Careful about whom I allowed near.”

Vox brightened, delighted. As though he finally understood whilst remaining entirely ignorant of the finer details. 

“So you were waiting for the right Alpha.”

A low chuckle escaped Alastor then - warm, velvety, and so carefully pitched between truth and mockery that no reasonable Alpha could decipher the difference.

“If that helps you sleep at night,” he purred, teasingly. “Then yes. Let’s say I was waiting.”

Vox practically glowed, his smile bright and hopeful. 

Alastor took another slow sip of his drink, lashes lowered over crimson eyes.

“Does that satisfy your curiosity, Vincent?” he asked, voice smooth as honey. 

Vox nodded, breath hitching with admiration.

“Yeah,” he rasped. “God, yeah.”

❧

Their little arrangement ended on an undeniably pleasant note. Alastor escorted Vox to the door. He stood framed in the warm light of his entryway, blinking slowly and contentedly - just enough softness around the eyes to seem genuine. Just enough warmth to lure.

Vox seemed utterly charmed.

“This was nice, Alastor,” he said, voice warm and full of earnest hope. “Really nice.”

“Indeed it was,” the Omega replied, his voice like velvet.

Vox lingered, nearly bouncing on his heels as his projected lips curved upward. “I’m hoping we can do something like this again. Sometime soon?”

Alastor let a breathy little laugh escape him - a deceptively delicate note.

“I’d love that, Vincent.”

His voice carried a purposeful softness, carefully constructed as though peeled directly from an Omega etiquette manual: pliant enough to stroke Vox’s ego, but not so eager as to appear desperate. Just an expertly balanced facsimile of budding affection.

He extended his hand - clawed fingers slender, posture open.

Vox lit up like a man seeing sunlight for the first time.

The Alpha took the offered hand reverently, as though accepting a priceless heirloom rather than a simple gesture. His thumb brushed over Alastor’s knuckles, lingering. Then he lifted the hand to his projected mouth, pressing a gentle, courtly kiss upon the back of it.

Alastor allowed the touch, eyelids fluttering just enough to mimic bashful pleasure.

Vox glanced up, hopeful - achingly so.

His projected face brightened the moment he caught the carefully crafted look of satisfaction curving faintly at the corners of Alastor’s lips. A look Alastor planted there on purpose. A calculated little seed.

The Alpha beamed, so transparently delighted it bordered on naive.

“Goodnight, Alastor,” he murmured, almost breathless.

“Goodnight, Vincent,” Alastor replied, impeccably pleasant.

The door closed gently behind the Overlord.

❧

Alastor’s lips pursed neatly around the end of his cigarette, the tip glowing a soft, ember-red as he drew in a lungful of fragrant smoke. Nicotine warmed his chest like a slow-burning ember - calming and grounding. He lounged in the half-shadow of his back doorstep, one leg crossed over the other as he leaned, watching distantly as Niffty attacked his clothing with a level of ferocity usually reserved for exorcisms.

She scrubbed, muttering darkly beneath her breath - an endless stream of complaints about Alphas, their stink, their arrogance and their “awful boundary issues.” Her movements were jittery, intense - her small body a bundle of raw, twitching nerves.

She’d become increasingly agitated with every new gift Vox sent: bouquets, trinkets, letters and carefully curated tokens meant to charm. Each delivery left her bristling and snarling. 

She had ripped the bracelet off his wrist the moment the intruding Alpha had taken his leave. 

“Blue’s so ugly on you, Alastor,” she hissed, her single eye narrowed, teeth flashing in a pointed, almost animalistic grin. “Red is better. Much, much better.”

He exhaled a curl of smoke through flared nostrils - unbothered, though faintly amused.

He knew Vox’s type. He had known them in life - brown faces, white faces, smiling faces. They all hid the same glimmer of intent behind their eyes. Hopeful and entitled in equal measure. Drawn to him for reasons they couldn’t articulate, convinced they could claim him with a ring or a vow or a handful of sweet words.

Men like that always thought they were hunters.

And every single one of them had learned differently.

Waylaying them had taken effort, of course. A bit of planning. A bit of patience. And eventually, an abrupt disappearance - always sudden and clean. His fondest memories were those nights when he’d taken them apart piece by piece. Slow and methodical. Tender, even. Reclaiming control by breaking them down to their most useful parts. Harvesting their rich and decadently savory meat. 

Alpha meat had always been his favorite.

He tapped ash into the small tin beside him, eyes half-lidded as an idle smile curled across his lips.

It amused him - deeply - that he had knowingly fed Vox scraps from corpses. Folded into stews, fried into crisp medallions, diced fine and mixed with seasonings until no trace of their true origin lingered. Vox had eaten every bite with praise on his tongue, none the wiser.

A small, private victory.

A reminder of who truly held the reins here.

Not that he had any desire to kill Vox. He doubted he could in this body. Not cleanly. Not efficiently. And, if he was honest, it would be a terrible waste. The man was far too easy to please, far too earnest in his affections and far too entertaining in his naïveté.

No - he hoped Vox would live quite a long afterlife. A successful one, too. The Pride Ring could use a bit of order and Vox was presently clawing his way upward with startling efficiency.

With any luck, no Overlord would succeed in culling him from their ranks.

It would be such a shame to lose something so… pliable.

Alastor tapped his cigarette one last time, watching the embers dance.

Chapter Text

Alastor had long since learned to weaponize the illusion of intimacy.

Sex, to him, was neither indulgence nor temptation. It was not forbidden fruit. It was not hunger. It was nothing. A hollow thing that tugged no strings and lit no fires. A biological ritual his body could perform but his mind never cared to participate fully in. His flesh might warm and respond out of instinct, but he felt none of the heady pull others described and none of the yearning. 

It was simply… mechanical.

He could endure it. Even perform it well. But the act demanded attentiveness to another’s needs - needs that he found almost offensively inconvenient. The pleasure of others rarely aligned with his own priorities. Satisfaction, for him, came from control, not carnality.

Still - sex had its uses.

It was bait. A leash to tug upon. A door left cracked just wide enough for him to slip a knife between the ribs of those who underestimated him. His body, delicate and finely made, could be a lure. A snare. A carefully maintained canvas on which others projected fantasies he had no intention of fulfilling.

In Hell, that made him dangerous in an underhanded way. 

Because Hell had shaped its Omegas into tools long before Alastor learned to sharpen himself.

Omegas were expected to behave in particular ways - soft and enticingly pliant. Their mannerisms were scrutinized as closely as their scent. Their clothes judged, their posture catalogued and their smiles interpreted as signs of readiness or receptiveness. They were meant to be docile and demure. Chaste until claimed. Useful once marked. And - preferably - content in their station.

The unclaimed walked a narrower line. They were to present themselves as desirable but modest; alluring but untouched. Their hobbies were expected to be gentle: cleaning, crafting, music - things that soothed, not challenged. Their attire could be elegant, even flirtatious, so long as the flesh remained mostly concealed beneath material. A tease, never an invitation.

And suitors circled them like wolves around a tethered lamb.

Suitors.

Alphas.

Strange creatures, when one really studied them. So powerful, yes - but so very predictable. They were a type of specimen sculpted by instinct and sharpened by ego, leaning heavily on the advantages granted to them by birthright. Their strength was innate and their stamina supernatural. Hell rewarded such traits with one hand and punished them with the other.

Alphas were funneled into endless conflict. Their lives - both mortal and infernal - were shaped by conquest and bloodshed. They rose quickly to stations of power, only to be locked in perpetual battle to keep it. Territory shifted. Borders bled. Alliances snapped under pressure. An Alpha who faltered, even for a moment, could be devoured by a rival just as hungry as they once were.

It was a vicious cycle, perfectly tailored to ruin them.

Betas fared no better, trapped in a duller prison. Painfully average by design, they made up the majority of Hell’s denizens. They could climb the ladder, yes - but every rung was rusted and slick with effort. They suffered through mediocrity while Alphas flourished and Omegas were collected like rare, ornamental pets.

But it was the Omegas who bore the cruelest fate.

They were the minority. Hell weakened them deliberately, dampening their infernal gifts until only the faint echoes of potential remained. Their bodies were reshaped into something delicate, something desirable and easily processed in the bowels of the Pride Ring. Their souls were chained in such a way that ascent was next to impossible. Even the fiercest Omega could rise no higher than the shadow of the one who “owned” them.

They were ornaments to powerful men and women.

Currency in the political landscape.

And yet - Alastor somehow thrived within that narrow cage. Escaping the usual fate reserved for his kind. 

He understood the game too well in life. He understood the expectations and twisted them to his advantage. He could play the obedient companion - lovely and attentive - while quietly and carefully making pawns of the very creatures who believed him harmless.

He did not need strength to win.

He only needed others to underestimate him.

And Alphas… always did.

Such stupid, silly creatures. 

❧

It began innocuously - soft touches, nothing more. A brush of fingers against his own during conversation, the ghost of claws at the small of his back meant only to guide, never to lay claim. Vox treated him as something fragile and something he feared mishandling. And in Hell - where Alphas were encouraged to seize, not request - such restraint was rare enough to be noteworthy.

It left an impression upon Alastor.

Most denizens of the Pride Ring had no qualms with testing the boundaries of an unclaimed Omega. A casual touch here, an invasive brush there - always masked as courtesy, always meant to gauge pliancy. Vox, however, navigated him as though the wrong move might send him bolting like the very prey his form echoed.

How sickeningly sweet. 

There was caution in the way Vox’s hand would hover before settling upon him. A moment of hesitation before each point of contact - as if silently asking permission without daring to voice the request aloud. His clawed fingertips would skim along the curve of Alastor’s spine or graze his wrists during conversation, lingering only long enough to test the waters.

His entire approach was gradual. Deliberate. A slow-building warmth meant to coax rather than overwhelm. Alastor recognized it for what it was; an Alpha attempting to court without invoking fear, aiming to acclimate an Omega to his presence step by tentative step.

And for Vox, this pace was obviously agonizing.

More than once, the television-headed man had looked as though he wished to do more. His projected expression would flicker, glitch and glow faintly with restrained want. His clawed hands would twitch and curl. His scent would spike with desire before he pulled it back under tight control.

He wanted. Badly.

But he waited.

Alastor couldn’t decide whether it was charming or pathetic.

His own reactions, in contrast, were carefully measured - engineered, even. He offered small, curated signals of encouragement. A slight lean toward Vox when he brushed past. A softened tone whenever the Alpha drew closer. A lingering glance paired with a faint tilt of the head, implying openness without surrendering ground.

It allowed Vox to believe he was progressing - allowed him to imagine a budding closeness, a building, mutual attraction. But never enough to embolden him into assuming rights he had not earned.

It was a delicate dance. The Alpha inching closer, step by step. The Omega allowing just enough warmth to keep him hopeful and eager to please.

And Vox - poor, earnest Vox - interpreted every measured gesture as genuine reciprocity. His projected screen brightened with each timid success. His scent grew sweeter, tinged with soft, pleased confidence.

He thought he was winning the Omega’s heart.

And so the intimacy evolved.

❧

They’d indulged in a bit of drink - nothing overly decadent, but enough to soften the edges of the evening. Rosie had allowed them an outing to the local bar; a quaint, cramped building whose charm lay chiefly in its familiarity. The air was thick with smoke and old alcohol, the scent soaked so deeply into the wooden walls that it felt almost alive. A persistent haze drifted overhead, illuminated periodically by the flicker of dim neon signage.

Jazz floated lazily through the room - the sort of tune that tugged at memory rather than attention. Alastor let his eyes fall shut for a moment, letting the mellow thrum of saxophone curl through him. It pulled him back to smoke-filled lounges and polished dance floors. To a world of sweat and heat and swing - when he’d still been alive.

A gentle warmth tugged him back to the present.

Vox had claimed his hand.

The Alpha lifted it to his projected lips, pressing a kiss against the knuckles - curiously warm, faintly buzzing with static. Not unpleasant. Merely… novel. Alastor’s eyes opened slowly. Half-lidded. A brow arched in silent inquiry.

Vox swallowed.

“So, I’ve been wondering, Alastor,” he began, tentative as ever.

His clawed thumb traced small circles against the back of Alastor’s hand - careful, nervous and reverent in the way only an Alpha trying very hard not to overstep could be.

“We’ve… uh. We’ve been seeing each other a while now, right?”

“A few months, yes,” the Omega replied, calm and unhurried as he lifted his drink again. “Why do you ask?”

Vox’s projected screen flickered, betraying nerves.

“Well,” he said, clearing his throat, “I was talking with Rosie.”

Alastor paused mid-sip.

“Mm?”

“And I - uh - she mentioned you’re almost due for your yearly cycle.”

The words hung in the air like a dropped glass.

Alastor’s smile didn’t vanish, but it changed. Tightened. Sharpened. His gaze cut toward Vox with all the delicacy of a scalpel.

“…and?” he asked, softly.

That single syllable made Vox visibly squirm. His scent wavered - anxious, unsure and tinged with a hopeful sweetness that made Alastor’s ears twitch in faint irritation.

“I was thinking maybe we could, uh… you know…” Vox’s voice lowered, as though afraid the bar patrons might overhear. “Share it.”

He laughed. A thin, awkward little sound. His gaze darted anywhere but the Omega’s eyes.

“I mean -... since you don’t have anyone picked out yet.”

Alastor resisted - barely - the urge to roll his eyes. It would have been too revealing. Too honest. Instead, he dipped his head just slightly, letting a soft, indulgent grin curl at his lips. His smile strained only a touch at the edges, his brows lowering by a fraction - just enough to imply gentle consideration instead of annoyance.

“Vox,” he murmured, his tone sliding toward a softness that made the Alpha straighten in hope. “That’s quite the suggestion.”

The Alpha nodded quickly - too quickly.

“I just - well - I care about you, Alastor,” Vox said, earnest in a way that was almost painful to witness. “And I figured… if you needed someone you trusted… well. I’d be honored.”

Alastor tampered down the spike of irritation that shot through him. Yearly cycles were metaphorical landmines for unclaimed Omegas. Partners chosen for heat were often argued to have claims afterward. It was not a request made lightly, nor an offer given without implication.

It was a bid.

A quiet, desperate bid.

A way for Vox to secure his place without asking outright.

How quaint.

“I see,” Alastor replied at last, his voice soft. 

And Vox - hopeful, naïve and utterly unaware of the razor-sharp thoughts behind that gentle smile - brightened visibly.

“Well?” Vox pressed, leaning in as though proximity alone might secure the moment.

 Alastor did not answer immediately. He merely hummed - soft and ambiguous - while lifting his drink once more.

The pause stretched.

Vox held perfectly still, breath locked tight in his chest. His grip tightened around Alastor’s hand, claws curling with an anxious desperation he likely believed subtle. It wasn’t. Nothing an Alpha did was subtle.

Alastor’s lips parted around the rim of his glass, drawing in the last sip with a lazy elegance. His mouth gleamed faintly in the low light - moist and soft. Mesmerizing.

When he pulled the glass away, the Omega’s expression was… indecipherable. Empty, almost. A perfect mask.

And then he turned his gaze back to Vox.

The shift was immediate, electric. His grin sharpened, teeth gleaming like polished, yellowed ivory in the dimness. A predator’s smile wearing the softness of prey.

Vox’s projected eyes flicked helplessly to that mouth. Again. And again. As though magnetized.

He leaned in a fraction without realizing it.

Alastor let him.

His voice descended into a low, velvet croon - dangerous in its softness.

“Do you want me, Vox?”

It wasn’t a genuine question. It was a test. A tease. A hook.

Vox snapped.

That bright blue line flickered open and shut, revealing sharp teeth of his own. His head bobbed so quickly it bordered on embarrassing - eager, desperate and burning with instinct and want.

“Yes,” he breathed. “God, yes. I do.”

“Really?”

The word rolled off Alastor’s tongue with a sultry, teasing cadence. His eyelids lowered in a slow, purposeful flutter. He let the silence stretch between them - just long enough for Vox to wonder whether he’d misstepped.

Then Alastor slipped his hand free.

Just like that.

Vox’s entire posture jolted - disappointment flaring across his projected face. Fear crept in next. Fear of rejection. Fear of having pushed too far. And fear of losing something he so clearly believed he’d nearly secured.

But before he could speak - 

Alastor closed the distance.

He moved with abrupt, deliberate elegance - a predator’s precision wrapped in an Omega’s softness. His mouth pressed directly against the warm surface of Vox’s screen. The contact sent a violent jolt through the Alpha’s frame, static flaring across the glass like lightning trapped beneath the surface.

Vox gasped - a glitching burst of sound - and for a heartbeat he simply froze, overwhelmed.

But instinct rallied quickly.

Those strong arms snapped around Alastor’s waist, clutching tightly as if afraid the Omega might vanish between breaths. He fumbled, of course - clumsy and overeager - but the effort was earnest. His hands shook with the intensity of it.

Alastor allowed it.

He tilted his head just so, guiding the angle, showing Vox how to follow his lead without ever breaking the illusion that the Alpha was taking charge. It was a delicate manipulation - letting him feel powerful while remaining wholly in control.

When he finally pulled away, Vox looked moments away from overheating. His screen pulsed a distinct shade of blue at the edges, static lingering like a blush he couldn’t hide. His posture was rigid, trembling with adrenaline, instinct and want.

Alastor watched him with sharp-eyed interest  - tilting his head, tongue flicking out to wet his lips in a slow, predatory sweep. As though tasting the remnants of Vox’s flavor. As though considering whether he liked it.

The effect on Vox was immediate.

His posture appeared to weaken. His projected lips parted helplessly. His scent - bright, crackling with startled desire - spiked in the space between them.

How charming.

Alastor was an old, practiced bitch - experienced and far more dangerous than the picture he presented. Vox, in comparison, had just betrayed himself as painfully fresh. 

Exactly what Alastor had suspected.

“I’ll consider your offer,” Alastor murmured, smooth as polished brass.

Vox’s arms remained locked around him, holding him as though the decision might change if he dared to let go. The Omega arched a brow - just one, perfectly choreographed.

Obediently, Vox released him.

The tiny gesture of compliance pleased Alastor greatly. Vox’s flush deepened at the silent approval, his posture folding in on itself as he cleared his throat, suddenly shy again.

Alastor resumed sipping his drink, unhurried. His grin never faltered. He didn’t even glance down when a clawed hand settled at his thigh. 

❧

The estrous cycle for an Omega was a yearly event - an unavoidable biological ritual carved into flesh and instinct. No magic, no power and no cleverness could circumvent it. It arrived like clockwork: once every three hundred and sixty-five days, a precise and merciless cadence. And within that vast stretch of time, there were seven days - only seven - where the body shifted into its most vulnerable, volatile state.

Seven days where the world felt sharper.

Seven days where instincts screamed.

Seven days where an Omega was at once most dangerous and most easily claimed.

The cycle followed an ancient pattern:

First came the blood. 

A telltale, metallic scent that clung to skin and fabric; an unmistakable signal flooding the air. It was a red flag - obvious, humiliating and deeply dangerous. It warned every Alpha in a dozen-yard radius that an Omega was approaching their fertile window.

Alastor loathed it.

Through those bleeding days, most Omegas turned irritable or openly hostile, teeth bared at any creature foolish enough to approach. Their bodies ached; their tempers frayed. Instinct drove them to snarl and snap and society politely pretended that this was entirely normal.

Then came the warmth. 

A slow, creeping heat that unfurled along the spine and belly - a chemical softening of every instinctive barrier. The hostility melted into something deceptively inviting. An Omega in this phase became receptive, their scent rich and intoxicating. They grew playful and warm. Their bodies leaned and brushed; subtle invitations to those close enough to sense the shift.

It was a natural cycle - beautiful to some, sacred to others - but to Alastor?

Inconvenient didn’t begin to describe it.

The blood bothered him more than the heat. It was too visible. Too obvious. It drew attention like sharks to a wound in the water. That first iron-scented drop announced his vulnerability to every creature with a functioning nose. Omegas in the Pride Ring often cloistered themselves away during those days; those foolish enough to remain among the populace risked being sniffed out and cornered.

Alastor had never tolerated such attention.

In life, the moment he sensed the shift - the telltale ache, the first faint tang of iron as crimson smeared his loins and thighs - he vanished. He parted from society without announcement or farewell, slipping away into the depths of his bayou. There, cloaked in marsh mist and darkness, he endured the cycle in private. Far from prying eyes. Far from nosy neighbors. Far from Alphas who believed they had a birthright to him.

He’d paced his porch through bleeding days, cigarette smoke curling into humid night air.

He’d submerged in sluggish bayou water to cool the building warmth.

He’d let his cycle pass with no witness - no suitor, no mate and no interloper allowed within miles.

But now, he faced a decision he had never intended to entertain.

Avoidance - his tried and true method - was still an option. He could shutter himself away for seven days, bolt the door, let Niffty chase off any interlopers and endure the cycle alone. It would be cleaner. Safer. Predictable.

But it could also be… wasteful.

Because this time, unlike in life, he had a potential advantage on the table.

Vox.

A budding alliance. A carefully cultivated attachment. An Alpha who was powerful enough to be useful but soft enough to be molded. One with ambition, influence and an almost laughable willingness to believe in the fantasy of a romantic, mutually beneficial bond.

If handled correctly, Vox could be a shield, a weapon and a stepping-stone.

A partner in name only.

A resource dressed in devotion.

But sharing a cycle - even partially - risked complicating things.

He would need stipulations.

Strict ones.

Under no circumstances would Vox be permitted to:

• claim him,
• or initiate any act that could be misconstrued as “bonding.”

Alastor had no intention of tying himself to any Alpha - not for love, not for instinct and not for survival. The thought of such a vulnerability made his stomach twist with irritation. Submission as a performance he could manage; submission as a biological truth was intolerable.

And Vox, for all his gentleness, was an Alpha.

Instinct could override reason.

Heat could override promises.

And Alastor had no illusions about how quickly a situation could turn the moment pheromones thickened the air.

He’d need to discuss the matter with Rosie - thoroughly and immediately. She was his owner, nominally. His guardian by ‘law’. His shield in political matters, whether she liked it or not.

And this?

This was a political matter.

She would understand the risks.

She would understand the opportunity.

And she would certainly have opinions… likely strong ones.

Yes. He needed her counsel before Vox made another request, before the cycle crept closer and before the reek of iron betrayed him.

He rose from his seat, setting aside his empty glass. Vox rose behind him, intending to guide him home. 

He needed to speak with Rosie.

As soon as possible.

Chapter Text

He was in need of a stronger scent-neutralizing agent.

Niffty had become increasingly neurotic as of late  - skittering through rooms with bared teeth and sharp little mutters, offended by every lingering trace of Alpha musk. To her, Vox’s presence in the home was an intrusion, a threat and a stain. And since her “territory” was, in essence, Alastor’s entire abode, she took the matter personally.

He soothed her only by assisting in stripping the place clean; peeling off anything the Alpha had touched, worn, brushed, grazed or even breathed near. Every gift was washed, steamed or tucked away. Nothing with Vox’s scent was kept out for longer than a day. Those items were displayed only when the Alpha visited - neatly arranged like they had always belonged - to give the illusion they had a permanent place in Alastor’s home.

Entirely unnecessary, of course. Vox was soft-hearted. Easy to placate. But the illusion, ultimately, cost him nothing and Alastor had time to spare.

Rosie’s punishment still hung over him. He remained effectively confined, permitted to leave only for tightly monitored outings with Vox and brief supervised visits to the parlor. She controlled his schedule with the meticulous caution of someone protecting both an asset and a liability.

The usual patrons noticed the change immediately.

Their nostrils flared when he passed. Eyes sharpened. Curious looks lingered on him longer than usual. Alastor had been among them for decades and he had always smelled solely of himself with the barest traces of Rosie’s fragrance present. 

Now?

There was a hint - barely more than a whisper - of Vox clinging to him.

Persistent. Irritatingly so. Alpha scent could cling like a damn curse.

Like a skunk, he thought, sourly.

No matter how thoroughly one scrubbed, it never faded entirely on the first attempt. It took days of separation and multiple washes before the last traces evaporated. And Omega skin - traitorous and soft - absorbed scent like a sponge. Instinctual biology designed to bind and signal. 

A perpetual irritation.

In life, he had dealt with the same nuisance. After every Alpha he’d lured into the bayou and taken apart piece by piece, he spent days isolating himself until their scent finally dissolved from his skin. Walking around reeking of a missing man was a surefire way to draw suspicion - not that anyone would naturally assume a delicate little Omega was capable of such carnage.

He exhaled sharply at the memory.

And then, in a quiet moment as they closed the shop together, he turned to Rosie.

“May I be so bold,” he began, voice smooth as glass but edged, “as to ask why you disclosed the date of my cycle to Vox?”

While it wasn't completely disadvantageous, the simple fact that Vox was aware of the general timing of his cycle was deeply unfortunate. And so he felt the need to confront Rosie on the matter prior to discussing the finer details of a potential arrangement.

Rosie didn’t even flinch. Her prim movements continued - closing a drawer, adjusting a display, straightening a stack. Only when she finished did she tilt her head toward him.

“Common courtesy,” she answered, crisply. “You’ll be out of commission for a week. The boy has a right to know why you’ve suddenly gone quiet.”

He nearly scoffed - but controlled it.

“Rosie,” he warned, tone a velvet-wrapped blade.

She arched a brow, unperturbed. 

“You know the game, Alastor. Don’t insult me by pretending otherwise.” Her gaze sharpened. “He asked for permission to raise the subject. I granted it.”

“It is hardly his business,” he snapped back - just a flicker of temper, but enough to crack his usual composure.

Rosie didn’t chastise him nor did she flinch. She simply met his gaze with a cool, unwavering steadiness.

“Oh, but it is,” she said. “Alastor, sweetie… you’ve been a spinster long enough. In life and in death. And after your… little stunt at the castle, it’s clear to me you’re restless.”

His eyes narrowed. “Elaborate.”

“It means your grace period is ending.” Her smile was pleasant; her tone was not. “And after all my kindness - all my protection, my charity - I expect you to compensate me. You owe me, pet.”

His left ear gave an irritated flick.

“And yet we haven’t struck a deal. Not a formal one,” he countered, voice dangerously soft. “I’m not obligated - ”

“Really now?” Rosie cut in smoothly. “I could throw you out tomorrow. Leave you on the curb. Let whichever beastie is quickest snap you up. What would you have without me, my darling?”

The last word dripped with sugar and venom both.

Alastor’s jaw tightened. His smile remained fixed but sharpened at the edges. His eyes - those bright, weaponlike eyes - flickered with open displeasure.

Rosie didn’t so much as blink.

“Vox is a good choice,” Rosie continued, her voice returning to that maddeningly placid cadence she used when she believed herself reasonable. “A safe choice. He’s sweet on you. Patient. He’ll give you what you need.”

Alastor’s smile thinned.

“And what,” he asked softly, “do I supposedly need?”

Her response was not gentle.

Rosie leveled him with a look - a hard, withering stare sharpened by years of navigating the Pride Ring’s hierarchy. Her lips tightened. Her nostrils flared as her eyes rounded to a disturbing degree. For a moment, the prim, genteel shopkeeper vanished, replaced by the Beta Overlord who had survived long enough to carve out her own territory in Hell

“You need someone who can keep you in your place,” she said.

Each word landed like a slap.

“Because it’s becoming painfully obvious, darling, that you don’t have the faintest idea where that place is.”

The room seemed to constrict around them.

Alastor’s expression darkened - not dramatically, not overtly, but with the subtle, deadly precision of a storm forming behind glass. His smile remained in place - elegant and empty - but his eyes sharpened to a vicious gleam.

And Rosie - damn her - stood straighter and lifted her chin. She peered down her perfect, delicate nose at him as though he were something misbehaving beneath her heel.

It was a quiet display of dominance.

He felt the flare of instinct - a broiling fury  - coil beneath his ribs like a live wire. The Omega in him bristled in reaction from the Beta’s display, but not from submission. It was insult. It was the memory of a lifetime spent keeping his place only long enough to destroy those who presumed he had one.

For a heartbeat, the space between them vibrated with tension. 

Alastor tipped his head, his smile stretching just a fraction too wide.

Rosie did not flinch.

She merely stepped closer, voice dipped in honeyed threat. Encroaching upon his space with a dangerous air - her scent unusually sharp as he breathed it in. 

“You’re clever. Ambitious. A little too bold for your own good.” She brushed an invisible speck from her sleeve. “And you’ve drawn the eyes of Lucifer and Adam both.”

Her gaze slid sideways - an unspoken reminder.

“And that is why you need someone to anchor you before you get us all killed.”

He exhaled lightly through his nose, the motion small - but his eyes gleamed with something sharp and unkind.

Rosie held his gaze.

Neither blinked.

The hierarchy between them should have forced him into a state of submission. Should have compelled him to bow, avert his gaze or murmur an apology. 

Instead he only smiled.

❧

Vox’s bid was accepted.

Rosie drafted the response herself, the letter written in her immaculate, looping script. It read like a legal decree rather than a romantic arrangement - predictable, given how cross she’d been with him as of late. She named every condition with crisp, authoritative finality: Alastor was not to be harmed. He was not to be bitten. No attempt at claiming would be tolerated. Contraceptives would be administered under her direct supervision, every dose witnessed and verified. Not even Vox was permitted the smallest latitude for “mistakes.”

The arrangement would last two full weeks, with additional days allotted to account for the unpredictable ebb and flow of an Omega’s estrous cycle. Rosie had folded the details into polite, ritualistic phrasing, but the meaning was unmistakable: Alastor was being handed over, temporarily, with the same measured detachment one would apply in transferring possession of an asset.

It was humiliating.

Expected of an unclaimed Omega, perhaps. Normal, even. But Alastor felt the insult as surely as a blade pressed against the back of his neck. This was the price of drawing too much attention onto himself. The price of stepping too boldly into a world that Hell insisted was not made for him. And while he had the option to reject the offer, he’d been left with the distinct impression that there would be dire consequences.

He accepted the humiliation in silence. He had learned, across decades and two separate lives, that silence was often the most efficient weapon in his arsenal. It gave him space - space to think, to plan and to twist insults into opportunities and indignities into leverage.

So he set about preparing. 

Not stiffly, nor resentfully - just with the cool, methodical precision that had always carried him through life. He folded clothing with a steady hand, sliding shirts and trousers into a travel case. Rosie had insisted he be kept under a stricter schedule until this arrangement was concluded, a signal that she no longer trusted him to navigate the boundaries of her territory without supervision. Even so, he made no protest. He simply tucked away more grooming tools and quiet comforts than he would ever admit to needing.

What Rosie envisioned as punishment - an enforced stay under Vox’s protective eye - Alastor recognized for what it truly was: unprecedented access. A sanctioned invitation into an Overlord’s home, woven neatly into the fabric of tradition and etiquette. For two weeks, he would walk Vox’s halls openly. Study his defenses. His routines. His temperament. His secrets.

He doubted the Overlord understood the vulnerability he was offering up. He doubted Rosie understood it either. She thought to “settle” him. To tether him. To remind him of the boundaries of his caste and the reality that even resourceful Omegas could not afford to provoke their world of kings, executioners and the Overlords that bent a knee to them. 

But Alastor had never been particularly good at staying in anyone’s place but his own.

As he snapped the latch of his suitcase closed, a slow smile curled across his lips. The kind of smile that would have made Vox fluster and Rosie uneasy.

Niffty hovered.

Not subtly, either - she paced in tight, anxious circles around him, her small feet tapping frantically against the wood floor as her gaze darted between Alastor and the neatly packed suitcase at his side. Every few seconds her hands would clench in the fabric of her dress, twisting the material until it creased. The expression on her tiny face wavered between worry and outright distress, a stark contrast to her usual chipper frenzy.

Alastor watched her with a softened amusement, the cigarette presently tucked between his lips untouched as it slowly burned down. When she finally stopped pacing long enough to stare at him - wide-eyed, fretful - he exhaled a gentle plume of smoke and offered a calm, practiced smile.

“Niffty,” he murmured, “my dear girl, I’ll be fine.”

Her lower lip quivered. “You say that,” she replied, her voice tinny with suspicion. “But Alphas get strange when Omegas leave home. They get - … “Her nose wrinkled. “Grabby.”

He resisted the urge to laugh. It was almost endearing how fiercely she guarded him, as though she were the one tasked with defending the household from predatory Overlords.

“A few weeks,” he promised, lifting a hand to tap her forehead lightly with one claw. “At the most.”

Niffty blinked up at him, her lashes fluttering in rapid succession before she nodded - once, twice and then several more times in quick, jerky bobs. She inhaled sharply, wiping her hands on her apron as though preparing for a difficult task.

“…Okay,” she said at last, though the word trembled. “But if he hurts you, Alastor - if he even tries - I’ll tear out his circuits and use his motherboard as a coaster.”

Alastor’s smile widened, pleased despite himself.

“Duly noted.”

Niffty reached out, hesitating only a moment before grabbing his sleeve and giving it a firm tug - not enough to stop him, but enough to make her point clear.

“Come back,” she said, quietly. 

“I will,” he replied, warmly. 

❧

Alastor’s gaze slid toward the vehicle the moment he heard the low, velvet purr of its engine. It wasn’t the sort of transport one typically saw in Cannibal Town. It was almost too sleek, too polished and too new. The glossy black exterior reflected the buildings around it, creating a strange, distorted mirror of his humble little street. It looked like a foreign beast dropped into unfamiliar terrain, all sharpened lines and tinted windows.

He stepped closer, drawn in by his own curiosity. The door clicked open with an expensive-sounding hiss and out stepped Vox - sharp suit, polished shoes, and - 

Different.

Alastor’s eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. The Alpha’s silhouette had changed. The bulkier box-like frame of his head had softened into something sleeker, smoother. The edges were refined, the casing polished. An upgrade. A new body that was a touch broader. A better television.

A new face.

Vox must have caught the faint flicker in Alastor’s expression, because he froze mid-stride. His lips flickered uncertainly, projecting a brief glitch of insecurity before smoothing into something shy and brittle.

“Oh. Uh - yeah,” he said, scratching the side of his new jawline. “I… upgraded. Do you - ?”

A beat.

“What do you think?”

The question hung heavily, weighted with earnestness he likely didn’t intend to reveal. His voice carried an unmistakable strain - hopeful and hungry for approval.

Alastor let the silence linger just long enough for Vox to squirm, then allowed his smile to sharpen the tiniest bit.

“It’s different,” he murmured, tone smooth but unreadable. “But nothing I can’t grow accustomed to.”

Not praise. Not condemnation. A perfectly balanced response - neutral and polite, yet impossible to interpret fully.

Vox’s projector-mouth flickered again before adjusting into a pleased, if slightly stiff, smile. “Great. Good. Uh… great.”

The embarrassment radiating off him was almost sweet.

“Let’s - let’s get going,” the Alpha said, haltingly. 

He stepped aside, gesturing toward the open back door with a flourish that attempted charm but landed somewhere closer to overeager. Then, without waiting for permission, he reached for Alastor’s suitcase. The Omega let him take it, observing with faint amusement as Vox handled it with exaggerated care - placing it in the trunk as though the bag held something fragile or precious.

Perhaps Vox believed it did.

Alastor remained poised, hands clasped gently before him, expression serene - yet his crimson eyes glittered as he approached the waiting door of the luxurious vehicle.

Chapter Text

The streets beyond Rosie’s domain were unkind in a way that Cannibal Town never allowed itself to be. There, filth was managed - curated, even. A necessary byproduct of survival handled with the same pragmatic efficiency as butchery and commerce. But once the vehicle crossed the invisible border into the city proper, Alastor found himself staring at a wasteland of grime layered thick over concrete. Mud was streaked with something darker; trash accumulated in gutters where no one bothered to sweep; bodies - fresh and not-so-fresh - were slumped against brick facades, left to swell and rot under Hell’s crimson haze.

Alastor watched it all unfold through the tinted glass, crimson eyes glinting as he catalogued every discarded shape, every smear on the pavement. The urban sprawl pulsed with chaos and uncaring apathy, a stark contrast to the sanitized savagery of Cannibal Town.

A warm touch at his hand tugged him from his quiet assessment. He turned just enough to meet Vox’s projected expression - an almost tender glow playing along the screen’s edges, a softness at odds with the ugliness outside.

“Rosie told me you’ve hardly stepped outside Cannibal Town since you got here,” Vox said, his tone gentle but edged with curiosity. “Figured this might be… a lot.”

Alastor’s attention flicked back to the window. “It’s more than what I’m used to, yes,” he admitted, lightly. “And undeniably dreary.”

Vox followed his gaze, grimacing faintly as though seeing the filth for the first time. “You’re not wrong,” he said with surprising honesty. “Most of the city’s a dump. But” - his voice warmed - “it’s not all bad. My sector? Different story. I keep my area clean. Not exactly safe. But it’s efficient.”

A hum escaped Alastor - neither agreement nor dissent. Vox’s pride, however, was palpable.

The ride continued in relative ease, the kind of silence that only arose between two individuals who had grown accustomed to sharing space. 

“This is it,” Vox announced, suddenly.

The car followed a smooth curve, and Alastor’s breath caught - not from fear, but genuine, unguarded awe.

Towering above the other buildings, its obsidian surface gleaming beneath Hell’s shifting light, was Vox’s headquarters. It rose like a monument, a cathedral of glass and steel. The red glow of the sky reflected off its surface in violent streaks, giving it a molten sheen. Antennae and broadcast spires crowned its highest point, pulsing faintly with energy.

“Astonishing,” Alastor murmured, unable - unwilling - to hide the flicker of admiration.

Vox practically radiated smug delight.

“Right?” he said, almost preening. “Cost me a fortune. Logistics, engineering, the whole nine yards. But worth every soul. This - ” He extended an arm, clawed fingers splayed proudly toward the structure. “ - is my kingdom.”

“Bold words,” Alastor remarked, glancing sidelong at him. “Especially after Lucifer’s little… review of the Overlords.”

Vox’s projector-mouth curled into a sharp smirk. “Are they?”

There was a shift in him - subtle, but unmistakable. His shoulders straightened. His body language changed. Gone was the slightly awkward, overeager Alpha Alastor had first danced with. Here, in his territory, Vox was… something else. Commanding. Self-assured. Confident in a way that bordered on audacity.

Alastor studied him anew, a slow curl of genuine interest coiling in his chest.

❧

Inside the skyscraper, imps swarmed like efficient little insects. Two scooped up Alastor’s luggage without hesitation. Vox kept him close, escorting him through the glittering glass entrance as though he were something valuable - something to be shown off.

Eyes turned. Conversations faltered. Sinners bustling through the lobby paused to gawk at the Omega draped elegantly against their Overlord’s side. A handful uttered polite greetings. Others stared. All took note.

Alastor met their gazes one by one, allowing his lips to peel back just enough to reveal a sliver of sharp teeth in greeting. Vox’s chest puffed subtly at the display - pride swelling and ego inflated. He looked, for a moment, very much like Adam had when the Fallen Angel paraded him before the masses.

His existence, ultimately, has been watered down to a living, breathing ornament on a powerful man’s arm.

What a lovely accessory he makes me, Alastor mused, dryly. 

They navigated a corridor lined with screens - some projecting news reels, others broadcasting snippets of Hell’s latest scandals. Sinners with headsets rushed past, barking orders, flipping switchboards and juggling equipment. The building hummed with purpose, alive with ambition and noise.

It was cleaner here. Sleeker. Every corner whispered money and control.

“This is where we handle the big stuff,” Vox said as they stepped into an elevator of mirror-polished chrome. “Broadcasts. Radio. Print distribution. I’ve got half the Pride Ring relying on us for information.”

At the word “radio,” Alastor’s ear twitched - a small, involuntary motion - but one the Alpha immediately noticed. Vox’s projected grin brightened in boyish delight in reaction. 

“Oh! Yeah. I didn’t tell you?” he said, puffing up a bit. “We’ve been restoring some of the old frequencies. Classic stuff. You’d be amazed what still works.”

Alastor’s fingers curled around Vox’s arm, the motion delicate yet unmistakably possessive. His eyes gleamed with sudden, sharp interest. 

“Really now?” he murmured, his tone faintly reverent.

“Of course!” Vox beamed. “We’ve still got some of the original equipment locked up downstairs. Felt like a waste to just toss it. Once you’re settled, I’ll give you the full tour. The works. You’ll love it.”

The Omega wanted to demand they go now. To see it. Touch it. Hear it hum. That lingering hunger from the life he once lived flickered in his chest. 

But he swallowed that impulse whole. He was here as Vox’s guest, after all. And he’d be expected to follow the Alpha’s lead and firm guidance. 

So instead of voicing his desire, Alastor merely nodded, tightening his hold just enough for Vox to misinterpret it as affection rather than restraint.

They reached the elevator, the crowd parting without needing direction. Sinners skittered back instinctively, unwilling to stand too close to an Overlord and the individual within his company. 

“The penthouse view is insane,” Vox carried on, excitement bubbling from him. “Bright city lights, clean skyline - well, mostly clean - top floor amenities. You’re gonna love it, Alastor. This place’ll spoil you rotten.”

The doors slid shut with a soft hiss and the elevator began its smooth ascent.

❧

When they stepped out into the penthouse, Alastor was drowned in Vox’s scent at once - thick, assertive and clinging to every surface within the confined space. It wasn’t unpleasant, but it was overwhelming. 

The apartment itself was beautiful. A far cry from the cramped, modest cottage Alastor occupied in Rosie’s domain. Crimson-hued lights cast a warm glow across sleek furniture and polished floors. Hellish artwork adorned the walls - pop art blended with infernal futurism.

It was, unmistakably, the home of a man who expected to be admired.

Imps followed at a respectful distance, depositing Alastor’s bag precisely where Vox directed. They disappeared without needing acknowledgment - the well-oiled machinery of an Alpha in his element. Vox wasn’t awkward here, nor shy, nor eager to please.

He was confident. Commanding. Boisterous in a way that made Alastor reevaluate everything he’d assumed.

Ah. Here he is, Alastor mused, intrigued. The man beneath the softness.

They toured the space together, Vox gesturing proudly at the high ceilings and glass walls overlooking the chaotic sprawl of the Pride Ring. Each comment carried an undercurrent of ownership. Threads of implication woven between the lines.

“You know,” Vox said casually as he guided him down a short hallway, “this place… it’s meant to last. You’re not just visiting some bachelor pad. I designed it with long-term stuff in mind.”

His hand slid to Alastor’s shoulder - light, almost reverent, but with a firmness that spoke of expectation.

They reached the branching hallway. Three doors. Vox opened the first proudly.

“My office,” he announced. “No surprise there.”

Of course.

But then he opened the second.

And the third.

Both were empty. Waiting for a purpose. A reason to be filled. 

Alastor’s breath hitched - almost imperceptibly - before he smothered the reaction beneath practiced gentility.

Vox watched him with a soft, hopeful smile that made the implications that much more suffocating.

“I wanted the extra space,” he explained. “You know. For the future.”

For - 

children. 

A picturesque fantasy in Vox’s naïve, archaic mind. And a gilded cage in Alastor’s.

Revolting.

His stomach twisted - hot, oily disgust climbing his spine - but externally he remained the perfect Omega. Tail still. Ears poised. Expression softened around the edges in a mimicry of bashfulness.

“You’ve thought of everything,” he said, sweetly.

Vox’s smile widened, earnest as a boy showing off a handcrafted gift.

“I try,” he admitted. “I really do think you’ll like it here, Alastor. I… I want you to. More than anything.”

The Omega’s face didn’t shift.

But inside?

He sneered.

He’d waited decades under Rosie’s roof - enduring the monotony, the confinement and the quiet reminders of his station. And now he found himself staring down another prison that was polished and luxurious and built expressly for him. Expecting him to nest, to settle and to become the obedient ornament to Vox’s empire. 

Alastor was fated to be carefully transferred from one prison to another. 

He could feel his pulse tick in his throat - heat, irritation and hunger for something he dearly missed: agency.

Still he smiled.

“It’s wonderful, Vincent,” he said with a slight dip of his head. “Truly. Perhaps…” he lifted a hand, lightly pinching at the material of the man’s sleeve, “…I should unpack. Freshen up. And then we can have that little tour you promised.”

Vox brightened immediately.

“Yeah! Absolutely. Take your time.”

❧

The tour was efficient without feeling rushed. Vox knew exactly what to highlight, where to linger and when to observe Alastor’s reactions. They eventually reached a room set deeper within the building: the broadcasting hub, its walls lined with restored consoles, refurbished receivers, tidy spools of cable and several desks overflowing with labeled tapes and reels. It was a space humming with possibility, alive with soft electrical undertones. The pride in Vox’s screen was unmistakable as he held the door open.

Alastor drifted in as though drawn by a tether. His gaze skimmed the room, lingering on the refurbished equipment, the familiar glow of indicator lights and the polished desk. His eyes softened in a manner rare for him - a distant, strangely mournful gleam overtaking the usual playful sharpness.

“I do miss this,” he murmured, not quite to Vox.

He stepped toward the central desk, fingertips brushing across the clutter-free surface as though reacquainting himself with an old lover. A microphone rested on its stand - sleek, restored, gleaming faintly beneath the overhead lamps. Alastor lifted his hand and let his claws graze the mesh grille with feather-light reverence. A memory flickered across his features, subtle but unmistakable.

Being a radio host had been his one scrap of genuine freedom. His booth had been a sanctuary - walls padded, light dimmed and the hum of electricity a constant companion. Within that soundproof box, he’d controlled the narrative. He spoke and the world listened. No one could see his face or the thoughts lurking behind it. Only the voice mattered. Only the performance.

Here in Hell, the booth was gone. The anonymity gone. The power structure is ever-present and cloying. It felt as though some essential part of him had been shelved, left to rot.

There had to be a way to reclaim it properly . Some path back to the control he once wielded so effortlessly. But reclaiming that would require patience - a vantage point from which to survey Hell’s shifting landscape with clarity.

He barely noticed Vox approaching until the Alpha’s scent reached him, followed by the faintest weight of a hand settling on his shoulder - careful, almost hesitant, as though Vox feared startling him. Alastor resisted the urge to stiffen more visibly, though his ear twitched.

“You know…” Vox ventured, voice threading between hopeful and cautious, “we could always use another voice on the station. Someone with presence. Once you’re… properly settled in, maybe we could talk about options.”

Alastor turned his head just enough to meet Vox’s gaze. The Omega’s eyes began to shine - not with softness, but calculation. He allowed only the smallest curl of a smile, the kind that invited assumptions.

There it was.
 

Finally.

 

The door he had been waiting - quietly - for Vox to open.

He let the moment breathe, savoring the tension of it and letting Vox steep in the thrill of thinking he’d said something clever.

“Is that so?” Alastor asked, quietly. 

Vox’s projected face brightened immediately. “Yeah - really. I mean it.”

They shared a grin.

❧

Alastor spent the late afternoon acquainting himself with the space Vox clearly expected him to occupy. The kitchen - bright and immaculately polished - was disappointingly barren once he began opening cupboards. A few serviceable seasonings. Very little in the way of aromatic herbs. The meat selection was adequate but uninspired and the vegetables were the sort that barely warranted the name. It was all rather… bland.

Typical of an Alpha who expected the Omega to compensate for such shortcomings.

Still, Alastor made do. He always did.

Vox seemed almost giddy when the Omega, after a quiet inspection, began drafting a shopping list at the Alpha’s insistence. A long list. A demanding list. Fresh herbs, proper spices, a variety of meats and cuts, staples that could transform a meal into something of substance. Vox hovered nearby, watching over his shoulder with a kind of earnest fascination, nodding along as though he understood half of what Alastor was writing. Eventually the list was surrendered to an imp with a brisk wave of Vox’s hand.

Their dinner that evening was simple due to the limited ingredients - almost insultingly simple from Alastor’s perspective - but Vox ate with such open delight that one would swear the Omega had hand-crafted a feast. Alastor, meanwhile, picked through the plate with polite efficiency. Bland or not, the meal was serviceable. And more importantly, it bought him time to think.

Vox talked. And talked. And talked. A steady stream of cheerful commentary about work, about plans for their “stay,” about improvements he intended to make to the penthouse and how he hoped Alastor would feel “at home.” It was the chattering of a man buoyed by anticipation, barely able to contain himself.

Alastor found it almost charming and deeply telling. Vox was in a good mood for one reason only.

Tonight marked their first night sharing a bed.

Custom dictated they share a space, share warmth and share scent. It was expected. Traditional. Practically ritualistic. And no doubt Vox had constructed a hundred fantasies around the moment.

Alastor sipped his wine, letting the sweet, saccharine liquid burn down his throat. It was far too sugary for his tastes - a fair number of hellish vineyards had no subtlety - but it gifted him a pleasant buzz. Just enough to soften his limbs without dulling the sharpness of his mind.

What would Vox expect of him?

He caught the Alpha glancing at him over the table, the projected mouth stretching into a grin that bordered on hopeful. Eager. He was practically vibrating with the attempt to appear restrained.

Alastor tilted the wineglass back, appearing casual as he finished the last swallow. Then, deliberately, he tipped the glass just a fraction too far. A thin line of wine slid down the corner of his mouth and along the edge of his chin.

Vox’s eyes snapped to it immediately - reflexive with a hint of hunger. 

Alastor let his tongue flick out - long, red and pointed - to retrieve the liquid in a smooth swipe. A simple motion, but it was deliberate in a way only another predator would recognize. A subtle display. A lure.

And Vox’s projector-screen dimmed briefly with static, a visible tremor overtaking the edges of his image. His claws tightened subtly around his glass.

Alastor smiled, slow and knowing, letting the moment stretch just long enough for the Alpha to feel it in his bones.

❧

The ceiling of the master bedroom was surprisingly plain - a soft, subdued shade of blue that seemed almost fragile in contrast to the sleek luxury of Vox’s penthouse. At its center, an ornate ceiling fan turned in slow, unhurried circles, its dim light casting languid shapes that slid across walls and floor as if reluctant to settle anywhere for long. Alastor watched those shifting shadows with a muted sort of fascination, his smile fixed in its usual sharp curve while his half-lidded eyes drifted somewhere far beyond the present moment.

Dissociation came to him as naturally as breathing. In life it had been a skill he honed out of necessity and in death it served him just as faithfully. When he wished to untether from a situation, he needed only to seize upon something small - some harmless detail that carried no weight of expectation. 

Tonight it was the gentle rotation of the fan, the soft flicker of the light; the repetitive movement that asked nothing of him and expected even less. He let his attention coil around that stillness, drawing comfort from its predictability.

The room was warm - perhaps too warm for comfort, though the thought drifted by without anchoring itself. A faint perfume clung to the bedsheets, some expensive scent chosen for its softness, meant to evoke intimacy or ease. Alastor drew in a slow breath, letting the fragrance settle around him as he shifted his head just enough to inhale it again. 

The sheets were plush, layered with careful precision, each fold perfectly arranged. His claws curled into the fabric, not from any emotion but out of instinctive need to ground himself through texture rather than the moment unfolding around him.

He let his thoughts slip where they wished. The ceiling. The faint hum of the city far below. The quiet whir of the fan. The give of the mattress beneath him - firm, high-quality and designed with indulgence in mind. 

All of it blurred together, a tapestry of sensations that kept him tethered even as his mind floated just beyond reach. The warmth of the room pressed in on him in waves, though he accepted it without reaction, focusing instead on the smoothness of the sheets beneath his palms, their scent, their luxurious weave.

A breath left him - the kind of exhale that could pass for pleasure in dim light yet carried none of its truth. His lashes lowered and he allowed his mind to drift just a little farther, balancing on the thin edge between presence and distance. The sheets, at least, were comforting. A small mercy. A simple, solid thing he could return to again and again.

And so he fixated on them - their weight and their warmth  - as he let the rest of the world blur into something indistinct and far away.

Only when a warm breath ghosted over the sensitive skin of his inner thigh did he blink and return - from far, far away.

Vox’s face hovered between his legs, luminescent eyes soft with concern. His tongue, blue and faintly glowing, retracted from the slick heat between Alastor’s thighs.

“You alright, Alastor?” Vox asked gently, voice low and uncertain. He kept Alastor open with careful hands, thumbs spreading him with a tenderness bordering on reverent. “You… drifted a little.”

Alastor exhaled slowly, claws sliding back through the mess of his mane. “I’m fine, Vincent,” he murmured, tone airy. His smile held. It always held.

But Vox wasn’t convinced. His hand soothed the Omega’s thigh, a slow, comforting stroke meant to ground him.

“You seem out of it,” he said, voice softened with concern.

A soft, controlled chuckle left Alastor’s lips. “I believe I drank a touch too much. My apologies.”

Vox hummed in concern. “Do you want to stop? Are you feeling sick? Dizzy? You can tell me.”

There it was - that softness. 

Alastor regarded him for a moment, then tipped his head, offering a smile that was far too sharp to be gentle.

“I’m fine,” he repeated. “It feels nice enough.”

Vox’s projected brows knit, but the reassurance soothed him. He shifted forward on the bed, kneeling, hands braced on either side of Alastor’s hips. He looked down at the Omega as though memorizing him, caught between worry and desire.

“You sure?” Vox pressed.

Alastor’s ears twitched, a hint of amusement threading through his voice. “Are you?”

Vox hesitated, then crawled up the length of him, bodies brushing, heat meeting heat. Alastor forced himself to lean subtly into the touch, letting Vox cup his face with one hand. The Alpha studied him closely, as if trying to peel away the layers of placid calm.

“I’d rather have you present,” Vox murmured. “With me. Not… drifting somewhere I can’t follow.”

A dangerous sentiment. But earnest.

Alastor’s smile softened - the subtle movement entirely intentional. “Is that so?”

“Mmh.” Vox nodded, lowering himself, pressing his weight against Alastor’s body. “I like knowing you’re here. With me.”

Such a sweet, naive thing.

Before Alastor could answer, Vox dipped down and their mouths met. The kiss was warm, full and almost clumsy in its eagerness. Vox kissed like someone starved for affection. 

Alastor did not pull back.

He kissed him in return, deliberately slow, letting Vox taste warmth and willingness. Allowing the man to believe that the Omega beneath him was fully, intimately present.

Alastor’s gaze drifted upward again as the man’s mouth found his neck and suckled gently, catching the slow rotations of the ceiling fan - counting them, measuring them, slipping once more into the quiet place behind his own eyes.

Chapter Text

There were countless products on the market designed to manage an Omega’s cycle - far more than he’d ever had access to in life. Back then, pads and tampons were only just breaking into widespread use, still considered a novelty by some, a scandal by others. Before that, it had been nothing but carefully folded cloth, washed by hand, hung in secrecy and tucked discreetly away. He remembered his own supply: stacks of clean rags, bleached and dried in the dense heat of Louisiana air, all arranged in meticulous rows within the cabinets of his hovel. Everything in its place, ready for use the moment the first telltale cramp hit.

He’d always prepared early. Always.

But Hell, with its mockery of modernization, offered far more variety than he ever remembered. Cups, pads, tampons in half a dozen configurations; overflow garments; sleek little containers designed to seal scent and blood. It all struck him as oddly civilized for a realm ruled by violence and instinct. And Vox - ever eager  - had spared no expense in ensuring Alastor’s comfort. All of it sat neatly arranged in their shared bathroom, stacked and sorted with a precision that betrayed how seriously the man approached his role.

The generosity was mildly embarrassing, though he hid it well. 

The bathroom held more than just hygienic necessities. Vox had stocked it with a spread of personal care items - moisturizers intended for sensitive skin, shampoos rich enough to coax shine into fur, oils for his mane, polish for his hooves, files, brushes and combs. A small, curated shrine to Omega maintenance. All meant for him. All neatly displayed for his use until he cultivated preferences of his own.

When the Alpha left to handle duties at the studio, Alastor took the opportunity to explore the expanse of the penthouse on his own. He took his time. He inspected every corner with a practiced delicacy. It was less a stroll and more a quiet reconnaissance. And as he slipped into the closet, he found it arranged as though waiting for the next phase of their life together - their life, as Vox seemed eager to imagine it.

Clothes in his size filled an entire section. Omega-appropriate shirts and trousers in vibrant tones; sharply tailored suits soft enough to accentuate his frame; dresses and skirts selected with an eye for elegance rather than scandal. Every hem adjusted for his body. Every waist nipped for shape. And tucked discreetly deeper within, he found finer things - fragile lace, delicate garters, silky pieces cut for softness and presentation. Even undergarments had been tailored carefully for his personal use, a neat little opening stitched into the back to accommodate his tail.

He stared at them far longer than he should have.

And deeper still, he found a wooden drawer nearly invisible unless one knew to search. Inside were toys - various shapes and designs, nothing garish, everything expensive and finely made. Things Vox had likely chosen with the assumption that once the Omega was settled, once he trusted him and he softened into that role - they would be used.

Unsurprising, he supposed. 

Alastor felt no anger, only the faint curl of a smile. A familiar, cold amusement warmed his chest. He took nothing from its place except to inspect it, cataloguing each piece with clinical interest, noting what Vox imagined he might enjoy, what the Alpha assumed he’d accept and what Vox pictured in that little future he was building so earnestly.

He made certain to leave everything exactly as he found it. Every drawer slid back into place with the same pressure; every hem draped precisely as before; every hanger faced the same direction. Vox needn’t know he’d been curious. He needn’t suspect how thorough Alastor’s examination truly was.

Only the items meant to be disturbed - the ones Vox expected him to touch - were moved. The rest he returned with surgical precision.

❧

The familiar rush came as a sudden, molten warmth - the kind that pulled the breath from his lungs before his mind even caught up. A wet bloom between his thighs. An instinctual jolt in his gut. 

The scent of iron followed immediately.

Alastor snapped awake like a trap springing shut, his body twisting upright in a sharp jerk. Vox’s arm was draped securely around his waist, the  Alpha pressed behind him, still breathing slow and deep in sleep. They’d shared only the mildest intimacy before bed - soft touches, gentle kisses, nothing overtly taxing - but now all of that meant nothing. His body had turned inward, feral and bristling, screaming at him to move.

He did.

Without hesitation or apology, he tore himself free of the Alpha’s hold. Vox mumbled incoherently, disturbed by the sudden motion, but Alastor didn’t look back. His focus was singular as he slid off the bed. A small spotting of blood marked the sheets, then a drop on the floor, then another - tiny, damning red footprints that betrayed everything.

He made for the bathroom with a speed bordering on panic and slammed the door hard enough to rattle the hinges.

The crack of wood on metal echoed through the penthouse.

He fumbled for a warm rag, pressing it between his thighs as he hissed under his breath. The crimson was thin for now, still in its beginning stages, but the scent - his scent - was thickening rapidly, curling into the air and clinging to his skin. He knew it would only grow stronger. A biological siren song he’d spent his entire living life dampening at all costs.

And now here he was. In another’s territory. In an Alpha’s bed, of all things. 

He shoved a tampon into place with shaking hands - clumsy, graceless and so utterly unlike him. When he finished, he remained seated on the closed toilet lid, arms wrapped tight around himself, trying to compress his body into something small. 

He had never been around anyone aside from Niffty during this part of his cycle beyond when he was young. Not in life. Not in death. Not once.

He always ran. Always hid.

Isolation had been survival.

But now - 

Now he was exposed.

Thirty minutes crawled past, each second scraping nerves raw. His mind churned, not quite thoughts but pulses of instinct: hide hide hide get away move move move.

He heard movement outside the door. A soft shifting of weight.

Then footsteps pacing.

Another thirty minutes.

Then a hesitant knock.

“Alastor?”

He didn’t answer. Couldn’t. His throat locked up, a pathetic tremor shaking through him as distress seeped into the air like oil into water. He loathed how his scent betrayed him - how it curdled, sour with fear, threaded with something fragile and panicked.

“Are you alright?” Vox tried again, voice gentle. 

A stupid question.

No, he wanted to snarl. No, of course I’m not alright, you blithering imbecile - what do you think is happening?

His silence must not have conveyed the message well enough, because the next sound was the soft click of the handle turning. The door eased inward.

And then Vox stepped inside.

Concern all over his face. Eyes wide. Shoulders lowered to make him appear small. Hands held out slightly as though approaching a frightened animal. He had the common decency to cover his lower half with striped briefs, at least. “Hey, hey… you don’t have to hide. Just tell me if - ”

He didn’t finish.

Because Alastor was already moving.

The moment that Alpha scent crossed the threshold, instinct surged hot and vicious through him. His body reacted before anything else. His lips pulled further back from his teeth in a snarl, his claws extended as he lunged. An outraged roar ripping from his throat so violently it scraped his lungs raw.

Vox only had time to flinch.

Then Alastor was on him.

❧

Alastor was left alone.

Not abandoned - but quarantined and contained. The Alpha had made preparations, of course. Rosie would’ve reminded him that the first stage of an Omega’s cycle was the most volatile: all teeth, all instinct and all the raw hostility of something cornered in its own skin. And Alastor had proven the stereotype with vicious enthusiasm. His smile twisting into something macabre, lips peeled back to expose rows of sharp teeth as he snapped and snarled like a creature half-feral, eyes glassy with panic and fury.

They’d fought.

Not in any formal sense. Not in any way that would satisfy either of them. It was a chaotic tangle of limbs - the crackle of Vox’s screen as a claw raked across it, the stinging scent of breaking circuitry, the metallic tang of Alpha blood when Alastor managed to catch skin. Vox’s exclamation was somewhere between shock and frustration, but he didn’t strike. He didn’t roar. He didn’t assert dominance the way his sex often did.

Instead, he did the one thing Alastor hated most.

He overpowered him.

Not cruelly. Not aggressively. Just effectively - strong arms wrapping around him, forcing his wrists down, pinning him to the ground with a steadiness that brooked no argument. It was a humiliating reminder of the biological gulf between them. Every furious twist, every frantic attempt to wrench free, every desperate dig of claws - all of it was answered with unyielding strength.

Salt in the wound. Fuel to a fire that had nowhere to burn.

Eventually the fury sputtered out. Not because Vox had soothed him - but because exhaustion claimed Alastor’s muscles and his instinct recoiled from the heedy scent of Alpha so close to his skin. Vox had dragged himself away, breathing hard, screen flickering from claw damage and wordlessly sealed the bedroom behind him after forcibly depositing the panting Alastor upon the bed. 

For the next several days, the penthouse remained a cage.

He stalked it with the restless pacing of an animal denied escape. The heavy lockdown mechanisms Vox engaged sealed every door, the thick metallic thuds echoing like the closing of a tomb. A necessary measure, Vox insisted - through the door - because Omegas were prone to bolting during the hostile stage, consumed by a biological terror that demanded distance from anything with fangs and a claim to strength.

He bled. Cleaned himself. Bled again. The flow was an ever-present weight - intrusive and humiliating. The reek of menstruation remained steadfast. 

The scent clung to him no matter how he scrubbed.

He ate almost nothing. The thought of food was repulsive. His body was too busy aching – deep, bone-deep aches that settled into his hips, his abdomen and his spine. A hormonal vibration that made his skin feel too thin, too porous and all-too aware of itself.

And worst of all: he had nothing to distract himself with.

Just… silence. And the stale, suffocating knowledge that he was trapped inside an Alpha’s territory with no witness and no exit.

He curled on the couch, or the bed, or the cool bathroom floor - wherever the ache guided him - and stared at the walls until they blurred. Misery seeped into him like cold water through fabric. Every hour spent alone festered into raw irritation and a quieter, more poisonous feeling beneath it.

Longing.

He hated it.

He wanted Niffty.

She would’ve handled him. Known how to touch him without provoking a snarl. Known when to coax and when to simply sit nearby until he let his head drop onto her lap. She would’ve made broth. Would’ve tutted over him in that rapid, chirring voice of hers. Would’ve cleaned around him without drawing attention to his discomfort. She would’ve anchored him.

Instead, he bristled and bled and stewed alone - an Omega in the throes of a cycle. 

❧

The bleeding subsided slowly, almost reluctantly, as though his body mourned the loss of that first brutal purge. What replaced it was not relief, not truly, but a different kind of discomfort. It was a low, permeating heat that settled beneath the surface of his skin like embers waking from slumber. The sharp tension that had locked his muscles for days finally began to unravel. His limbs trembled with the aftershocks of exhaustion, his joints aching from strain he hadn’t been aware he was holding until the hostility drained from him.

The iron tang faded from the air. In its place rose a warmer, sweeter scent - something spice-laden and intimate, subtle yet unmistakably Omega. His body announced the shift into the receptive stage. The dangerous stage where something within him signaled his readiness. 

And he no longer recoiled from Vox’s scent.

The bed he had refused, snarling and arching away from it as though it were a trap, suddenly became a comfort. He pressed his cheek into the pillow, inhaling deeply and letting the Alpha’s scent sink into him. It soothed something frayed and raw inside him, quieting the leftover violence that had been simmering behind his ribs. The mattress was soft, the blankets warm and he burrowed into them with surprising eagerness - curling himself into the center of the nest he’d unknowingly begun to build.

Heat pooled beneath his skin. Not unbearable. Just… persuasive. A haze fogged the edges of his thoughts, coaxing him toward stillness. Toward softness. He drifted in and out of sleep, lulled by memory and phantom touches that didn’t exist - his maman’s voice weaving through the fog like a lullaby, her gentle hum soothing him, her arms warm and solid around a much younger version of himself. He longed for her in a way he hadn’t allowed himself to feel in decades. He missed her fiercely.

“Alastor?”

A hand touched his shoulder.

The Omega stirred, slow and drowsy, blinking open heavy eyes. The bright glow of Vox’s freshly repaired screen greeted him. Brand new. Polished. No hint of the damage Alastor had inflicted in his earlier frenzy. Vox must have left immediately to replace it the moment the Omega had calmed enough to be safely left alone.

The Alpha’s scent hit him next - cool static layered over warm citrus and that faint, telltale thread of want. It didn’t grate anymore. It wrapped around him, coaxing him closer.

Vox’s fingers threaded gently through his mane, brushing it back from his face in slow, soothing strokes. The gesture was reverent in a way that surprised him. Tenderness wasn’t something he expected from an Alpha. Not without strings. Yet Vox’s expression felt oddly genuine.

“You doing alright, beautiful?” Vox asked, voice pitched low. As though any wrong inflection might send Alastor spiraling again.

Alastor managed a quiet nod.

Something eased in Vox’s posture - his shoulders lowering, the tension around his artificial jaw relaxing. His thumb stroked lightly across Alastor’s cheek, warm and hesitant.

“Do you want me to stay?”

The question hovered in the quiet bedroom, weighted with more than just words. It was permission wrapped in restraint, something an Alpha rarely offered freely. Even through the haze, Alastor’s instincts responded - his body tugging toward warmth. He didn’t like the implication, didn’t like the vulnerability threaded into his reaction, but the heat smoothing through his limbs didn’t leave room for pride.

He paused… then gave another small, deliberate nod.

Vox’s exhale was near-silent, but the relief was palpable - almost boyish in its sincerity. He eased closer, careful not to crowd him, slipping onto the edge of the mattress with slow movements, as though approaching a skittish animal.

“Alright,” he murmured, voice soft enough that Alastor’s chest tightened in a way he refused to name.

❧

Vox stayed close - closer than he ever had - moving with the single-minded focus of an Alpha who had waited patiently for this heat. Every inch of Alastor seemed to call to him now. He couldn’t keep his hands still; they roamed with deliberate curiosity, tracing where fur gave way to skin, where the elegant slope of the deer’s waist dipped beneath his palms and where the soft weight of his rear fit perfectly into his grip as if shaped for him alone.

The Omega didn’t shy from his touch. Quite the opposite - Alastor melted into each sweeping caress, body loose and warm, breath soft and receptive. Vox had dreamed of this. Fantasized. And now that he had him pliant in his arms, the Alpha barely knew where to put his attention first.

He tasted him freely. Where skin was hottest. Where scent pooled thickest. He licked down the column of Alastor’s throat, greedily breathing him in, the Omega’s heat-sweet scent rolling off him in waves that made every inch of Vox’s body thrum with want. The deer’s thighs parted without hesitation whenever Vox urged them wider and each time the Omega’s breath hitched, the Alpha groaned in answer - low, pleased, thoroughly undone by the sound.

He’d resisted before. He’d kept his distance. Waited for permission he was terrified to ask for.

Now?

Now there was no hesitation.

Alastor opened for him - eager and loose - and Vox indulged him with the hunger of someone who’d been holding back far too long.

He worked the Omega open with his mouth, with his hands, with the slow, deliberate grind of his body against the deer’s trembling thigh. Alastor’s cunt was slick from the heat, soft enough that Vox hardly needed to coax him, yet he did - slow, savoring every small reaction. Every shiver. Every breathless tug of claws against his shoulders.

And the way Alastor looked at him - hazed, pupils blown wide and lips parted just so - made Vox’s cock throb almost painfully.

“Beautiful,” Vox murmured against his skin, voice gone husky. “You’re driving me insane, baby.”

Alastor’s red claws tightened on him, guiding and encouraging. His voice was a soft, needy croon - so unlike his usual razor-sharp tone.

Vox’s mind went hazy at the sound.

He pushed himself up over the Omega, caging him in without fully pinning him. His weight pressed against Alastor’s body, warm and solid and the Omega arched into him with a helpless, heat-drunk whine that shot straight through Vox’s restraint.

His cock dragged against the slick heat of Alastor’s cunt and the Omega’s breath stuttered - his eyes fluttering, thighs trembling.

Vox nearly lost control.

He braced a hand beside Alastor’s head, panting softly, his voice breaking on a whisper:

“Tell me you want this.”

Red eyes, unfocused but hungry, lifted to meet his.
 

A clawed hand cupped Vox’s face with surprising tenderness.

“Vincent…”

A breath.

“I want you.”

That was all it took. And Vox’s restraint ruptured like a snapped cable.

 He surged forward, pressing their mouths together in a kiss that was far messier and far more desperate than before. Alastor met him with equal heat, pulling him closer and urging him deeper. His body instinctively opened to the Alpha’s weight, his heat-softened cunt throbbing with need beneath the press of Vox’s hips.

The world narrowed to panting breath, slick heat and the instinctive grind of bodies locked together.

Vox’s voice dropped to a reverent, trembling whisper against the Omega’s lips:

“Let me take care of you.”

And Alastor just nodded and tugged him closer.

The rest dissolved into breath and heat and the instinctive rhythm of bodies seeking each other through the haze of estrus, until neither of them could think of anything else at all.

❧

Alastor returned to Cannibal Town in uncharacteristic silence, the kind of silence that felt constructed, as though each breath and each blink were chosen with careful deliberation. Vox’s hand rested over his own for the entire duration of the drive. Possessive in a way the Alpha didn’t understand was possessive.

The contact should have been harmless. Should have been tolerable. But to Alastor, whose nerves had only just begun to settle into themselves again, it felt like a brand. Like a stamp of ownership pressed against his skin, echoing through the tender places heat had softened.

He kept still.

He forced his eyes to meet Vox’s openly adoring gaze once or twice - only long enough to maintain the illusion of reciprocation - before he turned back to the window. Watching the streets roll past in their grimy procession. Watching the world beyond the glass blur into streaks that matched the frantic pace of his thoughts.

Vox rambled softly beside him, eager and affectionate, recounting plans for their next evening together. For another shared dinner or perhaps another night spent in the penthouse. His voice trembled with happiness when he spoke about Alastor’s impending return. The words dripped with the kind of devotion Omegas were expected to crave.

Alastor’s stomach churned.

It rolled with an anxiety that seemed to claw up from the base of his spine. A nauseating cocktail of instinctual fear and carefully suppressed fury. His throat tightened. The remnants of his cooking threatened to surge up in a useless revolt.

He swallowed it back.

The kiss they shared at the door was gentle, tender and filled with the promise of further intimacy. Vox cupped his jaw with such reverence, as though the Omega were porcelain. The man’s screen brightened, saturated with affection. His voice, low and soft, murmured something about missing him already.

A shiver of dread crawled up Alastor’s spine, cold and unwelcome.

Vox was going to ask for his hand.

Soon.

The certainty of it pressed against Alastor’s ribs like a fist.

Marriage.

A cage made of affection was still a cage.

And Alastor couldn’t - wouldn’t - be trapped in that way. 

He’d endured days of vulnerability. Days where his body had overruled his mind. A week where Vox had seen him soft and yielding. And there was now a sickening awareness blooming in the Alpha’s expression - some smug, quiet certainty that the Omega would remain soft for him.

He’d tasted that power.

And Alastor knew Vox would want - or demand -  more.

The limousine pulled away, taking the Alpha with it. 

The door to his home creaked open.

Niffty stood waiting for him - her expression uncharacteristically tight, her hands clasped before her apron. Her little eyes glimmered with worry the moment she saw him. Alastor knew he looked wrong. Felt wrong. His smile didn’t reach his eyes. His posture was stiff, not poised. He walked like someone whose balance had been disturbed.

“Alastor?” she whispered, already stepping toward him. “Are you…? Oh dear…”

He didn’t resist when she reached for him. He didn’t brush her off or tease her for fussing. He let her touch him. Let her guide him further inside. Let her close the door behind them with a soft click.

He felt hollow.

He let her speak softly at him, fussing over his present state, pressing a hand to his cheek in her attempt to detect a fever. He simply blinked back at her - slow, listless, his eyes glazed with contemplation.

He followed when she led him toward the bathroom.

The bath steamed, filling the room with heat that prickled at his skin. When he sank into it, the water stung beneath his fur - sharp and purifying, like needles piercing through the vestiges of Vox’s scent still clinging to him.

Alastor winced.

But he didn’t pull away.

He leaned back against the porcelain edge, claws flexing and curling at the sides of the tub. Niffty moved about in gentle, sweeping motions. Her presence was grounding. Familiar. Comforting in a way no Alpha’s could ever be.

But his mind -

His mind was far from comfort.

He stared at the rippling surface of the water, watching steam dance in ghostly spirals. His reflection blurred and fragmented.

He thought of Vox’s eyes.

He thought of marriage documents.

He thought of Rosie’s words:
“You’ll need someone to keep you in your place.”

His claws scraped lightly against porcelain.

He felt dread pool within his stomach, heavy and black. Because choices were narrowing. Paths were closing and the world was shifting under his freshly polished hooves. 

But he would work with what was given. He done so before. 

Chapter Text

Alastor had been returned to solitude as though he were some creature requiring quarantine. An expected custom for Omegas after a cycle, of course, one meant to offer rest and recalibration. But he found no comfort in the stillness of his home. The rooms felt too quiet, his own steps too loud. Even the soft hum of the radio-less silence gnawed at him.

Rosie had come by, but only briefly. Her “check-in” felt more like a performance than genuine concern. She stood in his doorway, elegant and composed while offering polite questions that danced around the truth. She didn’t request details but her eyes lingered on him with palpable scrutiny. The woman was searching for something. Some confirmation that he’d been softened and more properly reminded of who he was supposed to be.

Or rather, where he belonged.

He hated how her gaze lingered on him - the Omega detecting the satisfaction present within those dark eyes. As though the week had done exactly what it was meant to do. As though a shared heat had burned away the sharpness and arrogance, leaving behind something comparatively tame. 

A reminder of his station, she’d once said.

He smiled for her, of course. He always smiled. But when she left, shutting the door behind her, the smile stayed fixed. A brittle little curl of lips that refused to relax, even as his temples pulsed with pain.

His skull throbbed with the ache of suppressed panic, the residual fog of heat and the pressure of looming inevitability. Every thought felt jagged, catching on the ribs of his mind. He moved through the hours like a ghost, trying to ignore the thick knot of dread lodged beneath his sternum.

Choices.

Yes - he had some choices.

He repeated that to himself as though repetition might make it true.
 

A handful of possibilities flickered in and out of reach, most of them impractical, some of them foolish and all of them suffocating. The sensible options felt useless; the desperate ones were unthinkable.

But remaining still - allowing things to continue unfolding on Vox and Rosie’s terms - felt like a death far worse than any blade Adam could swing.

At least there was no formal announcement yet. No celebration planned. No document presented, sealed in red wax, requesting that the Radio Demon take his place as someone’s mate. But Alastor wasn’t naive. The pieces fit too neatly. Vox had fallen deeply, stupidly in love and Rosie had every reason to give permission. To secure an alliance. To tuck him into a place where he could no longer upset the delicate, dangerous balance she’d maintained.

He didn’t know how long Rosie would wait before she responded to whatever request Vox had surely made. She could take days. Weeks. Hours.

But she would respond.

And he would be expected to obey.

He sat at his desk because he needed to do something - anything - to quiet the noise in his mind. His hands trembled only once before he forced them still. He pulled out a fresh sheet of parchment. Began writing. Discarded it. Began again. Ink smeared once, twice. He hissed beneath his breath, tore another failed draft and hastily reached for a new page.

By the time he finished, his hand ached and the stack of crumpled pages beside him had grown fat. But the final version was perfect. Every curve of ink is carefully measured. Every word chosen with surgical precision. He folded it neatly, sealing the envelope with wax that cooled beneath his fingertip.

When he handed it to Niffty, she accepted it with a solemnity that belied her usual frenetic energy. She clutched it to her chest as though it were a fragile thing. As though she recognized that Alastor had tucked something essential - perhaps something dangerous - inside.

“Make sure it reaches the right hands,” he murmured.

She nodded earnestly.

“I will.”

He watched her leave, the diminutive woman disappearing down the street with frantic speed. 

Then he returned inside and closed the door.

And he waited.

The waiting was unbearable.

His home felt smaller than ever. The air too warm, the silence too vast. Even his own scent - cleaned and  stripped of Vox’s cloying signature - felt strange to him now. As though it were wearing thin. Like something foreign had grafted itself beneath his skin.

He had sent his letter.

Now all that remained was the reply.

❧

Alastor had not squandered the time spent under Vox’s roof. While he played the part required of him his senses remained sharpened to everything the Alpha revealed, intentionally or otherwise. Vox spoke freely, perhaps too freely, as though the simple presence of an appreciative Omega invited confession. The man was, after all, a creature of ambition and ego and eager to be admired by his future mate. That eagerness made him vulnerable. It made him talkative. And Alastor listened.

Rosie would never have offered him even a fraction of what Vox laid bare between casual conversation and affectionate touches. Where Rosie guarded information with the tight-fisted paranoia of a long-surviving Beta, Vox dispensed it generously, pleased to share the intricacies of Hell’s political landscape with the Omega who held his hand. Alastor found this disparity nothing short of delicious. He’d endured restraint, humiliation, cycles and confinement - all to pry loose this kind of insight. And if he remained careful, if he maintained the act flawlessly, it might yet prove worth the indignity of playing house in a gilded cage.

Still, there was no denying the cost. Every moment spent in Vox’s territory came with an unspoken price - his autonomy traded for proximity. His rights, few as they were, eroded with every concession he made. Hell’s hierarchy demanded that Omegas pay for privilege and they paid with their bodies and their freedom. In his pursuit of information Alastor had waded into a mire thicker than he initially imagined.

Power. That was the real currency here. Brute strength, dominance, battle prowess - these carved one’s place into Hell’s bones. It was why Alphas ruled, why their names were plastered across districts, why the news cycles remained fixated on their feuds and why the majority of Overlords existed at the intersection of violence and charisma. They had been favored in life; Hell simply expanded the gulf.

An Omega acquiring such power… the notion was almost laughable. And yet Alastor had asked. Casually. Almost sweetly. His head tipped just so as he inquired whether an Omega had ever ascended to the rank of Overlord. Vox’s reaction had been immediate - a flicker of shock, bemusement and barely contained laughter that teetered on insulting. The Alpha had masked it quickly, clearing his throat and offering a polite correction in gentler tones.

No. Never. Not once in Hell’s entire history.

The reason was simple: their souls were naturally dampened. Muted. Lacking the metaphysical capacity for dominance or mass manipulation. They were powerful in other - comparatively subtle - ways. But Hell did not generously reward this power. Hell rewarded violence. Vox even went so far as to describe the occasional influential Omega who had secured power through strategic partnerships. But none had risen above the inherent limitations of their caste.

And after Lilith vanished with Lucifer’s heir?

The restrictions clamped down with an iron fist.

Omegas became objects of scrutiny. Possessions to be watched, catalogued and claimed before they could run. Every mate-bond was inspected more ruthlessly. Every unclaimed Omega was perceived as a liability, a potential disruption  - or worse, a reminder of the king’s loss. Even now, decades later, the paranoia lingered like a stain on Hell’s collective consciousness.

Alastor sifted through all of this new information carefully. Overlords knew far more than the rank-and-file Sinners and he found himself acutely aware of how sheltered he’d been. Not coddled, but effectively shielded by Rosie’s structure; by her stability  and by his own refusal to interact with Hell’s greater mechanics due to the terrible risk involved. He’d been allowed to exist quietly, tucked away in Cannibal Town’s safety.

But the moment an Executioner and a King had taken a - hopefully momentary - interest in him, his protection became a farce. When he stepped into the ballroom and flaunted himself, he’d been placed on a precipice with the wind at his back.

He had no true power.
 

No legitimate avenue toward acquiring it.
 

No path beyond those dictated to Omegas before him.

Which left him with two choices:

Marry into power and live in the shadow of a man or woman, gaining influence only through proximity…

Or

find some impossible path to strength on his own, one that defied history.

The latter was, by every measurable standard, a fantasy. Vox had been too polite to say the word impossible, but the meaning was laid bare in his softened, pitying expression. Alastor was not built for war. His soul was not forged for brutality. His strengths lay elsewhere - charm, manipulation, cleverness, talent, charisma. Useful, yes. But insufficient to carve out territory in a land ruled by violence.

It was an old story, truly. One recited in life as often as in death. Omegas survived through marriage, grafting their names onto the legacies of powerful men, becoming mere footnotes in history books that were scarcely worthy of note. His kind inspired poems, birthed heirs and stabilized households. Their faces appeared beside their mates’ portraits, briefly, before fading into obscurity.

The Alphas became legends.

The Omegas became margins.

And now they wanted him to adopt a similar role.

Alastor pressed his fingertips to his temple, as the weight of it settled once more. His mind churned with bitter thoughts, the familiar thrum of discontent rising in his chest.

He did not want to be a footnote.

He did not want to be anyone’s legacy.

He wanted power.

And now he knew, with painful clarity, that Hell had no intention of letting him have it.

Not unless he found a way to cheat the system.

❧

To his deep and simmering frustration, there was still no response to his letter. Not immediately - fine, he had expected as much. But as the days trickled by with agonizing slowness, his certainty began to fray. Messages directed to the Morningstar Castle did not follow the polite timelines of civilized correspondence. There was no guarantee of delivery, let alone acknowledgement. He could not know whether the letter was being read, ignored, delayed, archived, dismissed or burned.

It had been, by every measure, a desperate maneuver. A direct petition to the King. A quiet plea tucked within formal phrasing, submitted with the smallest, trembling hope that he still lingered somewhere in Lucifer’s vast, unyielding memory - that the king had not already erased him as easily as one forgets a passing fragrance. Perhaps he was already nothing more than a faint recollection, a curious little Omega who had entertained him for a single dance before being handed back to his Beta caretaker.

Perhaps he had never mattered at all.

He loathed himself for hoping - hated the way it tucked itself into the corners of his chest, subtle yet persistent. Hated the way his stomach lifted whenever a letter slipped under the threshold.

Every arrival reignited that fragile, unwanted spark.

Every time.

And yet, of course - inevitably - it was only Vox.

Always Vox. Sealed in that tacky, unmistakable blue.

He stared down at the newest envelope in hand, feeling the disappointment twist into something sharp enough to wound. His fingers tightened around the wax seal before he forced himself to open it, smoothing out the letter with a heaviness that felt bone-deep.

Romantic drivel.

All of it.

Fucking all of it -  saccharine sentimentality, aching declarations, promises of future mornings and shared meals and whispered dreams. Vox poured himself onto the page with heart-wrenching earnestness, as though he believed the Omega would swoon simply because he was adored.

It exhausted him.

It enraged him.

It… frightened him.

He folded the letter once - twice - thrice, as though compressing its contents might smother the implications inside. Words of love were no better than chains, and these were crafted with care.

“Niffty,” he murmured, voice flat in a way that was unusual enough for her to perk up immediately.

She was at his side in seconds and when he offered her the letter, her expression twisted into offended disgust. She did not bother asking permission. She merely hissed and tore into the paper like a cheerful little animal defending her nest, shredding the thing into confetti with bared, white teeth. 

Alastor watched silently as she scattered pieces across the floor, snarling under her breath as though each scrap represented some grave personal offense. She cleaned the mess as fast as she created it, her agitation sharp and palpable.

He found he couldn’t fault her for it.

Vox’s words, sentimentally wrapped as they were, felt more suffocating with each passing day. They pressed at him like a pressure building behind glass. 

And still… no letter from the King.

Not even a whisper.

Not even a rumor.

Only silence.

Only Vox.

❧

There was a child at his skirt - small fingers tugging insistently, urgently, with the mindless confidence only the very young possessed. The sound barely reached him at first, as if filtered through water.

Alastor blinked.

The world snapped into clarity.

The scent of searing fat filled the kitchen, sweet and greasy. On the stove, crisped strips of bacon curled in the pan beside a mound of soft, steaming eggs. He finished plating the meal with a careful, practiced precision, sliding the serving beside two smaller dishes prepared with delicate, comparatively smaller portions. His hand moved automatically, as though wired into a routine he did not recall learning.

A faint pull at his hem drew his eyes downward.

A child - an adorable little doe - stared up at him with wide, shimmering blue eyes. Not crimson. Not his own shade. A pale, freckled muzzle. Ears like soft red fans. Two tiny antennae sprouted from between the fluff, twitching alongside her ears as she watched him. Her scent was faintly sweet. Omega.

She looked like him.

Maman!

Her voice chimed like a plucked string -  musical and impossibly innocent.

“Mm? Is something wrong?” he heard himself reply, tone light and affectionate. Familiar in a way that made something inside him curl like burnt paper.

He wiped his hands reflexively against the apron tied around his waist. A dress. He was wearing a dress. Soft fabric brushing his knees. Bare hooves against cool tile. A spotless kitchen bathed in gentle light. He made sure it was kept immaculate. 

His palm drifted lower.

It brushed a swell beneath the fabric.

His belly.

Pregnant.

No - 

No. No. Impossible.

The world around him shimmered like a heat mirage. It was Vox’s penthouse… but altered, seasoned by time. Polished floors. Updated décor. Walls softened by framed photographs. One caught his eye with horrifying clarity - a family portrait.

Himself seated primly, smiling that docile little smile Omegas were trained to perfect. Two children at his side, both with hints of him and Vox mingled in their faces. And behind them, Vox stood tall and proud, one hand resting on the back of Alastor’s chair, the other resting on their older daughter’s shoulder. The perfect family. The perfect picture.

His breath stuttered.

This was wrong. All of this was wrong.

He blinked hard. His pupils shrank sharply - retching into pinpricks within the red of his eyes as something cold crawled down his spine.

Where was he?

Why was he here?

He turned slowly, frantically, searching for the cracks - any hint of distortion, any sign that this was a trick, a hallucination, a - … 

The child tugged harder, little fingers digging into the fabric as her anxiety rose.

“Maman? Maman?”

Shut up. Shut the fuck up. 

The word stabbed through him like a rusted blade.

He stared at her. Really stared. And the room seemed to tilt.

This wasn’t real. This couldn’t be real. 

He would never - this couldn’t be his fucking life. 

His chest tightened. His throat constricted as if a rope had been slipped around it.

No. Nononono - 

He stumbled backward, legs buckling. The kitchen blurred. The light fractured. The child’s hand slipped from his skirt as he collapsed onto his knees, breath shuddering out of him in a strangled sob he didn’t recognize as his own.

The room wavered.

Reality twisted.

His heart hammered against the cage of his ribs as the edges of the vision began to dissolve - and still, that small blue-eyed girl watched him with innocent worry.

“Maman…?”

Get away from me. 

Alastor’s hands dug into the floor.

And the world cracked open.

❧

Niffty was there when he finally tore himself free from the nightmare.

He woke with a violent, choking inhale - body jerking as if ripped from deep water. The world slammed back into focus in fractured pieces. His breath hitched, sharp and ragged, each gasp scraping his throat raw. Before he could stop himself, he curled inward on instinct, limbs folding in tight, as if trying to protect organs that were no longer under threat. The panic didn’t abate. It only tightened - rage and terror snarling together until they became indistinguishable.

A strangled sound clawed its way out of him. His teeth ground together hard enough to ache. His fingers dug into his own arms. His pulse shattered against his skin.

The dream clung to him like wet cloth.

But then - soft murmurs. A gentle weight on the mattress. Tiny fingers threading carefully into his disheveled mane, combing through with heartbreaking patience. Niffty’s presence seeped into the chaos before he fully recognized her scent. So wonderfully clean and unobtrusive. Familiar, like the faint glow of a candle in a pitch-dark room.

Her scent wrapped gently around him. 

“Alastor… shh…” she whispered, voice small but steady. “It’s okay. You’re okay. You’re here. You’re safe with me. You hear me? Safe.”

He blinked hard, vision swimming. His ears flattened, trembling. And when his gaze finally lifted to hers he felt the tension in his chest splinter. His eyes were wet. Embarrassingly so. But there was no judgement present in her gaze. Only a loving warmth. 

Instead, she repositioned herself with quiet care, guiding him until his head rested against her tiny lap. Her fingers resumed their steady passes through his hair, smoothing the tangles as if tending a frightened animal. She didn’t ask questions. Didn’t pry. Her touch was the anchor he couldn't reach on his own.

His arms moved without conscious thought, wrapping around her small frame - not possessive, but desperate. Clutching. Needing the contact like a creature clinging to driftwood in a storm.

Niffty cooed soft reassurances, her voice warm and gently rhythmic, easing past the jagged edges of his breathing.

“There you go,” she murmured. “Just breathe for me. I’ve got you. I’m right here.”

And for a moment - just a moment - Alastor allowed himself to sink into her comfort. To let the nightmare’s residue drain away in trembling breaths. To be seen like this - so small and weak - and held anyway.

It was humiliating.

It was necessary.

It was the first time since the castle that he’d let anyone properly touch him without calculation.

And he clung to her as though the nightmare might return if he dared loosen his grip.

❧

He didn’t bother with sleep for what remained of the night. The very idea of closing his eyes again - of risking even a moment’s return to that manufactured domestic horror - was enough to make bile rise in his throat. Every time he blinked, he saw them: the little hands tugging on his skirt, the portrait on the wall, the weight of a life not chosen but carved for him. A life that could be waiting if he played his role too well. Or not well enough. Or simply lost control of the smallest variable.

The vision clung to him like dried blood. A future sculpted from everything he hated. Everything that threatened to devour him.

So he sat, cigarette in hand, having fled to the back step.

The dawnless hour was mercifully quiet. The hellish insects chittered in soft, discordant rhythms - wrong but steady, and somehow comforting in their own wretched way. If he closed his eyes, just for a moment, he could pretend the sound was mundane. Crickets instead of twisted, many-legged crawlers. Moist earth instead of scorched soil. His maman humming in the kitchen instead of the faint crackle of suffering drifting from distant streets.

He shut his eyes now, inhaling slow. The smoke curled from his nostrils. He imagined the bayou. The cool air before sunrise. The chirping of frogs. The rustle of leaves not yet eaten through by decay. He pretended, fiercely, that he wasn’t trapped in this realm of eternal consequence. Trapped in a hierarchy designed to cage him until the end of time. Trapped between Rosie’s expectations and Vox’s clinging, earnest devotion.

Perhaps this was his punishment.

One that had been throughly woven into the tapestry of his fate.

Domesticity. The stripping of identity, piece by piece, beneath layers of lace and obligation.

Perhaps Hell had crafted this for him specifically, tailored to ensure the one torment he could never claw his way free from.

His jaw clenched around the cigarette.

And then - suddenly - the insects went silent.

Not faded. Not shifted. Silenced, as though crushed beneath a heavy palm. Even Hell stayed quiet when something worse arrived.

Alastor’s ears twitched sharply, the fur along his arms prickling. Instinct pushed his eyes open.

A shadow fell across him.

The air churned with static and the sickly-sweet scent of angelic corruption. A figure approached, boasting dragon-like wings and curved horns. His masked grin was too wide. His teeth too sharp. The faint burn of warped celestial magic wrapped around him like unraveling light. Eyes glowing with a hunger that was not entirely physical.

“Hey, babe,” he crooned, voice low and dripping with amusement. “Missed ya.”

Alastor didn’t answer. Couldn’t. His chest tightened. His cigarette burned unevenly between his fingers as he stood frozen in place. 

Adam leaned in as his clawed feet touched the ground, shadows curling from his form.

“Did ya miss me?”

Chapter Text

Adam took a drag from the cigarette - Alastor’s cigarette, offered without hesitation. It was almost laughable, how natural it looked: a Fallen Angel leaning against the siding of an Omega’s little home, shoulders relaxed with smoke curling past serrated teeth. Alastor knew he should have been trembling under that burning, crimson stare. Fear should have been coiling in his gut, tightening his lungs and forcing his gaze downward.

But instead he only blinked up at him. Polite and detached. Too weary to maintain the persona he so carefully curated.

He couldn’t muster the energy to be afraid.

Not after everything.

“Ya look like shit,” Adam said bluntly, smoke trailing from the corner of his mouth. “What’s goin’ on in that pretty head of yours?”

The smoke’s scent mingled with Alastor’s own, the faintest hint of heat still clinging to him despite his best efforts to scrub it away. Adam didn’t comment on it - though Alastor saw the brief dilation of his pupils, a quiet inhale that indicated the flaring of nostrils beneath the mask. 

But instead of pouncing on the vulnerability, Adam simply waited.

So Alastor talked.

For the first time, he spoke plainly - without theatrics nor deflection. He explained the cycle, Vox’s courtship, Rosie’s interference and the suffocating implications of everything that followed. He didn’t soften the details. Adam didn’t interrupt. His silence was uncanny. His attention razor-sharp. A predator listening not to pounce - but to understand.

By the time Alastor finished, Adam was idly flicking ash off the cigarette, his expression thoughtful in a surprisingly grounded way.

“So - lemme get this straight.” He took another drag, holding it deep in his chest before letting the smoke spill past his teeth. “You’re gettin’ married off to that TV-headed freak?”

Alastor’s lips tightened.

Adam squinted at him. “Huh. Thought you were into him. You were makin’ googly eyes back at the castle. What the fuck’s changed?”

Alastor exhaled sharply, a humorless sound. “It changed when I realized just how fucked I am.”

That was the truth of it. Vox’s affection only highlighted the reality he’d been trying so desperately to ignore; he had no choices. Not meaningful ones. Not with his designation dragging behind him like a chain. His little foray into political maneuvering had only shown how narrow the path truly was.

Adam hummed low in his throat, scratching absently at his jaw. 

“I need to beg a boon from Lucifer,” Alastor murmured. “He’s my only way out of this.”

Adam snorted. “Why not just get hitched? Is he a piece of shit? Didn’t fuck ya the way ya wanted?”

The casual crudeness of the question made Alastor’s eye twitch.

“It’s not that,” he said tightly.

Adam arched a brow. “Then what? He got a tiny dick? Weird-shaped? Shoots confetti? C’mon, sweetheart - I need some entertainment.”

Alastor glared, but Adam’s grin only widened.

“I don’t want to lose myself,” Alastor said, quietly.

That wiped the smirk clean off Adam’s face. For a moment, the Fallen Angel simply watched him, crimson eyes gleaming with something unfamiliar - recognition, perhaps. Or understanding. Or pity disguised as hunger.

Then Adam leaned back, clearing the ash that settled at the cigarette’s tip with a light movement. 

“Well,” he drawled, “sounds like you’re fucked either way.”

His smile turned sharp. 

“Ever heard of the ‘Curse of Eve?’”

The question landed like a stone dropped into still water. Alastor’s breath paused in his chest. Of course he’d heard of it. Every Omega had. It whispered through old stories and cautionary tales - murmured in hushed tones by elders in the mortal world and echoed in the darker corners of Hell. Eve, the second Omega, the archetype of submission and sin, the mother of all those shackled to a weaker soul and a cyclical vulnerability.

He had dismissed it as folklore. A cruel myth designed to keep his kind obedient.

But the moment Adam said the name, something inside him recoiled as if struck.

“Yes,” Alastor answered, slowly. “I’ve… heard of her.”

Adam let out a low whistle, amused by the understatement. He flicked the spent cigarette away and crossed his arms over his broad chest, wings shifting with the motion. “Heh. You ain’t just heard of her, sweetheart. You’re livin’ the fallout.”

Alastor stiffened. “What do you mean?”

“What do you think I mean?” Adam cocked his head, eyes gleaming with that unsettling, almost cherubic malice only a Fallen Angel could manage. “Eve was the second Omega following Lilith’s fall. The chosen template. The poor bitch got saddled with the whole package after that whole shitshow -  bleedin’, breedin’, weak-as-water soul, no path to power and always dependent on whatever Alpha took her fancy. Which happened to be me.” He shrugged. “And every Omega since has inherited a piece of her punishment.”

Alastor blinked, the words sliding into him like cold needles. He felt suddenly too aware of his own body - its softness, its heat and its cyclic fragility.

“So it’s real?” he whispered.

“It’s real,” Adam replied, simply. No fanfare. No dramatics. Just the quiet truth dropped between them like a guillotine.

And somehow, that made it worse.

Alastor’s throat constricted. “And that’s why… my soul is - ”

“Weak as shit, yeah,” Adam finished for him, blunt as a hammer. “That’s why ya can’t climb. Why no Omega’s ever been an Overlord. Why you’re all fightin’ with a hand tied behind your back.” He tapped his temple. “It’s baked into your blueprint. You’re not meant to rule, babe. You’re meant to be ruled.”

The air left Alastor’s lungs in a slow, brittle exhale. Shame and fury warred within him, a volatile cocktail bubbling beneath his ribs. He had always known he was at a disadvantage. But knowing - and hearing it named aloud by a being who had once stood beside God - were two vastly different things.

A truth spoken by Heaven itself carried a weight no demon’s insult ever could.

His claws bit into the palms of his hands as they curled tightly into fists. “So every Omega is… cursed?”

Adam’s expression softened. Barely. Almost imperceptibly. “Not cursed, exactly. More like… designed.” He nudged Alastor with his shoulder, the gesture startlingly casual. “And Hell makes it worse. Everything’s amplified down here. Instinct. Heat. Power imbalances. It ain’t just biology, sweetheart - it’s metaphysical.”

Alastor’s stomach twisted.

“Wonderful,” he croaked. “So I'm an eternal soul built by Heaven and perfected by Hell.”

“Pretty much.” Adam looked bizarrely sympathetic for half a second before the wicked smile returned. “But hey, could be worse. At least you’re pretty.”

Alastor glared at him.

Adam grinned wider.

Yet beneath the banter, the truth lingered like rot beneath fresh paint:

He would never, ever be free without divine intervention.
 

And Lucifer was the only being left who could possibly rewrite what Eve had suffered and what he had inherited.

Adam must have sensed where Alastor’s thoughts went. He hummed, tapping a claw against the chin of his mask. 

“Tv-Head can’t give ya what ya want even if ya begged for it. He ain’t got the juice to change the rules. He plays by them. Just like every other Sinner and Hellborn in existence. Only the big man can manage that.” His grin sharpened. “Lucky for you… he read your letter.”

Alastor’s heart stopped.

“He did?”

Adam leaned in, voice dropping low, almost conspiratorial.

“He read it. And that’s why I’m here.”

Suddenly the night air felt suffocating.

“You’ll always be an Omega,” Adam said, voice dropping into that maddeningly casual register he used when speaking about horrors like they were chores. “Cycles, biology… that shit’s locked in. Can’t rewrite somethin’ built into the bones of Creation. And honestly?” His grin sharpened, wicked and hungry. “It’d be a tragedy if you lost that sweet cunt of yours. Bet it’s real tight. I’m still pissed that TV-Head got to split you open first. I wonder if I’ll get a turn.”

A low, lecherous chuckle escaped him. Slow and savoring, as though the mere idea painted something obscene behind his eyes. Alastor’s smile strained at the edges, but Adam only nudged him with his elbow, amused by the discomfort.

“But,” Adam continued, “your soul? That’s different. Lucifer could strengthen it. Push it past the limits that little Curse slapped on your kind. Make ya capable of keepin’ up with the big dogs - instead of barely nippin’ at their heels.”

The words landed like a flare thrown into pitch-black water.
 

Illuminating something Alastor had longed for so desperately it almost hurt to look at it straight-on.

Power. 

Autonomy.

He swallowed, the motion tight and painfully audible. “Strengthen my soul,” he echoed, tasting the impossible on his tongue. “Enough to rise? Enough to compete?”

Adam gave a single, deliberate nod. “Enough to stop bein’ prey.”

The hope that surged through him was humiliating in its intensity. It lit him from the inside, fragile and trembling, like a match struck in a storm. He had to force himself not to lean forward like a starving hound scenting food.

“What would he want?” Alastor asked, voice thin.

Adam stopped grinning.

The shift was immediate.

A rare moment where the Fallen Angel’s arrogance folded inward, replaced by something harder and unmistakably celestial. His wings gave a subtle twitch, as though something in him bristled at the gravity of the question.

“Everything,” Adam said, simply. His tone didn’t rise; it didn’t need to. The word itself felt heavy enough to bow the air between them. “Lucifer doesn’t deal in scraps. If he’s gonna rewrite the path your soul is allowed to walk? He’ll ask for somethin’ that matters.”

“Everything,” Alastor repeated, soft as prayer - or curse.

“Mm.” Adam’s gaze pinned him - a predator’s assessment mixed with something like reluctant respect. “But maybe,” he added. And the slightest edge of a smirk returned, “you can barter the price down. You’re probably good at that. You’ve already caught his eye, after all.”

A chill rippled down Alastor’s spine - not from fear of Lucifer’s attention, but from what it implied. The King of Hell remembered him. The King of Hell had read his letter. The King of Hell was considering him.

And Lucifer Morningstar did nothing without reason.

Alastor exhaled slowly, fighting to keep his voice steady. “What… exactly does ‘everything’ entail?”

Adam tilted his head back and laughed - loud, sharp and devoid of any warmth.

“That’s the fun part, babe,” he drawled. “It’s different for everyone. But whatever he takes?” He leaned in, eyes glowing like embers. “You don’t get it back.”

“I - ”

Whatever weak sound he’d tried to form withered as Adam lifted a hand, palm out, then pointed at him in one smooth, unhurried arc. The gesture was almost languid, yet it cut through Alastor’s spiraling thoughts like a blade.

“Another thing,” Adam said. His tone shifted, gaining a crispness that warned Alastor to brace himself. “Lucifer wants you to think real long and hard about this. Even if you’re ready to strike a deal right now?” He tapped his temple. “He’s not.”

That alone felt like a slap - infuriatingly paternal, infuriatingly dismissive - but Adam continued before he could react.

“But,” the Fallen Angel added, “he’s willing to grant you a small boon.”

Alastor swallowed, throat suddenly dry. “Why?”

Adam’s eyes hooded. He considered the Omega for a long, measured moment - as though deciding how honest to be. His lips curled, expression somewhere between disdain and inevitability.

“He’s not had his eyes on an Omega since that bitch-wife of his left.”

The words landed with the force of a physical blow.

Oh.

Alastor met his gaze.

“You can’t be serious.”

Alastor’s voice cracked in a way he despised. Adam only shrugged, rolling his shoulders as though he were discussing the weather rather than the King of Hell’s interest in an Omega.

“I’m just the messenger, babe.” His grin tilted, hungry and derisive. “And hey - he ain’t the worst choice. He’s a fuckin’ short stack, sure, but that don’t mean shit when you’re dealin’ with his ‘weight class’.”

“I need to speak with him, Adam,” Alastor pressed, stepping forward, voice thinning with desperation. “I need to. I don’t have time to wait for whatever game he’s playing.”

Adam’s expression snapped sharp. Gone was the lazy amusement; his lip curled into a sneer.  He closed the distance between them in a single looming stride, his shadow swallowing Alastor whole.

“Fix that face,” Adam growled, his voice low. “And fix that fuckin’ tone while you’re at it.”

Alastor’s ears flattened, instinct curling his spine. Yet something snapped inside him - something frayed and too tired to cower. His lips peeled back, a narrow snarl cutting through his teeth. A low rumble rose from deep within his chest, thin but undeniable.

Adam stopped mid-breath.

“You didn’t.” A heartbeat. “You did.”

He barked out a laugh. 

“Did you just growl at me?” He doubled over, nearly choking with amusement. “Oh, that’s adorable. That’s fuckin’ adorable.”

The blow came instantly after the laughter died. A clean, vicious backhand that cracked against Alastor’s cheekbone. His vision burst white, his ears rang and he hit the ground hard enough to rattle bone. He barely had time to register pain before Adam towered above him, eyes gleaming with predatory approval.

“You’re an uppity bitch,” Adam said, voice low and almost fond. “I like that. But you know better. That shit should’ve been beaten outta you ages ago. Doubt that TV-headed twink-freak has the balls for it - so I’ll do both him and the King a fuckin’ favor.”

His hand reached down, fingers curling with intent - ready to clamp around Alastor’s throat. The doe’s pupils dilated at the sight. Frozen.

“No!”

The sharp, furious bark came not from Alastor, but from the blur that tore across the yard. Niffty launched herself like a thrown blade, burying her fanged mouth deep into Adam’s palm.

“Fuck!”

Adam’s roar cracked across the town. He flung his arm wildly, trying to shake the furious little Beta off, but she held on with savage determination, legs kicking as teeth dug deeper.

“Niffty - !” Alastor gasped, scrambling upright.

Adam finally dislodged her with a violent flick that sent her slamming into the ground. She skidded, but sprang up as if pulled by wires, bristling like a tiny, rabid animal. She planted herself directly in front of Alastor as he found his hooves, brandishing a kitchen knife she must’ve grabbed in her frenzy.

“Alastor’s mine,” she snarled, voice trembling but fierce. “No touch. Ever!”

Adam stared at her like she had sprouted a second head. Then his nostrils flared, the temperature around them rising.

“I’ve killed for far less than the shit you just pulled, bitch.”

Niffty lunged and Adam caught her mid-air by the throat. Her legs kicked wildly, teeth snapping at empty space as he lifted her effortlessly, fingers tightening with slow, awful deliberation. His smile stretched, hungry.

“Little pest,” he hissed. “I oughta - ”

“Adam. Adam, wait. Sire.”

Alastor staggered forward, heart clawing at his ribs. His voice cracked, raw and pleading. 

“Please - she doesn’t know any better. I beg you… don’t harm her.”

Adam paused.

Actually paused.

And Alastor dared to hope in that instant.

The cruel grin faltered as he flicked a glance at him - testing, weighing and very much amused by this new angle of control. The moment stretched thin, Alastor’s breath caught in his throat.

Adam’s grip eased. Not enough to free her. But it was enough to tease hope.

“On your knees,” he ordered.

Alastor froze. Fury flared as his jaw clenched. 

But Adam only narrowed his eyes, thumb tightening threateningly on Niffty’s windpipe.

“Now,” he growled. “Before I pop her head like a fuckin’ grape.”

Niffty’s thin, frightened whimper spurred him forward with humiliating ease. Pride cracked beneath the sound. Alastor felt himself lower - slowly, mechanically - until his knees touched the ground. Every inch downward scraped at his dignity, leaving it raw and bleeding beneath his skin. His hands hovered uselessly before settling on his thighs, trembling despite his attempt to discipline his posture. He hated how small he felt. How easy it was to fold. He hated that Adam could wring such obedience from him with so little effort.

“That's it,” Adam murmured, savoring the sight as if admiring a piece of art. “Now ain’t that a pretty sight. You’re right where you belong.”

The words slithered over him, oily and smug. They sank into him like heat soaking into bruised flesh. Before he could think, the command followed - low and bordering on conversational.

“Now apologize.”

Alastor’s permanent smile tightened, its edges trembling like a strained muscle. Something flickered behind his eyes - a quick flash of something feral - but he forced it down. 

“I apologize,” he said, voice honeyed but hollow.

Adam didn’t even pretend to accept it. His grip on Niffty tightened, the small crack of pressure making her gasp and scrabble helplessly at the air. Her legs kicked. Her tiny nails scraped at nothing. The threat simmered between them - not subtle nor was it meant to be. Alastor’s breath hitched and the world narrowed to the rising panic beneath his ribs.

He bent further, crawling his way into deeper humiliation. His hands pressed into the dirt. His forehead followed, until he felt grit scrape against his skin. A pose of subservience so complete it scraped at his spine, tugging something ancient and instinctive into stillness. 

“I apologize, Sire. Forgive me.” 

The added formality stung on his tongue, but it bought him what he needed.

Adam’s satisfaction came in a single grunt. He released Niffty without care, dropping her as if she weighed nothing. She hit the ground with a squeal but recovered instantly, scrambling over the dirt to throw herself into Alastor’s arms. He pulled her close with a desperation that belied his usual polish, curling protectively around her tiny frame as though he could shield her from what had already happened. Her trembling seeped into him, amplifying his own.

Adam watched them for a beat - two small, wounded creatures clutching each other - and something like delight flickered in his eyes. He leaned forward, letting the scent of smoke and brimstone coat the air between them. 

“Think over that boon,” he warned, voice dropping into something deeper and more dangerous. “Make it small. And be fuckin’ grateful for it.” 

He straightened, looming over them like a hanging execution blade. 

“I’ll see ya in a week. And I expect a better welcome next time. Is that understood?”

Alastor’s nod was stiff and little more than a jerking motion forced by instinct and necessity. 

“Yes, Sire,” he murmured, each syllable scraped raw.

Air rushed downward as Adam launched into the sky, a violent burst of movement that rattled the shutters and whipped dust into their faces. In a blink, he was gone - leaving the night fractured and trembling in his wake.

And for several long seconds, Alastor remained frozen on the ground. Kneeling. Holding Niffty against him as though she were the one anchoring him to the moment instead of the other way around. His chest rose and fell too quickly. 

His veins throbbed with humiliation so potent it felt like sickness. 

Chapter Text

It was almost laughable how unsurprising the news was when it finally reached him. Alastor had known it was coming, sensed it the way animals sense a storm. He didn’t flinch when Rosie pressed the official parchment into his hands, its edges crisp and its blue wax seal already half-broken from her inspection. She looked strangely muted - her usual musical lilt hollowed out into something sharper and flatter. It was the tone of a businesswoman signing off on a deal rather than a caretaker addressing her Omega.

He stood in the cramped brightness of his kitchen, staring down at the document. The elegant handwriting blurred for a moment before resolving into the words he’d dreaded and expected in equal measure.

Marriage.
 

A formal claim.

Not a temporary arrangement, not a heat partnership and not a trial. A binding contract. A transfer of ownership. A public tether. Something that would cement him not only to Vox’s side - but beneath him.

Rosie had received the request immediately after he’d been dropped off. She’d apparently reviewed Vox’s terms for hours and endorsed them with measured care over the span of weeks. Alastor saw the evidence of her deliberation in the scribbled addendums: clauses ensuring her compensation, ensuring the stability of her district and ensuring her prestige.

He had been sold.

How fucking lovely.

“I refuse,” he said, voice eerily flat. 

Rosie blinked at him as though he’d recited a children’s riddle. Something in her face shifted - an unmistakable flicker of amusement. She folded her hands neatly before her waist and waited as though indulging a tantrum.

“I refuse,” he repeated, sharper. 

This time she didn’t even pretend to take the sentiment seriously. Her painted lips pressed together before curving into a soft, pitying smile.

“Alastor, my heart,” she crooned, warm and dismissive all at once. “You never had a choice. Let’s not pretend otherwise.”

She didn’t argue nor make an attempt to soothe. She simply handed the rest of the documents over: details of the ceremony, the timing, the placement of the bond - his neck, of course; the most conspicuous and humiliating option. There would be photographers. Witnesses. A public registry. His face plastered across Hell as Vox’s mate, wife and property. Not Alastor the radio host. Not Alastor the Omega who miraculously maneuvered through impossible confines. Just another pretty ornament hanging off an Alpha’s arm.

He tore the papers to shreds.

Rosie didn’t flinch. She didn’t scold either. She simply watched, then shrugged lightly and left as though he’d merely rejected the wrong color of drapes.

Niffty cleaned up the scraps at his feet with quiet efficiency while his hands shook.

❧

Vox arrived the next day.

Alastor felt the dread coil low in his gut the moment he heard the knock. Vox stepped inside with a softness so cloying it made Alastor’s skin crawl. Concern shone from every pixelated line of his face, every tilt of his head. And Alastor hated him, briefly, for being so gentle. For looking at him like something fragile and precious.

“I heard what happened,” Vox said, stepping closer. “Rosie said you were upset.”

Upset.

As though this wasn’t conscription. As though this wasn’t the tightening of a noose.

“I don’t want to get married,” Alastor said, plainly. “I refuse your proposal.”

The words tasted like iron in his mouth, but he forced each one through . His arms were wrapped tightly around himself; he sidestepped Vox’s reaching hand, and the flinch on the Alpha’s screen was so raw it almost invited pity.

Almost.

“Alastor, honey…” Vox tried again.

“What,” Alastor snapped, so sharply the air between them seemed to crack.

Vox swallowed, visibly recalibrating. The softness in his posture didn’t vanish but it thickened - congealed into something paternal and suffocatingly certain.

“I get it,” Vox said, gently. “Commitment is scary. Marriage changes everything. But it’s the natural cycle of life.” He stepped closer, opening his arms in a grand, hopeful gesture. “You waited your whole life for the right Alpha. I can be that for you. I want to be that.”

The way he said it almost made Alastor laugh again. He’d wanted to use Vox. That was all. But Vox had twisted it into some grotesque romance.

He’d mistaken his manipulations for love.

“No, Vox,” Alastor said.

A small, brittle sigh left the Alpha. For a moment Alastor thought - hoped - he’d step back. Reconsider. Allow some breathing room. But then Vox’s expression hardened in a way that made Alastor’s stomach twist.

“Alastor, baby. Look at me.”

He didn’t. He stared at anything else - the stove, the counter and even the floor. Anywhere but that glowing, hopeful screen. The gifts he’d destroyed lingered in the back of his mind. The ashes of bouquets. The torn fabric. The shredded letters. All of it was gone. 

“Alastor.”

He still wouldn’t look.

“Alastor.”

Hands clamped around his biceps, firm and unyielding. Vox shook him - once, sharply. Not violently, but with a simmering frustration. Alastor startled, eyes widening as he finally looked up.

And Vox’s new screen loomed over him - sleeker and upgraded yet again. The Alpha had grown a little larger, he realized. 

“I’m doing what’s best for you,” Vox said, voice thick with sincerity. “You’ve been unclaimed for decades. It isn’t healthy for an Omega. That’s why you’re acting hysterical.”

Hysteria.

The misogynistic diagnosis that had plagued Omega history since the dawn of the hierarchy. The belief that Omegas grew “sick” without domesticity. That their minds frayed without an Alpha to serve as their steadfast guide. That their emotions unknotted only with marriage, breeding and obedience.

Of course Vox believed it.

It made everything easier.

Made his abrupt reversal make perfect sense.

“I’m not - ” Alastor began.

His throat locked. He looked away.

“Let me go.”

“Alastor - ”

“I said let me the fuck go.”

The grip only tightened.

“I’m doing this for you,” Vox insisted. “For us. For our future.”

Alastor laughed - sharp and cracked, a sound closer to hysteria than anything Vox imagined. When it died, he bared his teeth.

“Oh, really? How noble. How selfless. This isn’t for me and you know it.”

Vox frowned, the screen dimming slightly.

“Of course I care about how you feel.”

“Do you?” Alastor hissed, mockingly. “Do you really?”

He tried to pull free again. It was like trying to pull free of iron shackles. His Omega body was useless in comparison -  his strength a joke. The disparity was humiliating.

“Once you’re settled in,” Vox soothed, “you’ll feel better. We can start on your radio show. Get you a hobby. Some friends. And when your next cycle comes around, we can try for our first - ”

“I don’t want children,” Alastor snapped. “I never did.” 

Vox blinked, taken aback.

Then the pity returned - and it was worse than anything else.

“Of course you do, Alastor. It’s what Omegas are hardwired for.”

He felt bile rise in his throat.

“I want you to leave,” Alastor whispered, an almost imperceptible tremor present. “Let me go. And get out. There won’t be a wedding.”

Vox’s shoulders sagged, but his resolve didn’t crack. He shook his head softly, sadly, as though Alastor were simply misguided.

“I’ll give you some time to calm down,” he said, gently. “I want you involved in the planning. It’s our day, after all.”

Alastor turned away, arms crossed and jaw tight.

Vox lingered for a moment but left with a quiet click of the door.

❧

He coped the only way he knew how: by drowning himself in liquor and smoke until the world softened into something blurred and mercifully unrecognizable. The alcohol was a balm and a weapon both, scalding his throat and numbing the raw panic that gnawed at his ribs. If he drank enough - if he pushed hard enough into that chemical fog - Rosie’s patronizing smile and Vox’s tender, cloying gaze dissolved into indistinct shapes. 

Their words, their expectations and their plans for his life became ghostly murmurs. It was a relief to forget. It was the only relief left to him.

He started early, long before the sunless Hell-morning fully brightened the skyline. Breakfast became a distant, laughable concept. His first drink was his meal, bitter and cold and far more comforting than anything solid. And once he began, he didn’t stop. His belly held little more than liquor, beer or wine; his senses were soaked through with it. The familiar burn in his chest was preferable to the tightness of dread sitting there otherwise.

His collection had grown over decades. Bottles tucked away in neat rows, amassed like trophies of his long, dry patience. Now, he tore through them with abandon. 

At first he poured the drinks properly, maintaining the illusion of civility. A glass. A measured tilt. A moment’s pause before drinking. But that façade crumbled quickly. He stopped bothering with the glass entirely and drank straight from the bottle, the cool glass clinking against his teeth as he tipped back another mouthful. His body protested in small, fleeting ways - dizzy spells, the sluggish throb of his heart and joints heavy with exhaustion. But he pressed deeper into the stupor, welcoming it like an old friend.

He didn’t clean up after himself. Alastor didn’t care enough to. 

Bottles accumulated in corners, crowded countertops and rolled across the floor when nudged. Niffty cleaned them quietly, without reprimand or comment. She moved with a subdued urgency, her usual energetic bounce replaced by a gentle, careful attentiveness. She washed him when he couldn’t manage the bath alone, guided him to sit when he swayed too heavily, pressed cool cloths to his burning forehead and held his mane back when he lurched over the toilet - body wracked with tremors, the doe vomiting bile and alcohol.

She tried coaxing food past his lips. Softly worded encouragement. A plate set near his elbow. A glass of water pressed into his hand. Nothing worked. His refusal was quiet but ironclad and his stubbornness paired with intoxication made him immovable. All he wanted - all he demanded - was the bottle. The next hit of warmth. The next numbing swallow.

And his supply, tragically, was vast. He had collected too much over the years. Too many options to choose from. Too many opportunities to disappear into a haze where he didn’t have to feel anything at all.

❧

He awoke to motion. For a suspended moment he couldn’t tell if he was being carried or if the world had simply tilted under him. His mind was thick, stuffed with cotton and drowned in leftover liquor. A headache pulsed behind his eyes, aching for the only cure he trusted: another drink. His fingers twitched aimlessly, grasping for the imagined neck of a bottle that wasn’t there, expecting glass and weight and the promise of oblivion.

But instead there was only warm air and the faint creak of someone shifting him higher in their hold.

Alastor blinked. Once. Twice. One eyelid lagged behind the other, his vision swimming in and out of focus before settling, hazy and uncertain, on a familiar face hovering above him. A bright, projected smile. A cool blue glow. The silhouette of a body he knew too well.

“Vin… cent?” The name dribbled out of him, warped with confusion, tongue clumsy and thick.

Vox’s scent surrounded him - sharp, synthetic, layered with ozone and disinfectant. It pressed into Alastor’s drunken senses like a memory and a warning both.

“Let’s get you to bed, sweetheart,” Vox murmured. 

The utterance was soft. A coaxing lullaby in a voice that carried quiet possession beneath it.

Where had he been before this? The sofa. Yes - he remembered stumbling toward it with a bottle clutched to his chest, barely making it onto the cushions before everything went black. Had that been minutes ago? Hours? How long had Vox been inside his home? How had he gotten in? And why… why hadn’t Alastor noticed?

The questions never solidified. They slipped away like water through his fingers.

He felt himself being lowered onto the mattress, the bed dipping under his weight. His arms flopped uselessly at his sides, his legs heavy and slack. Vox’s hands were careful as they worked at the half-buttoned shirt clinging crookedly to Alastor’s torso. The Omega hadn’t managed to dress himself properly earlier; he hadn’t cared enough to try. Buttons were  mismatched, fabric twisted and trousers crooked on his hips.

Now those clothes were peeled away with an attentiveness that felt foreign. Ritualistic. Undeniably intimate in a way that made a faint flicker of awareness rise - and then sink again beneath the liquor fog.

“What are… you doin’… in m’house?” The words slurred together, collapsing into each other as he squinted upward. “S’posed t’-supposed t’ be…”

He couldn’t even manage outrage. His tongue felt too numb. His body too distant.

“I wanted to check on you,” Vox replied, voice hushed - as though Alastor were fragile enough to crack under louder tones. 

He set the clothing aside, folding each piece with an almost reverent precision. Then came the undergarments, slipped away with the same gentleness, as though undressing a fevered child. No wandering hands. No leering. Just… deliberate care.

A blanket settled over him. Soft and heavy.

“Go back to sleep, Alastor.”

His name was a caress. A quiet command.

Alastor blinked up at him through a haze of exhaustion and liquor, trying to tether his thoughts long enough to protest. To demand distance. To ask how Vox had gotten in and why he was being handled like something helpless. But the warmth of the bed and the dizzy swirl in his vision dragged him under too quickly.

A clawed hand drifted through his mane, smoothing it back from his face with a tenderness that made his stomach twist.

And then sleep washed over him while Vox sat beside him, still stroking his hair.

❧

The first thing he noticed was the dryness in his mouth. A vague ache behind the eyes. A lingering churn in his stomach that suggested he had been ill earlier, though he remembered very little of it. Still - he felt moderately functional, all things considered. Functional enough to shuffle into the kitchen on unsteady hooves, the faint hum of a hangover buzzing beneath his skin.

He didn’t think. He simply reached - instinct guiding his hand toward the familiar cabinet above the counter, the one he had stuffed with bottles upon bottles of liquid salvation. Wine. Whiskey. Vodka. Rum. Colorful, comforting shapes he knew by hand and scent.

He opened the cabinet.

And stopped.

Blinking once. Twice. Then leaning forward, as if his proximity might magically repopulate the space.

Nothing.

Not a single bottle. Not even a stray cork.

He stared at the empty shelves in numbed disbelief, his thoughts crawling sluggishly into comprehension like insects from under a flipped stone. That couldn’t be right. He hadn’t even touched a third of his supply and he would never clean out the cabinet - not when it was the only steady anchor he had left.

He lurched toward the refrigerator next, flinging it open with a desperate burst of hope.

Fully stocked. Everything crisp and organized. Except… except the chilled bottles were missing too.

Every bottle. Every drop. Gone.

A tremor rippled through his chest. Breathing became too tight. Too shallow.

“Niffty?” he called, voice sharp around the edges. “Niffty - ?”

Silence answered him.

His ears swiveled wildly, searching for the delicate skittering of her movements, the quick patter of her feet, the cheerful hums that normally filled every corner of the home. Nothing. Not even the whisper of dust being swept. Just a thick, unnatural quiet pressing in from all sides.

Something icy trickled down his spine.

He staggered toward the back door, legs wobbling beneath him. His hand closed around the knob and twisted - 

Or tried to.

It didn’t move. Not even a rattle.

“What the fuck is this?” he hissed.

He headed to the front door, hope shrinking with each uneven step. He grabbed the knob and twisted again. Nothing. Not stuck - immovable. He leaned in, eyes narrowing - only to realize the entire locking mechanism had been ripped out and replaced with a smooth, welded plate.

His stomach dropped.

“What the fuck is this,” he repeated, voice cracking as panic clawed higher.

He checked the windows - every one had been sealed shut. Seamless frames. Reinforced glass. Not a crack of fresh air. No give at all beneath his claws.

He moved frantically from one barrier to the next, his breath hitching. The house felt smaller with every realization, the walls gathering like teeth.

After his fifth attempt at the front door he stumbled backward as he trembled. 

And then he saw it.

A single envelope resting neatly on the dining table.

His name written across the front in Rosie’s elegant script.

He approached slowly, as though nearing a bomb. His fingers quivered violently as he slit it open, unfolding the crisp paper with dread twisting his guts.

The message was brief, polite and horrifyingly composed.

Alastor,
It’s been decided that you’ll remain on house arrest until the wedding.
Supplies will be delivered regularly.
You’re expected to eat three meals a day and maintain your health.
You will be monitored until the ceremony.
I apologize for the inconvenience, dear, but it has become increasingly clear this is the best decision for you going forward.
- Rosie

He stared at the words for a long, suspended moment. Long enough for the meaning to fully sink its teeth into him.

House arrest.

A decision made for him because he had proven - in their eyes - unable to make one for himself.

His hands crumpled the letter.

His vision tunneled. 

His claws ripped at the roots of his hair after the paper fell away. 

And then he screamed.

A raw, animal sound. A sound that split the quiet and scraped the walls. 

Chapter Text

In his head he built palaces.

Not real ones - but sprawling illusions stitched from desperation and hunger. In those fantasies he wore no collar, bore no brand and carried no designation that chained him to the bottom rung of Hell’s vast, merciless hierarchy. In those visions he was tall and monstrous; the kind of creature that bent shadows and demanded reverence. 

He pictured a life in which no Alpha could touch him without permission, where no Beta held sway over his livelihood; where power came from within rather than being stolen through careful flattery and quiet survival. He saw himself feared and respected in equal measure. 

In life the world had been primitive, but at least it had been fair. Alphas bled the same way he did. They could be lured into the bayou, separated, softened and carved apart like any other creature of flesh. They relied on strength; he relied on cunning. The battlefield had been level enough for him to stack bodies as high as he pleased.

But death had stolen even that thin equality.

In Hell, death was no escape. Nor an equalizer. Time and again he realized he could not topple what could not die. Strength here was static and unfair, cemented by soul-density and celestial lineage. 

It did not matter how clever he was - his soul was simply weaker. 

Adam’s explanation had confirmed what he suspected: a curse. Something inherited. Something ancient. Something designed to keep him small no matter what he did. Even in death, the “children of Eve” bore the mark of inferiority.

So what was this if not punishment? A tailor-made torment for an Omega who refused to be docile? A cosmic mockery of every rule he had broken in life, now returned tenfold that forced him down onto his knees?

Alastor curled deeper into himself, arms wound tight around his thin frame as he lay on his small bed. His chest rose and fell in small, trembling motions. Every exhale felt like it scraped something raw inside him.

Vox had visited earlier - of course he had. Vox drifted in and out like a well-meaning warden, always materializing when Alastor’s cage rattled too loudly. He found the deer standing at the stove, trembling and blank, staring at cold, untouched pans as though they were strange artifacts.

“Alastor, sweetheart,” Vox murmured, voice pitched warm and soothing, “when’s the last time you ate?”

Alastor had eaten, eventually - if “forcing down tasteless scraps under surveillance” counted as eating. The sausage and eggs he prepared turned to chalk on his tongue. He chewed mechanically, aware of Vox’s eyes tracking every movement, studying him the way a doctor studies a skittish patient. 

Vox didn’t sit across from him like an equal - he stood leaning against the counter, arms folded, pretending to be gentle while radiating the quiet, rigid authority of someone who believed he knew better.

“You didn’t eat yesterday either,” Vox said, softly. “Omegas need regular meals. Your body can’t handle long fasts. You’ll feel better when you eat.”

The implication was heavy and suffocating: You are emotional. You are fragile. You are unstable. Let me manage you.

Vox eventually sat beside him, taking Alastor’s hands between his own. He held them as though they were precious relics. He pressed reverent kisses to the knuckles, lips warm and lingering. It made Alastor's stomach twist.

“I’m sorry this is frightening,” Vox whispered. “But once you settle in - once you give us a chance - you’ll see you’re happier. I promise.”

Alastor remembered the toiletries lined like offerings in the bathroom. The lingerie folded lovingly into drawers. The toys hidden behind them, curated with embarrassing specificity. The empty rooms meant for children he never wanted. The picture Vox must have of their future: a polished wife, tidy home and cheerful brood.

Alastor had given him nothing in return - no nod nor a flicker of understanding. Vox didn’t punish him. He only sighed and offered a patient, loving smile. It was infuriating. Like he was scolding a frightened animal. Like he was waiting out a tantrum.

“Eternity is long,” Vox had said as he left. “We’ll figure it out together.”

In the aftermath, Alastor scrubbed himself until his skin burned, then curled into his sheets with the lights set at the dimmest possible setting; trying not to think. Trying not to feel. Trying not to imagine a future wearing Vox’s ring.

But the silence didn’t hold.

A hand settled on his thigh - warm, large and decidedly not Vox’s. Alastor blinked, disoriented, assuming at first that Vincent had returned and that he wanted another round of soft comfort or forced intimacy.

But the silhouette was wrong. Too broad. Too tall. No soft glow. Only shadow and sulfur.

His eyes snapped open.

Adam.

The Fallen Angel crouched before him, shirtless and half-shifted. His claws draped over Alastor’s thigh like a man greeting a lover. His wings cast jagged shadows on the wall and his tail curled lazily behind him. His eyes glowed faintly, not with affection but hunger. 

“Hey, beautiful,” Adam rumbled, squeezing lightly. “Told ya I’d be back in a week. Gotta say - this is a way better welcome.”

Alastor’s breath hitched, but he steadied it before fear could betray him. Niffty was gone, tucked safely away by Rosie until after the wedding - meaning he was alone with an ancient creature who could undo him within the span of an instant. 

He was aware, distantly, that the way he slept - on his side, one leg bent slightly - offered Adam an unobstructed view. Of course the Fallen Angel noticed. 

Adam lowered himself until his chin rested on Alastor’s thigh, looking up at him like a monstrous hound awaiting command. His breath warmed the Omega’s furred skin.

“Are you here to give me my boon?” Alastor asked, forcing steadiness into his tone.

“Course, babe,” Adam purred. “Among other things. If you’re down.”

The deer lifted an unimpressed brow. “Lucifer would be cross with you.”

Adam snorted. “He ain’t called dibs just yet. Leaves me plenty of time to fuck around ‘till then.”

He pressed a kiss to Alastor’s thigh - firm and deliberately slow. Alastor’s tail twitched despite himself, an involuntary reaction that Adam instantly caught.

“You could take whatever you wanted,” Alastor said, voice harsher. “If you wanted to.”

“Yeah,” Adam agreed, easily. “Could.”

But he didn’t.

Instead, he shifted the Omega onto his back with effortless strength, parting his legs as though opening a book he intended to skim at leisure. Alastor allowed the movement, muscles coiled but smart enough not to resist. Adam kissed up his thigh toward the moist heat between his legs.

“Are you going to ask what I want?” Alastor demanded.

“Oh, I’ll ask what you want,” Adam chuckled - and then his tongue unfurled. Long and sharp. It slid between Alastor’s folds without warning, earning a startled jolt from the Omega.

“That’s not what I meant,” he hissed through his teeth. “You’re impossible.”

Adam only laughed, licking his lips with obscene satisfaction.

Alastor sat up sharply, glaring down at him. “Get off my bed, Adam.”

“Fine, fine.” Adam peeled himself away with theatrical grievance. “Fuckin’ ornery bitch.”

No real heat. Just amusement despite their previous interaction. It appeared as though his mood had improved after acquiring a ‘taste’. 

Only then did Alastor fully register that Adam was naked. Entirely. And half-hard at that. 

In one blink, his clothes reappeared. His entire ensemble came back into existence. He smirked behind the mask.

“Soooo,” Adam drawled. “Let’s hear it. Whaddaya want, babe?”

Alastor rose from the bed, ignoring the predator’s gaze tracking the movement. He retrieved a robe from his closet and wrapped it around himself with methodical grace. Adam scowled, disappointed, but said nothing.

The deer crossed his legs elegantly on the bed once he sat upon its edge, robe parting just enough to tempt without offering. The Fallen Angel’s eyes flicked downward, hopeful for another glimpse.

Alastor pretended not to notice.

He breathed once, deep and steady.

“I recall you mentioning,” Alastor began slowly, claws smoothing the edge of his robe as though aligning the threads of his own resolve, “that the request must remain… small. Manageable. A favor granted without expectation of repayment.”

Adam crossed his arms over his broad chest, watching him with that half-amused, half-predatory focus that always made the air feel a shade too warm. He gave a shallow nod, chin dipping once.

“Yup,” he said, simply. “Keep it cute. Nothing world-breaking. Nothing that’ll piss off someone cosmic.”

Alastor inhaled once, steady.

Then: “I want a way to alleviate the effects of a bond.”

The Fallen Angel’s grin froze. His head cocked to one side. Then he let out a long, low whistle that tapered into something like a laugh.

“Ohhh,” Adam drawled, dragging the sound out as his eyes glittered with sharp interest. “You’re a bold little bitch, aren’t ya?”

Suddenly the air felt heavier, like the room itself understood the enormity of what Alastor had just dared to speak aloud.

Claiming in Hell was not a simple ceremonial bite or decorative scar; it was a metaphysical tether. A fusion. A yoking of souls that allowed an Alpha’s influence to sink deep into the marrow of an Omega’s being. The psychological pull alone was enough to shape moods, soften defiance and steer desires. A bond made obedience easy - even pleasant. 

And under Hell’s curse, that tether was stronger still. Sharper. Designed to keep things exactly as they were: Alphas powerful and Omegas pliant.

Adam knew all of this. 

“Y’know,” Adam mused, one clawed thumb dipping lazily along a sharpened canine, “most Omegas don’t even think to ask shit like that. Too busy dreamin’ about white picket fences and fat Hellborn poppin’ outta their cunts.”

Alastor didn’t rise to the bait. He held Adam’s gaze evenly.

“If Vox claims me,” he said, “if anyone claims me… I lose myself.” His voice remained soft, but his eyes were flint. “Not immediately. But piece by piece. And I need my mind more than I need my body.”

Adam’s grin slowly reemerged - less mocking this time, more impressed.

“Clever,” he admitted. “Smart. Means you’re still thinkin’. Good.”

Because a bond in Hell was inescapable. Alastor would be tethered to Vox. And if he ever tried to sever it? Only another Alpha could overwrite it. A chain exchanged, never broken.

Unless - 

Unless the effects could be dulled.

If he could blunt the bond’s influence Alastor could feign compliance while keeping his autonomy intact. He could smile prettily, kneel convincingly and play the perfect Omega wife while quietly plotting a way out. A way up. A way through.

It wouldn’t free him outright.

But it would buy him time - precious breathing time to puzzle out another plan. 

Adam leaned forward, his devil-red gaze pinning Alastor in place.

“That’ll work, babe,” Adam said at last, his voice dropping into a low, satisfied rumble. “That’s just right inside the parameters. Nice ‘n small. Nothing Lucifer’ll throw a fit over.”

For a heartbeat Alastor simply stared at him, the words tumbling through him like stones thrown into still water. Relief came next - a sudden, unsteady wave that loosened the iron around his ribs. His posture softened by a fraction, shoulders slumping before he caught himself and forced his spine straight again.

Then Adam moved.

The Fallen Angel stepped into his space without hesitation, the air around him crackling faintly with heat and the faint scent of burning parchment. Alastor instinctively held himself rigid, refusing to retreat as a clawed fingertip hooked beneath his chin. The touch was deceptively light, almost tender in its precision - yet undeniably dangerous.

That first night resurfaced in a flash of memory: Adam leaning over him like a living flame, grinning with too many teeth, his presence overwhelming. 

“Don’t waste it,” Adam murmured, leaning down until their foreheads almost brushed. “Boons aren’t forever. You’ve got, oh…” He clicked his tongue thoughtfully. “Fifty years at best to unfuck yourself.”

Alastor’s heart lurched.

Fifty. 

In life, fifty years was nearly an entire mortal lifetime - long enough to change careers, cities and identities. Long enough to start anew. But here? In Hell, in eternity, where centuries passed like dust through fingers?

He swallowed once, forcing down the instinctive tremble that threatened to break loose. But the calculation had already begun inside him. Fifty years of pretending. Fifty years of playing Vox’s perfect little spouse if he must. Fifty years to solidify a plan within his mind and wriggle free. 

And after or during that - the real deal. The one that might finally cost him his very soul.

He exhaled carefully, then lifted his chin just slightly, meeting Adam’s crimson gaze head-on.

“I’ll take it,” he said, steady and irrevocable. “The boon. I’ll take it.”

A wolfish grin split Adam’s face. “Knew you would.”

He leaned in, the heat of him immediate and choking, like standing too close to an inferno. His breath ghosted over Alastor’s lips - sulfur-sweet and intoxicating. His tongue flicked out, a teasing brush against the Omega’s lower lip, tasting him like he was sampling the edge of a forbidden dessert.

Then Adam claimed his mouth.

The kiss wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t even carnal in the usual sense. It was possessive -  a force of nature pressing against Alastor with the weight of something ancient and holy and ruined. Adam kissed like a creature who had watched worlds burn and survived all of them.

And beneath that onslaught, something inside Alastor snapped open.

A surge of power shot through his core as the kiss deepened, their pointed tongues tangling. Not physical pleasure but a metaphysical jolt, something deeper than flesh or nerves. His soul recoiled, then expanded, fortified as though a new lattice of steel had been woven through it. He gasped against Adam’s mouth, fingers curling hard into the bedspread as the sudden strength coursed through him. 

For the first time since arriving in Hell…

He felt less fragile.

Adam drew back so their lips hovered mere inches apart, licking his lips as though savoring the lingering taste of something exquisite.

“There,” he murmured, voice dropping to a purr. “All done. Soul’s tougher now. Bond’ll slide off you like oil on glass.”

Alastor breathed unevenly, trying to gather himself - his mind, his dignity and the remnants of his composure. The echo of Adam’s touch still pulsed through his soul in warm, terrifying waves.

“Was it worth the kiss?” Adam asked with a smirk.

Alastor - lightly trembling - narrowed his eyes. The man’s taste remained upon his lips. 

“I suppose I’ll find out,” he said, voice rough around the edges.

Adam laughed, uttering his next words directly into Alastor’s ear. 

“You will, babe,” he promised. “Oh, you will.”

“Adam?” 

“Yeah?” 

“Please remove your hand from my ass.” 

A discontented grumble as a grasping claw retracts with obvious reluctance. 

“Fine. Fuckin’ bitch…” 

Chapter Text

He was permitted outside only for the most humiliating of reasons: fittings.
 

A brief, heavily monitored reprieve from his confinement, all so he could be paraded through the threshold of a “charming” bridal establishment that smelled faintly of perfume and powdered sugar. Everything inside gleamed - silk on mannequins, lace draped over polished tables and soft lighting meant to flatter every curve and shadow.

It made his stomach twist.

Rosie accompanied him, of course. It was tradition, after all. An Omega’s guardian selected their garments, approved their presentation and curated their transformation into an ornament fit for public display. She moved through the shop like she owned it, her heels clicking with that easy authority Alastor had once admired.

Now it only made him feel small.

There were far too many options. Bolts of fabric in every shade of crimson, cuts designed to flatter soft curves and silhouettes meant to accentuate fragility. The attendants swarmed him like brightly colored birds, fluttering around the raised platform where they made him stand. He was instructed to lift his arms, turn his hips, angle his shoulders this way - no, that way - step into this, hold still, tilt your head and don’t fidget.

The doe obeyed, but only mechanically. His movements smooth but empty, his expressions practiced but hollow.

Rosie circled the platform with a critical eye, fingers grazing the finely-tailored suit. 

“You look lovely, Alastor,” she cooed, clasping her hands together. “You already did, of course. But - my, oh my - Vox is going to fall over himself when he sees you.”

He didn’t answer.

Instead, he stared at the mirror. At the creature reflected back at him.
 

The suit was exquisite - if one could even call it a suit at all. A hyper-feminized mockery of masculine tailoring. The jacket nipped aggressively at his waist, flaring at the hips in a shape closer to a corseted gown than proper formalwear. The trousers were slim to the point of delicacy, tapered to accentuate the softness of his thighs rather than conceal it. 

A sheer lace underlayer peeked from beneath the lapels, cut low enough to reveal the delicate line of his collarbones. His fur had been brushed smooth, his hair arranged in soft curls that framed his face and made his features appear even gentler - like a doll dressed up for an audience.

Exactly what they wanted him to be.

His smile - his eternal, carved-on smile - remained fixed in place. 

But his eyes betrayed him.

They’re flat and utterly devoid of warmth.

He watched his reflection and felt nothing but a deep, hollow ache - like staring at a wax figure that bore his shape but none of his substance. A figure meant to be dressed, displayed, photographed and claimed. 

A bride.

A possession.

Rosie touched his arm lightly, unaware - or uncaring - of the quiet horror unfurling beneath his skin.

“Chin up, darling,” she said, sweetly. “Weddings are joyous occasions. It’s your special day.”

His claws dug into his palms. The tips digging painfully into his flesh.

❧

Vox insisted on touching him.

 Every visit began the same way: a too-warm smile, a searching, hungry gaze and then the soft click of the door being secured behind him by whatever hidden mechanism prevented Alastor from ever seeing the outside unescorted. It was ritualistic in a way, predictable enough to be maddening.

 Before Alastor could even greet him, Vox’s hands were already on him, guiding him toward the sofa with a gentleness that felt like velvet stretched over iron. Arms circled his waist, drawing him close so their scents mingled, Vox inhaling deeply as though savoring something he already considered his.

There was no need for coyness anymore. Their union had already been consummated in heat and instinct, which Vox treated as a precedent for further intimacy. His touches were casual now, proprietary, as though they’d slipped into a marriage without either of them acknowledging it aloud. 

Alastor tolerated it with the ease of a practiced performer, even as his mind wandered to happier memories - bloodier memories, truthfully. It was a pity poison wouldn’t work on Vox. Omegas had a long, storied history of silencing their husbands with beautifully laced meals; the public lovingly dubbed them Belladonnas. Alastor had always admired the elegance of their method, even if he himself preferred the intimacy of a blade and the way a face twisted in perfect, final horror.

“Alastor?”

“Hm?” He blinked, dragging himself back from the pleasant nostalgia of murder.

Vox brushed his thumb against the doe’s cheek, searching his eyes as though he could excavate thoughts from them. “I wanted to ask how your trip into town went. I heard you picked something out.”

Picked. How charmingly incorrect. Rosie had made the selections while he stood there like a blank mannequin, nodding when prompted. But voicing that would only earn him more restrictions, so he offered the expected answer. A soft murmur about the outing being fine. About the garment fitting well. About it being… appropriate.

Vox lit up at the response - glowing, quite literally. His screen brightened with pleased static and he pulled Alastor a little closer, as though the Omega’s willingness to speak was a sign of progress. Alastor felt his false ease being misinterpreted; Vox saw it as submission softening into contentment, as though the deer were finally starting to “settle” under his gentle, corrective guidance.

The Alpha pressed their foreheads together, voice lowering into something that aimed for tender but landed somewhere between patronizing and possessive. He believed that once he marked Alastor properly, everything would fall neatly into place. The Omega would calm and stop resisting all the things that frightened him now. He’d become pliant, affectionate and eager to bear children. 

After all, Vox reasoned, that was an Omega’s natural fulfillment. That was biology. That was destiny.

“I can’t wait to see you in what you chose,” Vox murmured. “You’ll look perfect, honey. And once the wedding’s done… everything will feel easier. You’ll feel more like yourself.”

Yourself. Meaning the version of him Vox had constructed in his head.

Vox’s hand drifted down to Alastor’s abdomen in a way that made bile crawl up the deer’s throat. The Alpha wasn’t subtle about his hopes. His fantasies. His plans for the future.

“I keep imagining our children,” he confessed, eyes softening with nauseating sincerity. “Little ones with your ears and my smile. Hellborn who could do what neither of us ever could. Who could go beyond Pride. Wherever they wanted. A legacy.”

He squeezed Alastor gently, lovingly, as though the doe were already incubating that future.

Alastor smiled back with blank eyes. 

❧

His hooves struck the grimy pavement in a frantic rhythm, sharp clacks swallowed by the din of the city. It happened so fast that he barely registered the moment of opportunity before he seized it. Vox had stepped out of the limousine first, momentarily disappearing into the confines of a luxurious building. The driver, an imp who had grown too accustomed to seeing the docile, subdued version of Alastor, relaxed his guard for half a heartbeat. A single slip. A single lapse.

And Alastor was gone.

He tore himself out of the backseat with all the pent-up desperation of a cornered animal finally scenting a crack in its cage. His breath came in thin, painful gasps. Uncomfortably constricted by the obscene corset that hugged his ribs. His hands clawed at the long skirt Vox had demanded he wear - omegan and humiliating in every stitched detail - as he bolted across the pavement and ducked into the first alleyway he could find.

The moment he was out of sight, he ripped at the blouse. The delicate fabric split easily beneath his claws. Buttons flew. Seams tore apart like paper. He yanked it down his arms and cast it into the filth of the alley floor without a second thought. The corset bit into his waist, a relic of every shitty tradition forced upon those of his designation.

That too was cast aside with a terrible ferocity behind each action. 

He slammed a palm against the wall, coughing as rain mixed with the sweat of panic. The cold droplets stung against the fur of his exposed torso, chilling him instantly - but he drank the feeling greedily because it wasn’t controlled. It wasn’t curated or chosen for him. It was something wild, something real.

“Fuck you, Vox,” he hissed, his voice cracking with strain. 

Finally - finally - he could breathe. The kind of breath that rattled free of performance and pretenses. The kind of breath that carried who he truly was beneath the suffocating layers of lace and expectation. He curled his fingers into the skirt next, gathering the heavy fabric in a fist. The thing weighed him down, tripped his steps and tried to pull him back toward the life being forced upon him.

He bared his teeth at it and ran anyway.

The rain grew heavier. Cold pinpricks drummed into his shoulders and slid down the carved lines of his chest. He didn’t care. Didn’t think. His legs moved before thought could catch up, muscles coiling and releasing as instinct guided him down the dark stretch of alley and out onto the next street.

Faces turned as he sprinted past - strangers gawking at the spectacle of a disheveled Omega in a scandalous state of dress tearing through Hell’s grime-stained streets. His scent bled distress, broadcasting his panic into the air whether he wanted it to or not. Heads swiveled. Eyes followed. Some curious, some pitying and others hungry.

He kept running.

And running.

His breath tore raw at his throat. His heart hammered too hard against the bone. Rain plastered his mane against his skull, droplets streaming down his cheeks and jaw like tears he refused to shed.

❧

“Hey. You alright?”

The voice cut through the rain like a knife dragged through silk— husky and unmistakably grounded in the physical world Alastor was trying so desperately to disappear into.

He flinched.

He hadn’t even realized someone had approached. His focus had been tunneled inward, folded tight around the panic locked in his ribs. He was curled against the damp brick, knees drawn sharply to his chest, the ruined skirt pooling in soggy folds beneath him. The alley itself reeked of stagnant water and rotting trash, muggy with the kind of wet warmth that clung uncomfortably to fur.

Slowly his eyes lifted.

A Sinner crouched a few feet away, careful not to crowd him. Feline in silhouette. Sharp, triangular ears. A long, sleek tail trailing through the grime behind him. His face was  white, narrow and angular, shadowed by the dim streetlight flickering somewhere above. But it was his scent that reached Alastor first. 

Beta.

His rigid muscles loosened by a fraction.

“Leave me be,” Alastor said, voice flat and scraped thin around the edges. It wasn’t even hostility - just exhaustion given shape.

The stranger didn’t back away. But he didn’t press forward either. He just hovered in that careful crouch, claws visible and posture open. Not challenging. Not approaching. Simply existing nearby in the way only Betas could. 

“C’mon now,” the Beta murmured, his tone softening further. “It’s alright. I’m not lookin’ to bother you. Seen your type before.” A dry, sympathetic quirk pulled at the corner of his muzzle. “You on the run?”

Alastor stiffened.

That question was a blade. 

His gaze flicked past the feline’s shoulder, scanning the mouth of the alleyway. The blurred silhouettes passing beyond. The possibility of escape. The possibility of being seen. His breath stuttered as he tried to draw a proper inhale; a strange, identifiable constriction binding his lungs. 

Suspicion snapped sharply through him, clearing the fog of distress just enough for instinct to kick in.

He shifted, the movement small but tense, readying himself to bolt if the stranger made a single wrong move.

The Beta noticed.

“Easy,” he soothed quickly, palms lifting in a gesture of surrender. “Didn’t mean anything by it. Just… you look like you’ve been through hell. And we’re already in Hell, so that says something.”

Alastor stared sharply at him - unblinking, hollow-eyed. A hunted creature perched on the precipice between collapse and violence.

He said nothing.

The Beta didn’t flinch from the scrutiny. Didn’t leer. Didn’t sniff the air or reach for him in that way Alphas inevitably did. He simply sighed, the sound genuine and weary.

“You want me to go,” he said, quietly. “I’ll go.”

He rose slowly, giving Alastor every chance to react, watching for even the smallest sign of fear or aggression. The Omega’s claws dug into the ruined skirt, ready to bolt.

A small, traitorous part of him - buried deep beneath layers of pride, calculation  and the brittle armor of survival - wanted to call after the Beta. To reach out. To scramble to his knees and drag himself toward the one of the few creatures who hadn’t looked at him like a possession waiting to be reclaimed. To beg for assistance in a way he had never allowed himself to before.

But that urge died a quiet, pathetic death the moment it surfaced.

To reach out would have meant exposing the raw underbelly of his helplessness. To plead would reduce him to a trembling fawn groveling in the mud - teary-eyed and utterly pitiful. He could already imagine how the words would taste in his mouth. It made something ancient and stubborn inside him clamp shut around his throat.

So he said nothing.

The feline lingered for one final heartbeat - eyes soft with a sympathy that felt almost alien in this city - before taking another cautious step back. And then another. Alastor’s gaze tracked him instinctively, following the silhouette as it retreated toward the mouth of the alley.

Then he was gone.

Just like that.

Leaving behind the sound of rain.

And the echo of Alastor’s silence.

He was alone again.

Truly alone.

A wet shiver crawled down his spine as he pressed tighter against the wall, the cold bricks biting through the damp fur along his back. His breath fogged faintly in the alley’s half-light.

❧

“Let go of me, you misogynistic, abhorrent - !”

“Alastor!”

“I hope you choke on those abominable undergarments you delude yourself into thinking I’d wear for you!”

“Ala - ”

“Fuck you!”

He barely made it halfway through the next insult before he was seized by the upper arm and thrown into the back of the limousine he’d only just escaped. His shoulder slammed against the leather seating, pain sparking down the limb Vox had wrenched so violently. His breath hitched, fury sharpening into something feral as he scrambled, trying to twist away.

He didn’t get far.

Vox descended on him like a storm given shape, the polished projection of his face hardened into something sharp and unyielding. The Alpha’s grip had been merciless in the midst of extraction from the alleyway, fingers having dug into the soft flesh of Alastor’s arm with none of the tenderness he had shown prior. Outside, the imp driver held the door open with a look of pure, bone-deep terror. Fully aware he was witnessing something he should never acknowledge.

The door slammed shut behind them with a finality that made Alastor’s gut go cold.

His escape was over.

“Do you realize,” Vox hissed, leaning in and crowding the Omega without hesitation, “the danger you put yourself in? How many people saw you running around looking the way you did? Like some runaway whore?”

The word ‘whore’ was deliberate. A punishment. A caging slur meant to snap him back into line.

Alastor’s smile sharpened into a blade.

“Jealous, Vincent?” he crooned, voice dripping with venomous sweetness. “I wouldn’t blame anyone for making assumptions about my availability. I’ve always enjoyed an audience. You should know as much.”

The flicker of outrage that crossed Vox’s screen was beautiful - too brief to savor, but bright and gratifying. The Alpha reached for him again, claws curling around his wrist, no doubt ready to drag him into submission with brute force.

He never made contact.

Alastor’s hoof shot forward in a clean, savage kick - slamming dead center into Vox’s screen. The impact left a thin spider-crack skittering across the projection surface. Not enough damage to cripple the tech, but enough to make the image glitch violently. Vox’s voice distorted into a warbling snarl as his sensors scrambled to recalibrate.

Alastor didn’t waste the opening. He lunged.

For a moment he was the very thing he used to be. A proper predator. A creature meant to be feared. Teeth bared, claws raking across the sleek paneling of Vox’s head, shredding the polished veneer. He sank his nails into metal casings, not caring if it did minimal damage and not caring about consequences. Rage drove him.

He managed to get his mouth on Vox’s shoulder, fangs dragging against the synthetic flesh. 

And then - 

Agony.

White, blinding agony.

Electricity tore through him in a violent surge, his body arching involuntarily as every muscle seized at once. His breath punched out of him in a strangled cry. His limbs locked, spasming, his claws twitching uselessly against Vox’s chest as the voltage ravaged his nerves.

He collapsed backward onto the seat, the air ripped from his lungs in stuttered bursts.

Alastor continued to shake violently as Vox’s gaze snapped back into existence, his look harsh and unpitying as the doe struggled to comprehend his agony. 

“We’ll be moving up the wedding date,” he announced, flatly. 

Chapter Text

Alastor hadn’t truly been present for his wedding.

Not in any way that mattered. His last clear memory was of the morning; a blur of panic and a final desperate attempt to break free of Vox’s control. He remembered the wild, animal rhythm of his hooves as he fled, driven by nothing but instinct and terror - running until his lungs burned and the corset bit deep into his ribs. 

Then the wires caught him. They snapped around his limbs, dragging him up by the wrists and ankles until his spine bowed unnaturally. Vox smoothly stepped into his field of vision and Alastor had one heartbeat to recoil as an eye became warped into something resembling a spiraling pattern. 

Then - … 

Nothing.

He opened his eyes to morning.

His skull throbbed and his vision swam. His stomach twisted as though something inside him had spoiled. A low, miserable sound escaped before he had any control over it. His pointed tongue felt thick, his mouth tasting of some cloyingly sweet wine he would never have chosen on his own. 

The air reeked of sex, heavy and unmistakable. His body ached in ways that made his skin crawl.

Another pathetic groan slipped out of him.

“Alastor?”

Vox’s voice floated through the haze.  Alastor turned his head sluggishly, blinking until the world resolved around the glowing blue frame of the Alpha’s screen.

“Vincent?” he managed, the name muffled by the cottony weight of his tongue.

He inwardly staggered at the sound of his own voice - pathetically weak and shapeless. Vox moved immediately, kneeling beside him on the mattress to help guide him into a more comfortable position. A clawed hand slid across his back, his touch meant to comfort and soothe. 

“You’re just sick from the hypnosis,” Vox murmured. “It’ll fade soon. You were under for quite a while. Your brain is still adjusting.”

Alastor curled in on himself, arms wrapping around his torso as a shiver passed through him. The sensation of his own body felt unfamiliar. Like the limbs he boasted belonged to someone else. He squeezed his eyes shut and forced out a quiet, trembling “okay,” because resistance felt impossible in that moment. 

Vox’s hand followed the curve of his spine in gentle circles, coaxing his breathing back into rhythm.

❧

He had never experienced Vox’s full ability before. The aftermath was worse than the blackout. His memories returned in broken, incomprehensible slivers. The wedding itself existed only in photographs and video clips Vox showed him afterward, beaming with pride like a groom eager to relive the magic.

Alastor watched the recordings in horrified silence.

He saw himself smiling brightly. A perfect Omega hell-bride with an adoring gleam in his eyes. He saw Rosie handing him over as though he were a prized possession, her painted smile radiant with approval. Unfamiliar guests applauded with gusto, all bearing witness to his greatest shame. 

It was a nightmare.

He stared down now at the ring on his finger. A silver band woven with shimmering red and blue gemstones that glinted under the ambient lights of the penthouse. 

He didn’t dare try to pull it off.

Shock hollowed him out from the inside, leaving a cavern where his voice should have been. Vox didn’t seem disturbed by his silence; if anything, he treated him with an infuriating level of patience. The lights in the penthouse were dimmed to a gentle glow. His chores were reduced to nothing. A maid delivered his meals with soft steps and softer words in the days that followed.

All of it was carefully curated.

And all of it designed to ease him into his new role.

This was meant to be his new life.

Vox called it their “honeymoon period” - a chance for him to rest and adjust at his own pace. Alastor could only stare blankly at the immaculate rooms and at the life he’d been forced into while unconscious. He would not return to the home he’d shared with Niffty. He would never again wake to the quiet rhythm of Cannibal Town or enjoy the small, precious routines he’d carved out over decades of stubborn independence.

That life was over.

What remained was this.

Whatever the fuck this was.

The thought alone made him retch.

And retch he did - occasionally kneeling over the toilet with violent convulsions as meals he’d forced down made its way back up. His entire frame shook, tears burning at the corners of his eyes. He felt stripped raw from the inside out.

A steady hand rubbed circles between his shoulder blades.

“It’s alright, sweetheart,” Vox whispered, soothingly. “Let it out. I’ve got you.”

Alastor collapsed sideways once the heaving stopped, too exhausted to resist the arms that caught him. Too dazed to fight the gentle pull back into Vox’s embrace.

❧

Vox had been patient - impeccably so. Almost saintly in his attentiveness. He handled Alastor as though he were spun from brittle glass rather than flesh and bone wrapped around a damned soul. It would have been romantic, perhaps, if it hadn’t involved the slow suffocation of someone stripped of choice.

The penthouse was vast enough to be called a home, though Alastor understood immediately that it was a gilded enclosure. A territory meant to keep him in, not welcome him out. The windows stretched from floor to ceiling, showcasing the sprawling hellish skyline. From the sofa where he spent most of his waking hours, the city glowed like a burning wound. 

He lounged there now, head resting against a cushion, eyes half-lidded and unfocused. Vox had granted him wine. Not the harder liquor he preferred, but a few glasses of red scattered throughout the day. 

“To settle your nerves,” Vox had said.

A gentle reminder hung beneath it: You nearly drank yourself into oblivion. We can’t have that again, sweetheart.

So Alastor savored what he was given. Not greedily - not in an obvious way, at least. He knew better than to display want too plainly. Instead he swirled each mouthful, watched it coat the inside of the glass like blood and drank with a quiet reverence. It was a ritual that soothed him. 

His daily schedule was loose enough to feel benevolent, but tight enough to remind him who dictated the shape of his days. Meals were strict. Breakfast precisely at eight. Lunch at noon. Dinner at six. He did not eat alone - not even once. Vox insisted they dine together, perched across one another at the immaculate kitchen island like a proper couple. 

“Shared meals build intimacy,” he’d said.

For Alastor, they meant one thing: another sanctioned glass of wine.

He hid the flicker of anticipation each time Vox casually uncorked a bottle and prepped the glasses. Obvious eagerness for some a sweet toxin was unbecoming of an Omega, after all. He kept his movements delicate, his gratitude mild and his gaze soft. 

Vox seemed pleased. So very pleased.

After dinner, they would migrate to the bedroom. Not always for sex - Vox claimed he wanted Alastor “rested,” “comfortable” and “settled in their new life.” Often, the Alpha simply wanted the Omega beside him. He wanted  Alastor to willingly curl against his chest while he stroked his hair and whispered sweet assurances against his temple.

Alastor complied, of course. 

He minded his husband. Just as good Omegas were expected to. He kept his voice soft and his smiles convincingly warm. A slow, subtle easing into the role that Vox must have believed was progress. As if Alastor were gradually settling into place and  adjusting as nature intended.

❧

They were having guests.

Vox announced it with the kind of restrained excitement he reserved for business dealings he genuinely looked forward to. A merger, he’d said - mutually beneficial, which in Vox’s vocabulary meant there would be no bloodshed. Only signatures and champagne. As he spoke, Alastor slipped the man’s suit jacket from his shoulders with practiced automaticity. His claws moved with precision, hanging the garment neatly over his arm while Vox gestured animatedly with his free hand.

Alastor nodded at the appropriate places. Made small hums to show he was listening. Forced his body to remain present even as his mind drifted in soft, dissociative waves. Guests meant distraction. Faces he did not know. A change in the suffocating rhythm of days that blurred endlessly together. It would be a relief - however brief - to not drown solely in Vox’s attention.

He had been allowed out recently, though always under supervision. Polite outings arranged like curated displays: tea with Niffty and Rosie under watchful eyes, brief strolls through managed streets so he could “get some fresh air,” dinners in opulent restaurants filled with Overlords and high-ranking Alphas and Betas. Vox never drifted far from his side. Never let go of his hand for more than a breath.

His wardrobe had changed, too. Vox liked them coordinated - the red to his blue. Softness to his sharpness. Feminine lines to highlight the masculinity of his own silhouette. A living contrast. A matched set. Alastor was expected to embody the Omega ideal standing at the Alpha’s side, and so the closets swelled with delicate suits tailored just to emphasize his narrow waist, his long legs, his exotic fur and hooves.

And naturally, so came the vanity.

A towering structure of polished glass and lacquered wood, filled with creams, powders, brushes, perfumes - everything an obedient Omega might need to maintain a flawless domestic image. At first he’d only stared at it, mildly horrified. Then the lessons began.

A tutor had been hired. A stern, humorless imp with hair pulled so tightly that it made her temples glow. She taught him how to starch collars. How to pleat a bedsheet. The correct angle to fold towels. The proper way to mend a hem. The subtleties of makeup application to keep his appearance “fresh” even after hours of housework.

Because the maid was being phased out.

Alastor was expected to take her place.

To prepare the meals.

Scrub the floors.

Wash and iron the clothes.

Dust every corner.

Polish the furniture.

Maintain the penthouse as a pristine reflection of Vox’s status.

He felt a strange tightness in his chest every time he picked up a broom. 

He was suffocating and yet expected to smile prettily as he drowned.

❧

He felt like he loved Vox.

Occasionally.

Maybe. 

Not in the real sense. Not in the free sense. But in the warped, sickly way proximity can distort anything. Vox cared for him. Truly cared. He doted. Hovered. Ensured Alastor never wanted for anything - except freedom.

He gave gifts. Thoughtful ones. Personalized. Things only someone who studied him obsessively could have known he liked.

When Vox had presented him with a vintage-style radio - sleek, elegant and reminiscent of the exact era Alastor had died in - something small and rotten inside him had twisted. The kind of twisting that felt dangerously close to warmth.

“I thought you’d like it,” Vox had said, smiling sheepishly and placing the radio into his hands as if offering a piece of his own heart.

Sometimes Alastor looked into those glowing blue eyes and saw sincerity. Worship. A love so earnest it made something in the Omega shrivel up in confusion and disgust. And yet, some traitorous part of him curled toward it like moth to flame. Because it was easier to lie back and play the role fate had written for him. Even if for a moment. 

So he turned on the radio as he dusted his husband’s immaculate home for the umpteenth time. Committing to the repetitive motion.
 

Jazz crackled through the penthouse.

An achingly familiar sound. 

And Alastor, for a fleeting moment, almost pretended he wasn’t suffocating.

❧

“Ah, the photographs and videos don’t compare to witnessing such beauty in person.”

Alastor felt the familiar brush of lips against his knuckles - soft and lingering a moment longer than politeness allowed. The Sinner before him was tall and willowy, his presence decadent in a way that was unmistakably indulgent. Valentino’s elaborate attire gleamed under the penthouse lights, every stitch calculated to impress. His scent - a saccharine, intoxicating sweetness - curled in the air like a hook.

“I’m flattered,” Alastor replied, his tone silky and controlled; the perfect hostess’ mask slipping effortlessly into place.

He had been made presentable. Vox insisted upon it. The blouse was soft, the flared trousers elegant, the ruffled neckline chosen specifically to frame his markless throat like an invitation. His mane had been brushed into obedient perfection. A dusting of powder softened his features. 

“What a lovely bella you have, Vox,” Valentino crooned, voice rolling like warm smoke. “You really should show him off more.”

Valentino’s hand lingered - far too long - gloved fingers stroking along the inside of Alastor’s palm as though appraising texture and temperature. Alastor’s smile remained, but a fine strain pulled at its edges. Only when Valentino finally released him did the tension ease from his knuckles.

“Isn’t he?” Vox answered, pride winding through his voice like a ribbon. The Alpha slid an arm around Alastor’s waist, fingers settling with unerring familiarity against the curve of his hip. “He’s quite the cook.”

“Is that what I smell?” Valentino inhaled, dramatically. “I half assumed you’d had something decadent catered. But homemade? Delectable.”

Vox’s attention shifted to the silent, shapely figure at Valentino’s side. “And this must be the famous Angel Dust. Even lovelier in person.”

Angel Dust’s smile was practiced and pretty. An expression Alastor recognized all too well in Omegas who were owned. Vox took the spider’s hand and kissed it with an unnecessary ceremony, mimicking Valentino’s earlier gesture.

“Well!” Valentino clapped his hands lightly. “We shouldn’t let good food go cold. Vox, mi amigo, we have so much to discuss.”

“Indeed.”

Hospitality performed, the procession moved toward the island table. Vox had wanted a spread that impressed - something decidedly  authentic - and so Alastor had spent hours cooking. Stirring simmering pots, seasoning carefully, tasting, adjusting and perfecting each dish. By the time Valentino approached, the air was fragrant with spice and warmth.

Jambalaya, black-eyed peas, roasted potatoes, hot bread - traditional dishes laid out with meticulous care. Valentino’s bespectacled eyes lit up as he surveyed the offerings, a delighted smile creeping across his painted lips.

Once seated, Alastor poured the drinks and settled at Vox’s side, mirroring Angel Dust across the table. Valentino and Vox eased into conversation with practiced ease, discussing their merger at length and with enthusiasm. 

Angel Dust and Alastor remained silent for the length of the discussions. Neither were invited to speak. 

Alastor lifted his wine glass with a measured grace, sipping slowly and letting the alcohol bloom warm in his chest. The flavors of his own cooking danced upon his tongue, his eyes shutting momentarily to emerge himself in the depths of his earlier memories.

He scarcely noticed how Angel’s gaze lingered upon him.

❧

They worked in quiet synchronicity at the sink, as though they'd done this dance a hundred times before. Hot water hissed over porcelain; dishes clinked softly; the scent of soap mingled with the fading aroma of jambalaya. Behind them, Valentino and Vox were loud with drink - full-bodied laughter and the exaggerated bravado of satisfied Alphas.

Angel Dust nudged a plate toward Alastor with an elbow, not looking at him directly - just enough to pass as casual.

“So,” he murmured, tone light enough to be mistaken for idle chitchat, “how's married life? You havin’ a grand ol’ time playin’ ‘Mrs. Vox’?”

Alastor’s hands paused for the briefest flicker. He turned his head just slightly, enough to meet Angel’s eye. 

“Oh, yes. It’s been grand,” he said, smoothly. “Positively delightful.”

Angel snorted under his breath, the sound tiny enough to vanish into the running water. He passed Alastor a dish to dry. 

“Sure. ‘Delightful’,” Angel said. “You’ll… adjust. Valentino ain’t always easy. But he has his moments.” A shrug. “Vox doesn’t seem like the worst of ’em.”

Alastor dried the plate with slow precision. “Adjust to what, exactly?”

He already knew the answer. But he wanted to hear it spoken by someone who lived it. Someone who understood.

Angel kept his gaze on the sink, his expression bland. Anyone watching would assume he was gossiping about nothing at all.

“Life as a kept Omega,” he murmured. “It’s a dance, sugar. A real fucked-up one.”

Their hands moved in tandem, a mechanical rhythm masking the real conversation.

“You learn the steps,” Angel continued. “Learn when to spin. When to stumble on purpose. When to let ’em think they’re leadin’.”

Alastor visibly paused. He is suddenly reminded of the ballroom. Of his dance with Vox and how he led him with the illusion of the opposite. 

Angel lowered his voice to a barely audible thread. Just enough to reach Alastor’s ears, lost beneath the roar of Valentino’s laughter.

“And once they think you’re predictable?”

A small smile tugged at the spider’s lips.

“You can start makin’ your own steps. Quiet ones. Adjustments no Alpha ever notices.”

The doe’s fingers tightened ever so slightly on the towel.

Angel’s lashes flicked up. 

“Play the part,” Angel whispered. “Make ’em comfortable. Make ’em sloppy. Let ’em think they got you pegged. That’s when you really start survivin’.”

He nudged another dish toward Alastor, smiling lazily. 

“All ya gotta do…?”

A soft clink of ceramic.

“... is play the long game.”

The deer’s eyes flash with a formerly smothered light. 

Chapter Text

His life slipped into a pattern so smooth and suffocating it felt preordained. It crushed him beneath its weight, yes, but it also granted him space to think. 

Fifty years.

That number beat like a pulse behind his eyes. A half century before the boon would rot; before his soul softened enough for Vox’s future bond to seep into its cracks, rewriting him from the inside out. Fifty years until the edges of his thoughts dulled and until the small, shameful thread of affection he sometimes felt for Vox calcified into devotion.

 Fifty years until whatever made him Alastor slipped into syrupy compliance.

The moment Adam had hungrily  pressed their mouths together his fate had begun ticking down. The kiss was not just a kiss but a contract; his tongue pinned beneath another’s, his body held in a posture of surrender. A reminder of his station. His nature. And his role in this hellish world.

That he was meant to be ruled.

The boon was a miracle disguised as degradation. He clung to it with desperation. Lucifer - by way of his foul-mouthed emissary - had given him a small shield. He intended to wield it.

The first priority was simple;  he would not get pregnant.

Pregnancy was the executioner’s rope tied neatly around an Omega’s throat. A biological shackle that tightened every instinct and served as an effective distraction. It was the cleanest way to destroy him. And Vox would do everything in his power to see their union “bear fruit.” He always behaved as though their future children already existed, waiting patiently in the wings.

Every fuck during those few heat-addled days were a coin toss.

Every cycle was a loaded gun.

Those nights spent beneath Vox’s body a risk of annihilation.

He had to find a way to shut his body down. To render himself incapable of carrying anything. Contraceptives existed in Hell, but they were monitored and almost always in the hands of Alphas.

But Alastor had something most didn’t. 

He had an ally.

A friend.

❧

Angel Dust was a curiosity - an Omega who had learned to weaponize his respective constraints. A sex worker favored by Valentino, permitted to entertain only Betas and kept like a caged songbird draped in silk and diamonds. He suffered in ways similar to Alastor, but somehow managed to live lavishly in spite of those constraints. 

Or perhaps because of how skillfully he played within them.

Angel Dust was loved by the public. Favored by his owner. Endlessly useful. And sharp as a razor.

It was easy to like him.

Easier still to respect him.

They formed their friendship in stolen hours - lounging across the plush sofas of Alastor’s home, their legs curled upon the soft material as they sipped wine and traded stories. Angel brought the laughter. Alastor brought the cutting wit. 

Angel Dust understood the rules of their biology in a way Alastor respected. He moved through rooms like a weapon. His scent was a lure, his voice a tool. He made men and women kneel without lifting a single delicate finger.

“That body of yours is a weapon, Alastor,” Angel said one late evening, swirling his wine with the practiced elegance of a courtesan. “You’re smart. You already know that. It’s all we’ve got. All Hell’s lettin’ us keep. So use it. And keep usin’ it.”

Their glasses chimed gently. A soft little toast to survival.

Alastor stared into his wine - one of the glasses Vox allowed him - and watched the liquid swirl. The taste was pleasant enough. But it didn’t warm him the way whiskey had. Didn’t quiet the invasive thoughts. Didn’t drown the dread. It only dampened the worry. 

Still… it was something.

He lifted it delicately and took a slow, contemplative sip. Letting the warmth spread as it settled within his belly. 

Angel Dust leaned back, one leg draped over the other, smiling with that knowing softness Omegas saved only for their own kind.

“We’re gonna get you through this, sugar,” he said. “One way or another.”

❧

It took time - days of idle chatter, weeks of shared wine and months of letting Angel Dust read between the lines - but eventually Alastor managed to steer their conversations toward the subject he needed most. Contraceptives. That forbidden, precious lifeline hidden within Hell’s highest strata.

They existed, of course. Omegas with wealthy mates used them freely. Upper-ring brothels stocked them out of necessity. But the means of acquiring them was another matter entirely. Production was limited. Distribution was tightly monitored. And access rested almost exclusively in the hands of Alphas.

It was disgusting, really, how neatly the system reinforced itself.

Still, he remembered them from life. Small, chalky pills that tasted like stale bitterness. They dulled instinct, quieted the body and prevented cycles from turning into children. They had worked beautifully when they had been utilized to dull his prior heat. And Alastor had clung to that memory now like a lifeline.

Angel Dust noticed his shift in interest with remarkable speed.

They sat curled together on Alastor’s sofa, wine glasses in hand, the faint hum of the penthouse’s hidden electronics thrumming beneath the floorboards. They were “alone,” but both Omegas knew better. Vox’s home did not permit privacy - only the illusion of it.

Angel tilted his head, lashes lowering as he caught the subtle strain in Alastor’s tone and the way his eyes lingered a beat too long on a passing mention of heat cycles or domestic expectations. The spider’s expression finally softened with understanding.

But he didn’t acknowledge it directly - not here.

Not with the walls listening.

Instead he leaned close, adopting that coy, salacious tone Omega courtesans used when telling a scandalous bedroom story. Something vulgar enough to distract and harmless enough to dismiss. His voice dropped into a whisper brightened by false humor.

“I know a guy,” Angel said, smirking like he was about to describe a lover’s technique rather than a lifeline. “Real hush-hush. Valentino’s got… connections. Some of the other girls also pick up extra supplies to prevent any oopsies with their Alpha clients. I could snag somethin’ along the way. Help ya out. Ain’t nothin’ to swipe a pill or two.”

To anyone listening, it sounded like incomprehensible  filth - like gossip. The volume too low to pick up the words. 

To Alastor, it was salvation being offered. 

A surge of relief slammed into him so hard he nearly cracked his glass in his grip. But he forced himself still, forced his breath even and forced his face to hold the lazy, indulgent amusement expected of a pampered Omega sharing “naughty secrets” over wine.

He mirrored Angel Dust perfectly - tilting his head, lowering his voice and letting a little teasing lilt coat his syllables.

“Mm,” he murmured. “Now that would be very much appreciated, my dear. A little supply of my very own - carefully tucked away out of sight and out of the minds of those who need not be concerned.”

Angel tittered - a bright, airy giggle so flawlessly performed it could have fooled even the sharpest of Overlords. To a recording device, it meant nothing. To Alastor, it was a promise.

A secret pact made between caged creatures.

Angel leaned in, brushing their shoulders together as though sharing another sinful joke. 

“Just say the word, sugar,” he murmured, softly. “And I’ll make sure you stay as pretty and un-knocked-up as the day ya died.”

Alastor released a quiet laugh. Light and airy. Convincingly thoughtless in quality. 

And played along.

❧

His cycle loomed several months ahead, an inevitability marked in immaculate blue ink upon the calendar mounted on their kitchen wall. 

Vox crossed off each day with the quiet satisfaction. 

Alastor often caught him drifting through the unused rooms – those wide, echoing spaces he clearly imagined filled with soft pastels and plush furniture. The Alpha’s excitement was palpable. 

Meals followed their usual rhythm: Vox’s business ventures, the newest mergers and the small victories and growing empire. But he always took time to inquire about Alastor’s day. Alastor had - as far as Vox could see - blossomed into the ideal homemaker. The penthouse gleamed. His attire was always pressed and impeccable. Meals were carefully seasoned, beautifully plated and served with a smile that Vox read as contentment. 

A dream on the cusp of solidifying into reality. 

Once a child filled Alastor’s arms, the dream would no longer be just that. 

Alastor took a delicate sip of his wine, savoring its warmth before letting his expression brighten with a carefully practiced spark of inspiration.

“I was pondering that lovely little idea you mentioned,” he began, voice light. “The one about hosting a radio program. The thought’s been dancing around in my head ever since.”

Vox made a thoughtful hum, attention sharpening in a way that encouraged Alastor to continue.

“I do think it would be marvelous, Vincent.” The doe leaned forward, eyes warm with sincerity. “A charming hobby - nothing too demanding. Something to engage my mind, keep me vibrant. A cheerful voice on the airwaves.”

He watched Vox’s expression with carefully measured anticipation. There was a momentary pause and then - 

“That sounds like a wonderful idea, love,” Vox said at last, smiling with genuine pleasure. “We’ve needed someone lively and appealing on-air. Someone with personality.”

Alastor’s face lit up beautifully - ears tilted upright, eyes shining, lips lifting into a bright and delighted grin. 

“Oh, Vincent, you’re truly too kind - ”

“But,” Vox added smoothly, pointedly interrupting his wife. 

Alastor’s shoulders dipped -  just a fraction -  before he offered a small nod of graceful acquiescence. 

“Of course, Vincent. I’m all ears.”

He took another sip of wine to steady his nerves. The taste was familiar, grounding and a reminder of the careful balance he needed to maintain.

“I want you working no more than two… perhaps three hours a day,” Vox said. “A hobby - nothing more. I don’t want you exhausting yourself or becoming distracted. Your focus should be…” His smile softened. “Elsewhere.”

Elsewhere. 

Alastor did not falter. He let none of that inner ache show. Instead he widened his smile and reached across the table to place a clawed hand atop Vox’s.

“Of course, Vincent. I understand perfectly.”

A flutter of lashes. A slight leaning forward that conveyed warmth and appreciation in equal measure. 

 “Thank you. Truly. You’re wonderfully thoughtful.”

❧

Those precious little pills were passed with a conspirator’s grace. Angel Dust never made a show of it. The exchanges happened in casual motions, never lingering long enough to draw suspicion. A pill slipped from the seam of a sleeve, pinched between two spindly fingers as though he were merely plucking lint. 

Another pulled from the deep fluff of his chest fur with a theatrical flourish that masked its significance. Sometimes from the line of a stocking. Sometimes beneath a frill. Always hidden in plain sight. Always done with an easy smile.

Alastor accepted them with the same calm artistry, fingers closing around each one with careful nonchalance. One by one, little pieces of salvation accumulated in his possession. He never kept them all in one place - that would have been foolish beyond measure. Instead he scattered them across the penthouse like breadcrumbs of rebellion. 

Small caches hidden in places Vox would never examine with intention: slipped between the pages of a dull book he pretended to enjoy, tucked into the lining of a decorative pillow or even wedged behind the dusty base of an unused lamp. Innocuous spots. Nothing secretive enough to arouse curiosity nor anything valuable enough to invite scrutiny.

He reminded himself constantly where each one was kept; reciting it mentally like a matra. Every exchange with Angel Dust made his pulse spike. Each time the spider left, Alastor braced for discovery - for Vox to appear in the doorway with that charming, terrible smile upon his flat face and a quiet question as he loomed over him: What did Angel give you?

He feared Valentino might know. Feared the cameras might catch something. Feared the wrong maid might overhear the wrong tone.

But no one said a word.
 

No alarms were raised.
 

No suspicion, no inquiry and no sign that his small act of treason had been noticed.

The relief was dizzying.

Those tiny pills were a quiet declaration of ownership over his own body. A quiet refusal. A whispered promise that motherhood would not be forced upon him like another lock on his gilded cage.

If he stretched his supply he could last for years. Perhaps decades, if he was clever. And he was clever. Vox would eventually notice, of course; the man was many things, but not oblivious. But suspicion was not proof and Alastor planned to give him nothing concrete to grasp at. 

He practiced shy smiles when Vox spoke of nurseries. He made soft, thoughtful noises when the Alpha mused about names. He folded blankets with delicate care, as though preparing for something he quietly accepted. He feigned contemplation. He feigned softness.

And Vox, blinded by hope and love and ego, mistook it for progress.

Still… the dream returned sometimes. That horrible vision of domestic bliss. A kitchen bathed in warm light, the scent of breakfast and the tug of a child calling him maman. A swollen belly beneath his hands. A portrait hung proudly on the wall depicting a family that he didn’t want. 

Something bright and soft and feverish; a nightmare dressed in beautiful lace.

It lingered behind his eyes, refusing to fade.

And beneath it all - wrapped in fear and fury and determination -  Alastor clung to his small rebellion. 

Those tiny pills hidden throughout the penthouse like seeds. 

❧

Life leading up to his next cycle wasn’t terrible.  That alone eased the tight coil of panic that had lived in his chest for months. His days fell into a predictable rhythm and predictability was a balm he clutched like a lifeline. He rose, ate, cleaned, served and smiled. He played the part of the well-kept Omega with such delicate precision that Vox relaxed his guard. 

Just enough. Just a hair.

And with that sliver of freedom came a miracle. 

He returned to the radio booth.

How blissful it was to slip back into that cramped little room with freshly refurbished equipment prepped to greet him. To lower himself into a comfortable seat, flick the mic on and feel the warm thrumming hum bloom through his bones. Speaking into that microphone, he rediscovered a joy he’d thought death had stripped from him. 

His voice rose bright and sharp and mischievous. He slipped back into the role as though he’d merely stepped out for a moment - not for decades.

The formerly incredulous staff became startled witnesses to his resurgence. He wove banter with practiced ease, his humor smooth as honey and twice as intoxicating. His timing was effortless. His charm was undeniable. Within days, he had callers. Within weeks, he had a following.

Listeners adored him.

And Vox… Vox was astonished. The Overlord had expected a hobbyist’s effort - something quaint and sweet and small. Instead, Alastor carved out a space of his own, commanding the airwaves with confidence that undercut the narrative of frailty Vox insisted upon.

The radio and the television - paired and contrasted - became Hell’s favorite joke and its favorite novelty. Vox’s Omega, the little red darling, taking the industry by storm. They found it adorable. 

And Alastor?

He found the attention intoxicating.

It was small, but it was his.

As he rode that momentum home one evening, Rosie’s voice slithered back from memory. Her tone that day had shifted into something almost ceremonial, as though reciting scripture.

“Omegas,” she had lectured, “were sculpted by divine design to serve as companions. To provide comfort and continuation. You are creatures best seen and rarely heard.”

She had said it with such certainty and such gentle pity.

And Alastor had bowed his head as expected and submitted to her judgement - her outright denial of his potential.

But remembering it now, he felt a dark, warm bloom of satisfaction unfurl in his chest.

Rarely heard, she’d said.

And yet Hell listened to him every afternoon.

Chapter Text

The pill protected him for a full cycle. 

It should protect him for a full cycle. 

One small disc of bitter salvation meant an entire month’s safety - as long as he took it a few days before his menses. Alastor had marked the timing with the same precision he once used for plotting murders, but the sight of the calendar still unsettled him. 

The red-tipped days loomed like execution dates; each crossed square felt like the slow drum of marching boots. A countdown to a sentencing. 

He took the pill the moment Vox left. The Alpha had pressed a cheerful kiss to his cheek before departing, humming about meetings and a “very special weekend.” His screen flickered with warm anticipation - anticipation for the bond and for the moment Alastor’s vulnerability would be weaponized into permanence. 

A clean imprint of possession carved into his core. A mark that, once set in a body softened by heat, would let Vox’s voice slip through him like a hook through silk.

For an Alpha, it promised a proper union. 

For an Omega, it meant unraveling. Instincts turning in on themselves like a strangling vine.

Alastor refused to accept that fate.

The boon should help him. Would help him.

He kept his expression soft and serene as he prepared his hair at the vanity. His reflection bent slightly as he leaned in… and discreetly slipped the pill into his mouth. A mere flick of fingers, barely a breath’s worth of movement. He swallowed it dry, letting the bitterness cling to his tongue as it slipped.

He’d take a small sip of the half-finished glass of wine he had poured during breakfast. 

He welcomed the brief numbness as it slipped down his gullet. 

❧

Vox kept his distance this time.

After Alastor’s previous outburst during the start of his cycle, the Alpha seemed to finally understand that encroaching on him during the bleeding phase was not only foolish but dangerous. 

They slept separately now. 

When the first rush of warmth bloomed between his thighs, Alastor sagged in muted relief that the penthouse was empty. No screen hovering at the door. No soothing voice attempting to comfort him. He endured it alone.

The ache, the irritability, the rawness in body and mind… none of it was eased by solitude, but at least he didn’t have to perform.

He drank more than he should have. 

Cup after cup, savoring the dull heat that spread lazily through his limbs as he swayed upon his hooves. The reprimand would come eventually, but he didn’t care. The wine eased the cramps gnawing at his belly, softened the ache in his back and blunted the irritation simmering just beneath his skin.

The flow was moderate. Thicker than he liked, but tolerable. Blood clung stubbornly to his fur, staining the inner curve of his thighs in streaks that smelled metallic and humiliating. He washed himself morning and night, scrubbing until the water ran clear and his skin beneath the fur throbbed from the friction.

It was a miserable business, as always.

But this time he could endure it with a secret sense of victory.

And for now… that was enough.

❧

As the sharp, twisting pain finally began to ebb, something new crept in. Slow at first. A sweetness unfurled inside him, spreading from the base of his spine to his belly in soft, molten waves. His muscles unclenched one by one, his breath stuttering as the familiar heat settled into his bones.

He tried to hold onto his worries. 

To grip them like a lifeline. His mind circled the same frantic question:

Would the pill work?

Would that bitter little disc truly be enough to keep his body from surrendering to instinct? Would those chemicals really stifle the ancient machinery of his flesh? Prevent the cycle from becoming feast and trap, from coaxing his womb open?

He repeated the doubt like a mantra.

Would it work? Would it work? Would it work - 

But the heat swelled, thick and syrupy, drowning the edges of his thoughts. His skin felt too warm and sensitive beneath his fur. His thighs pressed together instinctively, the slightest shift sending an involuntary shiver up his spine. 

His breath grew shallow. The room dimmed around him. The ache between his legs, once a dull warning, blossomed into a deep, insistent throb.

His anxiety clung stubbornly for another moment. It was one last frantic flutter of rationality.

And then the haze swept over him completely.

That soft, treacherous pleasure carved its way through every corner of his mind, smoothing sharp thoughts into gentle curves. The fear didn’t vanish - but it became muffled under the hormonal tide. His heart beat hard against his ribs, not from panic but from a need his body insisted upon with humiliating clarity.

The concern remained, a whisper beneath the roar of instinct.

Would the pill hold?

He couldn’t think clearly anymore. The haze wouldn’t allow it. It wrapped around his mind like velvet, coaxing him to surrender.

❧

Alastor had only been dozing - hovering at the edge of sleep, wrapped in a haze that softened every thought and slowed every breath. Heat made his skin feel too warm beneath his fur, every inch of him humming with a deep, instinctive ache.

 He lay sprawled across the sheets - bare and restless -  chasing relief in little shifts of his hips and shallow breaths that did nothing to cool him. His scent hung thick in the air, heavy with sweetness and spice. 

The soft creak of the bedroom door made his ears twitch.

Vox stepped inside with deliberate care, as though approaching a wild creature prone to lashing out. But the moment the scent hit him, his expression transformed. Tentative restraint melted into an eager, burning brightness. He was visibly excited. 

Alastor pushed himself onto his elbows, slow and languid. He looked back over his shoulder, pupils wide and shining and his breath deep and slow. His body shifted in a small, instinctual movement - one he would have never consciously allowed if he were in his right mind. 

His tail gave a soft, playful flick; drawing unignorable attention to the curve of his rear and the sheen of arousal that clung to his thighs. The scent in the air deepened, thickening like syrup, making even his own head spin.

Vox stripped quickly - not gracefully, but with a near-frantic urgency - and the weight of his body settled over Alastor’s back, warm and solid and utterly certain in its dominance. 

The blunt head of the Alpha’s cock teased down the slick seam of his cunt, gliding over folds made pliant by instinct and need. Strong hands repositioned him with practiced ease, lifting his hips, spreading his legs and arranging him into an offering he could not deny. 

A beast in heat. A trembling, eager creature meant to be mounted.

And Vox reveled in it.

Sex between them had always been serviceable. Alastor had tolerated it, performed when required and given Vox enough to satisfy his ego without ever surrendering anything of himself. There had always been distance, a cool detachment behind those eyes. 

Vox had learned to pull him out with force - harsh thrusts, demanding touches and some well-timed strike of pleasure that snapped him briefly into the present.

But this… this was different. This version of Alastor was soft and pliant, instinct-washed and trembling with an unsurpressed want. 

“I love you, Alastor,” Vox murmured, voice transforming into a low, vibrating growl as he pushed inside. “So much.”

Alastor’s breath hitched. His back arched beautifully. A helpless sound slipped from him.

“Vincent…”

The name left him sweetly, warmly and Vox seemed to glow at the sound.

❧

Later, Vox rested against the headboard, watching with unabashed hunger as Alastor rode him. His claws gripped the Alpha’s shoulders for balance, his body rising and sinking in smooth, shuddery motions that made slick sounds against the sheets. Vox guided him with slow squeezes of his hips, savoring every tremor in the Omega’s thighs as pleasure overtook him.

Vox’s gaze drifted to his neck - the soft column exposed in each backward lean, glistening faintly with heat. His instinct sharpened there, teeth aching with the need to claim and to end any ambiguity forever. 

It was the perfect moment. The second day. The scent at its peak, practically clinging to Vox’s tongue each time he breathed in.

Without warning, Vox dragged him close.

Alastor startled with a small gasp, inches from climax, his cunt squeezing down around the thick length inside him. And then Vox struck. His teeth sank into Alastor’s neck with a force that wiped thought clean from his mind.

The scream that tore from Alastor’s throat was wild - split between pleasure and agonizing pain as his orgasm broke violently through him. His entire body convulsed, locked in a trembling arc while Vox held him pinned, keeping him flush and unmoving as thick, heavy waves of seed emptied deep inside him. 

It felt endless. 

Vox licked at the wound with warm, glowing saliva, sealing the bite as Alastor collapsed backward. Vox followed his fall without letting their bodies separate, as though refusing to give an inch of space. 

Tears streamed freely down the Omega’s face, his body shaking with the aftershocks of overstimulation and the piercing burn of the mark.

The Alpha naturally assumes it’s entirely due to discomfort.

“It’s okay, sweetheart,” Vox murmured, stroking his cheek with tender claws. “I know it hurts. I know.”

The soothing tone only made the tears fall harder.

❧

Afterward, Vox tended to him with an unsettlingly soft devotion. He cleaned his body with warm cloths, whispering gentle reassurance as if the tenderness could erase the brutality. He changed the sheets, dressed the wound and wrapped his neck in fresh white bandages that he checked with obsessive frequency.

Alastor drifted through the days that followed in a fog. His body was sore everywhere, pulsing with a phantom ache. His mind was tender and loose. Thoughts slipping in and out like they were dripping through cracks in his skull. 

Vox coaxed him into eating soft foods, small bites taken under the warm weight of the Alpha’s praise. He encouraged rest, dimmed the lights and  provided comfort with a confidence that made Alastor feel sick to his core as clarity gradually returned to him. 

At some point, through the haze, the bone-deep truth settled:

He was marked.

Vox’s voice lilted with real satisfaction when he said it:

“You’re mine now.”

❧

Alastor blinked at his reflection. The wound had healed quickly, leaving behind a clean, unmistakable mark etched into the curve of his neck. A claim visible from across a room. 

He is suddenly reminded of the Omegas that had crowded around him in the Morningstar Castle. Their marks visible. 

And now he boasted his very own brand. 

He lifted his hand and let his claws drift over the scarred skin with cautious delicacy, tracing the raised edges and experiencing the faint throb of lingering tenderness. It was still warm beneath his touch, as if Vox’s teeth had only just left him.

His palm shifted downward, settling over the flat plane of his belly. He held it there and pressed lightly. The bitter memory of the pill returned, sharp and metallic upon his tongue. 

It will hold, he told himself.

He convinced himself of this fact.

His fingers curled slightly, gripping the thin fabric covering his abdomen.

He didn’t hear Vox right away. Only when broad hands slid over his shoulders did he still. His reflection shifted as Vox stepped closer, looming over him with that quiet, overwhelming presence that now felt amplified in the aftermath of the claim. The Alpha’s projected face appeared just beside his own in the mirror, smiling with unmistakable pride. 

He is reminded of the portrait. Of that portrait that persisted within the realm of nightmarish fantasy. 

“Look at you,” Vox murmured, his voice a low hum. “Perfect.”

Alastor’s stomach twisted.

He forced his expression to soften, drawing the edges of his smile into something that passed as fondness. He lifted his gaze to meet Vox’s through the mirror. His eyes gleamed with the practiced sweetness he had learned to weaponize long before his death.

“Vincent,” he replied, his tone airy. “You always say the kindest things.”

Vox’s hands tightened fractionally on his shoulders, pleased. 

Alastor kept smiling.

Because the pill would hold.

Or -...

He didn’t let himself finish the thought.

He simply leaned into Vox’s touch with a show of open relish. 

“Shall we get you dressed for the day?” Vox asked, softly.

Alastor nodded.

Chapter Text

He feared that the boon had been a joke. 

A cruel, cosmic prank laid at his feet by a King who amused himself with dangling false hope. Lucifer was a liar by legend, a trickster by nature and the architect of endless bargains that unraveled precisely when one dared to rely on them. 

And so every single morning, Alastor woke with the terror that he had been played for a fool. That the supposed safeguard woven into his soul was nothing more than a whispered dream offered by an indifferent god.

Those thoughts haunted him.

After each interaction with Vox - every sweet word he returned and every obedient gesture - he retreated into himself, dissecting the moment. Was that him? Was it genuine? Had a thread of the bond tugged him? Had something within him tilted and softened in ways he hadn’t chosen?

He scrutinized himself so viciously he gave himself headaches.

But every time he finished his inspection, he found the same truth waiting for him.

He still felt like himself.

The mark was the only thing that suggested otherwise. It sat on his neck like an accusation. When he stood before the mirror each morning and night, it was the first thing his eyes sought. They returned to it with the compulsive habit of a tongue finding a sore tooth, even when it ached. He lifted his claws to prod at it again and again, needing the reassurance of pain to confirm its reality.

He wanted to peel it off, sometimes. And rip the flesh anew - replacing the mark entirely with his own. 

It was a visceral thought but it flickered across his mind with disturbing regularity.

Eventually Vox had had to catch his wrist mid-reach, stilling the claws with a firm but gentle grip, his voice smoothing into that patient chastisement that made Alastor’s skin crawl.

“Baby, stop picking. You’ll irritate it.”

And Alastor obeyed. 

But his clawtips still twitched every time he caught sight of the scar.

That fear intertwined with the greater, heavier one; pregnancy. The dread that knotted itself in his belly each morning and refused to unravel. Vox had filled him repeatedly during the cycle, as though trying to pour a future into him through sheer physical insistence. 

Alastor had cleaned himself so many times he had rubbed his inner thighs raw, but nothing changed the memory of it. The sensation of being full during such a precarious time. The fear that something inside him might be quietly knitting itself into existence.

He was tempted to take another pill early. 

To swallow one of his precious stolen lifelines as a safeguard. But they were finite. He couldn’t afford to waste even one.

So he waited.

Every morning he woke stiff and trembling, eyes shooting open to the same ceiling of Vox’s penthouse. Vox’s arm was a heavy band around his waist, his screen dimmed to black except for animated little floating “z’s” in a shade of pale blue. The man slept so peacefully that Alastor felt obscene for lying motionless in his grip, breathing shallow and fast as he scanned his body for signs of change.

But there was nothing. His stomach sat flat beneath his palm. His limbs trembled only with nerves, not illness. His scent was the same, if a little bitter with anxiety. His throat loosened with cautious relief - relief that often  evaporated just as quickly as it came.

Because he didn't know what pregnancy felt like. 

A few days after his heat had passed, he approached Vox with careful politeness, asking for “educational reading material” about the subject. Vox, delighted by the implication, had practically materialized a small library for him by midday. 

Medical texts, guidebooks, illustrated pamphlets and even historical accounts of Omega biology and gestation.

Alastor had forced himself to go through them all after he completed his daily chores. 

He’d sat curled on the sofa with a blanket wrapped around his legs, flipping page after page while his stomach twisted. He studied diagrams of wombs and placentas with detached revulsion. He memorized lists of early symptoms - morning nausea, chest tenderness in those more mammalian-presenting, changes in scent and disrupted sleep. 

He traced the timelines illustrated in printed ink, imagining himself plotted out along those curved lines like livestock being monitored through a breeding season. 

And when he finally closed the last book, his claws left tiny crescents of pressure on the cover.

He breathed out slowly.

He wasn’t showing signs.

For now. 

❧

Vox had taken away his wine.

He’d opened the cabinet with a cheerful hum, plucked out each bottle that Alastor had come to rely on and tucked them neatly into a locked, reinforced drawer beneath the kitchen counter. A place Alastor could not access, not without making a scene. Not without making himself look ungrateful or unstable.

Alastor stood there as it happened, his hands curling slowly into his palms until his claws bit against the soft pads. His smile stayed in place but it had the strained quality of a mask pulled too tight. Vox noticed the flicker of tension but interpreted it only as sadness, an Omega’s innocent dependence on vice to cope. So he cupped Alastor’s cheek, murmured reassurances amd kissed his temple as though soothing some mild inconvenience rather than stripping him of the only reprieve he had left.

“Just temporary, love,” Vox said. “You need to keep your body clean for the baby. It’s what’s best for both of you.”

Both of you.

Alastor nearly retched.

When the Alpha finally disappeared into his office, Alastor stood alone in the kitchen, staring at the locked drawer. His breath trembled out of him. He knew better than to try the handle, even experimentally. Vox might have cameras hidden or microphones built into the walls. Technology permeated every inch of this place. Even the air felt wired.

So he turned away and made do with what he had left.

His homemade lemonade.

He mixed it in quiet, controlled motions. The rhythm soothed him in a way. He poured himself a glass and lifted it to his lips, closing his eyes as he let the sourness burn across his tongue. He swallowed, imagining that the bitterness had the coppery sting of wine - that a numbness was spreading and a comfortable haze was settling within his mind.

It was pathetic.

But it was all he had.

That, and the radio.

The radio booth was still a sanctuary, the one place where he could force his voice into shape and pretend he was still the person he’d designed himself to be. Behind the microphone, with the warm buzz of feedback and the comforting glow of the “LIVE” indicator, he could lie to the world with ease. 

His cadence flowed smooth and  confident - everything he no longer felt in his own home. There he could imagine that his body was not betraying him. That something wasn’t quietly rooting itself into his womb, growing by the day and weakening him and siphoning away what little future he might have carved for himself.

The thought hollowed him out from the inside.

He pressed a hand to his abdomen sometimes, when no one was watching, feeling nothing but a flat plane of fur and flesh - yet imagining something monstrous curled beneath it, drinking his strength and stitching its existence into his bones. 

And so he sat at his booth, his voice light and warm as honey over the airwaves, smiling through the words. 

❧

The test revealed the truth.

Nothing.

For a moment Alastor simply stared at the small stick resting between his trembling fingers. It was negative. 

The fragile little symbol might as well have been divine intervention. 

His whole body sagged, a violent tremor rippling through him as relief crashed over his nerves in a tidal wave so heavy his knees nearly buckled.

The pill had worked.

It had fucking worked.

He folded in on himself where he sat on the closed toilet lid, arms wrapping around his torso as though trying to hold his insides in place. He pressed his forehead to his knees, breathing through the last shards of panic and the last horrible images of a swollen belly and ruined autonomy. His claws dug into his shins. His pulse throbbed in his throat.

Relief. 

Pure and all-consuming. 

The moment shattered the second he heard knuckles rap gently against the bathroom door. Vox’s voice filtered through the wood, bright with that hopeful lilt he had tried so hard not to dread. 

“Alastor? Sweetheart? Everything alright in there?”

The Omega jolted as though struck. His heart slammed against his ribs, breath caught high in his chest. Quickly he scrambled upright, depositing the test upon the nearest counter. He tugged on his embarrassingly lacy panties with clumsy, shaking hands; wincing as the fabric snapped back against his hips. He smoothed his skirt down over them, trying to tame the tremor working its way through his limbs.

He could not emerge triumphant.

He had to emerge convincingly fragile.

He crossed to the mirror and closely examined his too-perfect reflection. He forced himself to inhale, then gave his head a fierce shake, mussing the careful waves Vox adored. He blinked rapidly until moisture gathered at the corners of his eyes. 

Not enough to weep, not enough to seem irrational - just enough to look like a marked Omega shaken by possibility and desperate not to disappoint.

He softened his mouth, lowered his ears and tilted his head just so.

Perfect.

Believable.

A creature anxious to please.

“Alastor?” Vox called again, concern edging upward.

The doe opened the door.

And as soon as he crossed the threshold he let his knees loosen, collapsing forward with a quiet, trembling sound straight into Vox’s waiting arms. The Alpha caught him instantly, hands warm and firm against his waist and back, concern blooming across the glow of his screen.

“Baby? What’s wrong? Talk to me.”

Alastor buried his face against his husband’s chest, letting his breath hitch delicately - just enough to sell the performance. He trembled, letting Vox feel the shiver, letting him think it was fear of inadequacy. 

Just an Omega needing comfort from his mate.

And Vox, thoroughly convinced, held him tighter, murmuring soft reassurances into his hair as Alastor closed his eyes and exhaled one last silent, shaking breath of genuine relief.

❧

Alastor secretly savored Vox’s disappointment like a prime cut of decadent, savory meat. He hid it well but inside, something bright and vicious unfurled. Vox’s grand timeline, his meticulous plans for their “family,” for their “future,” had been pushed back by an entire year. 

A whole blessed, merciful year.

Thank fuck.

Vox had held him close in the aftermath of the “news,” petting his hair in gentle sweeps, offering reassurances as though soothing a wounded animal. He spoke with such tenderness as he promised Alastor that they’d try again next year. That this setback only gave them more time to prepare. He pressed kisses to Alastor’s temple, his utterances soft and whispered against his ear.

Alastor nodded through it all. Even offered a tremulous little smile. He played the part beautifully.

But behind that mask, he thought only of the pills tucked away in their little hiding places. Those tiny life preservers scattered through drawers, jars, pockets, and boxes like seeds of rebellion. Each small tablet bought him another year. Each year stacked into years. And those years into decades.

Freedom was not a single act. It was a long game - a patient one -  and Alastor could play patience better than any Alpha who had ever tried to own him.

Decades.

He could all but taste them.

And as Vox kissed his forehead and whispered lovingly about next year’s attempts, Alastor lowered his eyes and hid the spark of triumph blazing quietly within him.

❧

Angel Dust arrived that afternoon with a theatrical flourish, hips swaying and lashes fluttering, but beneath all the glitter was a very deliberate softness. 

Vox had “helpfully” informed him of the bad news, clearly hoping a friendly Omega presence might soothe Alastor’s supposed heartbreak. And so, with the Overlord gone for the day and the penthouse filled with the soft hum of hidden cameras, Angel stepped in, voice honey-thick.

“Oh, honey,” he breathed, dramatic and lilting, “I heard.”

His approach was slow and calculated. His performance tailored for any eyes watching from vents or light fixtures or whatever clever little things Vox had wired into the walls. A gentle hand touched Alastor’s cheek, tilting his face upward. 

Angel’s gaze was tender in a way that read perfectly for surveillance: sympathetic, encouraging and full of shared longing for what they both “wanted.”

But his eyes. 

His eyes told a different story entirely.

“It happens,” Angel Dust soothed, thumb brushing Alastor’s cheek as though wiping away nonexistent tears. “Ain’t no shame in it. Sometimes it don’t take the first time, or even the second. All ya gotta do is keep trying.” 

His voice dipped into a comforting purr, but the faintest edge of mirth curled at the corner of his mouth.

Alastor let himself be pulled into the embrace, arms wrapping around the spider’s narrow waist. He felt Angel’s scent settle around him - sweet and powdery - and he nuzzled in just enough to sell the image. His head rested on Angel’s shoulder, face turned just enough for the cameras to capture his supposed vulnerability.

Soft hands framed his face, drawing him back so Angel could study him. Angel’s expression flickered into something small and triumphant. A glint of private satisfaction disguised as empathy.

“There ya go,” Angel whispered, audible for the mics, “just breathe. You’re gonna be okay, sugar. Vox’ll take good care of ya.”

Alastor responded with a tremulous, grateful little gaze - the perfect Omega engaging in the perfect display of shared comfort.

But his eyes glinted.

A razor-thin smile curled at Angel’s lips. To a casual observer, it was sweetness. Sympathetic warmth. Nothing more.

But between them?

It was victory.

A well-timed move in a carefully choreographed waltz.

A pair of predators momentarily wrapped in lace and softness. Baring just a hint of their teeth for one another, hidden in the shadow of an embrace.

A single beat of shared triumph.

Then Angel brushed his thumbs over Alastor’s cheeks again, sighing dramatically for the cameras. 

“C’mon, gorgeous,” he cooed, drawing him close, “let’s get you cleaned up. How about a bit of a drink to calm the nerves?”

Alastor’s quiet laugh hid the sharp, bright amusement that flickered deep in his chest.

“That would be lovely.” 

The wine cabinet had been unlocked following the news, after all. 

A year bought.

And two Omegas smiling like angels as they celebrated it under the watchful eye of Hell.

Chapter Text

Thirty years later…

Hell was unrecognizable.

It had always been a living thing, but three decades had enforced a transformation that felt deliberate. The skyline sprawled higher, its architecture shedding old infernal aesthetics in favor of modern silhouettes that mirrored the living world. Skyscrapers rose and entire districts had been gutted and rebuilt to suit the trends of each new era.

Nothing in Hell stayed stagnant.

Except, perhaps, its inhabitants.

For Alastor, the passage of time had felt less like a journey and more like the slow drip of water in a prison cell. Thirty years under Vox’s shadow had carved grooves into his existence, each day blending seamlessly into the next until the years accumulated like sediment.

His role as Vox’s wife had hardly changed at first. The early years were painfully tight and suffocating in their monotony; the rigid schedules, the expectations and the forced domestic tasks that grated against every rebellious bone in his body. 

But even Hell evolved and society with it. A cultural shift had swept through Overlord circles. It was slow, halting progress toward a more “modern” view of Omega roles. Nothing revolutionary, but enough to trickle down into their personal life.

And Vox, ever obsessed with modernization, had embraced these changes in the way he embraced all trends; eagerly, performatively and with an annoying degree of pride.

The penthouse had been gutted twice over, rebuilt into something sleek and glimmering. A live-in housemaid eventually took over Alastor’s domestic duties. Not because Vox believed it beneath him, but because high society had begun to value an Omega’s “mental well-being” and “personal development” as desirable accessories for their Alpha husbands and wives. 

Image mattered. 

Progress mattered.

And Vox was a creature who adored appearing progressive.

He still expected obedience, of course. Still made decisions before consulting him. Still treated him as something precious and breakable. But his grip had loosened enough for Alastor to slip a few claws free. 

There were privileges now - outings and evenings where he could wander small sections of the city with supervision. His radio career, once a novelty, had grown into something resembling genuine work. People knew his voice. Admired it. Asked when he would return to the booth if he vanished for more than a week.

He remained under Vox’s thumb. 

That fact had never changed.

But at least the thumb no longer smothered him.

He could breathe some days. Not deeply. Not freely. But enough to pretend. Enough to feel the air move through his lungs without choking him.

And yet he still woke some mornings, staring at the ceiling of a penthouse he never asked for, wondering when true freedom would stop existing as a distant, unreachable fantasy.

For now he gritted his teeth and endured in potent, contemplative silence. 

❧

The nursery remained untouched.

Year after year, Vox funneled money, energy and hope into that barren little room. Swatches of color tested, furniture ordered and replaced and entire designs shifted as trends came and went. Yet nothing took root there. No crib was ever built. No toys ever purchased. The walls never absorbed the soft, warm scent of infant life. The place sat frozen in time, a pristine shrine to a future that refused to manifest.

Every year ended in disappointment.

Doctors came and went, each one evaluating the Omega who should - by every measurable standard - have conceived without issue. They had examined him thoroughly, only to leave with baffled expressions and carefully neutral diagnoses. Alastor was healthy. Extremely healthy. Vox was thriving. Potent, even. Their timing had always aligned perfectly with his cycle. By all accounts, nature should have taken its course.

Yet there was nothing.

The first few failures had wounded Vox’s pride. By the tenth year, frustration had carved lines into the glow of his projected features. By the twentieth, disappointment had dulled into weary resignation. 

But never did he turn that frustration on Alastor. Instead Vox carried it privately, smothering it under a veneer of gentle reassurance. Eventually he abandoned the meticulous tracking, the specialists and the hopeful preparations. He adopted a softer stance, insisting they “leave it to fate” each time his wife entered heat.

He still hoped, of course. He always hoped. But he no longer tried to control it.

And that became Alastor’s greatest advantage. 

Angel Dust was his accomplice in maintaining the illusion. For thirty years the two Omegas had played a delicate, dangerous game - one built on whispers, careful choreography and a shared desire to survive individuals who would shape them into something lesser if they slipped even once.

Angel had proven indispensable. A trickster. A confidant. A master of timing and subtlety. Together they built an entire facade convincing enough to deceive two Overlords and their empires: Valentino, ever suspicious and cruel, and Vox, whose technological empire gave him far too many ways to monitor what should have been private.

Yet neither suspected a thing.

Alastor found the bond between them strange and unexpectedly dear. Angel Dust - with his affinity for sin and spectacle - had become a fixture in his life. A fellow Omega who wielded survival like an art form. Their banter, their shared laughter and their quiet moments of victory… all of it forged a rare trust between them. A trust carved not from similarity, but from mutual sharpness.

Angel wasn’t merely a friend.
 

He was an ally. A lifeline.

❧

Vox’s media empire had swelled into something titanic. An ever-churning leviathan of content, commerce, and curated depravity. His flagship, the broadcasting monolith that bore his name, had long ago begun to absorb subsidiary branches, but the most lucrative was Valentino’s adult film empire. 

Their partnership had grown naturally from mutual ambition: Valentino sought reach, distribution, and technological dominance; Vox desired a foothold in industries that guaranteed eternal demand. Together they made a perfect, if unsettling, match.

It meant that the two Alphas met often. Very often. And with their frequent meetings came convenience: wherever Valentino went, Angel Dust tended to follow. A prized ornament and a fiercely leveraged moneymaker. Vox, on his part, kept Alastor close whenever optics demanded it. He was to be the picture-perfect spouse; well-groomed and radiant, projecting domestic harmony and cultural refinement.

The pairing of their Omegas was therefore treated as a charming inevitability.

Both Overlords seemed enamored with the idea. They found the friendship between their partners deeply endearing. As though the camaraderie of their pretty little lovers signaled something symbolic. Something that reflected back on them, implying compatibility and synchronized vision. They encouraged it gleefully, having even arranged dual outings. 

Brunches in gaudy sky-rise restaurants. Box seats at newly renovated theaters. Nights tucked into the velvet-lined VIP lounges of Valentino’s clubs, where champagne and smoke clung thick to the air. Even quiet evenings in Vox’s penthouse, where the lights dimmed to a romantic glow as their partners conversed in the background, sounding for all the world like a pair of bored housewives making the best of their respective incarcerations.

Through these gatherings, Alastor began to notice something… peculiar.

A shift.

Small, almost imperceptible at first, but growing steadily.

The way Valentino’s eyes lingered on Vox. The way Vox, usually so quick to swat away unwanted touch, tolerated Valentino’s clawed hands on his shoulder, on his jaw or brushing the edge of his screen in a gesture that skirted intimacy. They spoke closely, their heads angled toward one another, their tones dropping into conspiratorial murmurs whenever business folded into something warmer. 

It was a dynamic Alastor had known existed between powerful Alphas - alliances sealed not merely through contract, but through flesh, dominance and indulgence. Power recognized power. And power desired to consume its equal.

What intrigued him most was Vox’s reaction. He didn’t push him away. He didn’t cool the contact with a polite boundary. He allowed Valentino’s flirtations to settle on him like perfume.

Alastor had witnessed their first kiss entirely by accident.

He had been wandering the corridors of the penthouse, a glass of wine in hand, seeking a quiet place to enjoy a moment of unmonitored breathing. He turned a corner and there they were. Valentino pressed against the wall, Vox leaning in, his screen flickering with static bursts of confusion and want. It was an eager, breathless tangle of tongue and claws. A private moment. One they clearly meant to keep secret.

Valentino broke from the kiss first, grinning like a cat with cream. Vox looked devastated, his hands suspended uncertainly as he realized Alastor was watching. The deer arched a brow, calm and unimpressed, the reaction so thoroughly devoid of jealousy that it left both men briefly stunned.

The affair was not a burden, but an unexpected blessing.

For once, Alastor wasn’t the only one expected to endure Vox’s attentions. Some nights, the Alpha didn’t return home at all. Some afternoons, he arrived smelling faintly of Valentino’s perfume and entirely too pleased with himself. Vox apologized profusely for those nights, face earnest and voice soft, promising he could stop at any time if Alastor wished. If it hurt him. If it made him uncomfortable.

Alastor, perfectly serene, gave his blessing.

He didn’t mind.
 

He didn’t particularly even care.

 And in truth, he hoped that Vox’s heart would drift elsewhere.

But it didn’t.

Of course not.

Such mercy never found him.

If anything, Vox became more devoted. More attentive. More passionate. The affair only heightened his desire to treat Alastor as the centerpiece of his domestic universe. As though indulging in Valentino made his affection for his “wife” burn hotter. Jealousy had never been Alastor’s style. But irritation? That he could manage in spades.

And then their little collective became something else entirely.

A triad.

Because Velvette swung into the scene with devastating flourish.

She arrived like a spark in a powder keg. Small, sharp, brilliantly dressed  and carrying the force of a culture-shifting hurricane. A Beta, yes, but one who bent her status into a weapon rather than a limitation. She was surprisingly young but very effectively she carved her niche in the fashion and modeling world with a ruthlessness that mirrored Valentino’s and a cunning that rivaled Vox’s.

Social media had rose like wildfire through Hell’s populace at the time of her arrival - and Velvette ascended with it effortlessly. Millions followed her. Worshipped her. Imitated her, even. She became the face of modern Hell culture and through her influence - and Valentino’s industry and Vox’s empire - the three joined forces.

They were a power trio. A brand. A living storm that reshaped Hell’s landscape with every collaboration, every publicity campaign and every scandal engineered for maximum attention.

Alastor observed them with the cool, quiet fascination. They were beautiful in their monstrosity. Near flawless in their synergy. Sitting together in their private lounge - a room of pillows, velvet couches, neon lights and sleek screens - felt like watching a tri-headed beast in action. 

In those moments, he and Angel Dust would often sit nearby, tangled limbs draped over chaise lounges, glasses of wine in hand. Two gorgeous ornaments placed tastefully within their reach. 

They knew how to play their roles. And they did it well. 

❧

The trio known as The Vees, for all their razor-edged ambition and carefully cultivated cruelty, were undeniably fond of Alastor and Angel Dust. They displayed that fondness in ways both ostentatious and subtle. The pair plied with lavish gifts, indulgent outings and protection in the form of an occasional protective snarl directed at some overeager sycophant. 

It was a form of affection rooted in ownership, pride and a strange, infectious warmth that threatened to teeter into obsession. 

And the public adored the Omega pair.
 

Adored them.

Alastor’s voice had threaded itself into the collective consciousness of Hell over the decades. Smooth and lilting and wickedly charming. A voice that had become synonymous with entertainment; a familiar companion to millions who eagerly tuned in each night. No matter how much the world changed, that voice remained a constant - a warmth that seeped into even the most problematic households like a welcomed ghost.

Angel Dust, meanwhile, had become a legend in his own right. The most coveted Omega in Valentino’s arsenal of stars. A beauty so visceral that even Alphas who should have known better bit their tongues and swallowed their yearning. He embodied sin with a kind of artistry. His sleek limbs, silken voice and smile promising debauchery and devastation in equal measure.

Between the two of them, they could freeze a room with a look or ignite a riot with a wink. When they entered the public eye, even the Vees found themselves sharing the spotlight. Paparazzi clamored. Reporters groveled. Fans screamed themselves hoarse.

For all the power the Vees wielded, it was their Omegas who crowned their empire with glamour.

But that glamour was not the same as power.

And everyone knew it.

They were adored.

Coveted.

Put on pedestals made of glass.

But never treated as equals.

No one asked Alastor for final approval on a media deal. No one invited Angel Dust into a boardroom to discuss mergers. Their contributions were immense - Alastor’s ratings alone could sway market trends; Angel Dust’s performances could generate more revenue in a month than some studios earned in a year. Their influence extended far beyond their homes, bleeding into culture, fashion, nightlife and entertainment.

Still, they were only ever given “allowances” like pampered royalty. They received gifts instead of dividends. Luxuries instead of leverage. Praise instead of ownership.

Because at the end of every day -

-  they remained Omegas.

Beautiful.
 

Valuable.
 

Deeply cherished.

But never free.

❧

Alastor had long ago mastered the art of survival in this world. It wasn’t a skill one learned willingly; Hell beat it into him until he refined it with the same sharp precision he once reserved for killing. Angel Dust had eased the road considerably, smoothing the rough edges of social navigation and offering whispered guidance in crowded rooms where every smile had teeth. 

Together, they’d perfected the routine required of high-profile Omegas: a delicate dance of charm and obedience.

Public appearances were theater.

Private meetings were a strategy.

And through it all, they existed in a strange liminal space. They spoke only when the moment was right, offered a cutting quip or a melodic laugh when prompted and otherwise languished like pampered pets perched on gilded cushions. Not seen as peers. Not taken seriously. Yet impossible to ignore.

Velvette took personal responsibility in sculpting their images, treating them as living canvases.

 Angel Dust’s outfits were crafted to weaponize his beauty: glossy leather hugging his hips, silk cascading like smoke, tops that framed his chest perfectly and leaving just enough exposed to spark desire. He moved like temptation incarnate and Velvette made sure the entire world saw the art in it.

Alastor’s wardrobe was another beast entirely. Velvette dressed him not only as Vox’s Omega, but as the voice of the airwaves - a creature polished and elegant in a way that commanded attention without appearing to seek it.  Soft fabrics that complemented the curve of his waist; cuts that highlighted the length of his legs and the delicate slope of his shoulders. Refined and feminine enough to align with the image of a beloved radio host and wife.

Conservative by comparison, but no less alluring.

Velvette understood the unspoken rules of their world - how far an Omega could push, how much skin they could show and how to dress them in a way that satisfied their Alpha’s pride. She never said as much aloud, but Alastor saw it: the rare glimmer of respect in her eyes, the subtle nod that acknowledged his role not as a mindless pet, but as a performer maintaining the illusion flawlessly.

And so he walked beside the Vees, immaculate and composed, neither owned nor free. He smiled when required, charmed where expected and let Velvette’s chosen fabrics drape over his frame without complaint. 

❧

“Fuck - this shit is tight,” Angel Dust hissed under his breath, plucking irritably at the pink frills crowding his chest. The outfit was adorable, obscene, and - judging by how aggressively he kept tugging at it - maddeningly uncomfortable.

Alastor stood beside him in the photography studio, hands folded neatly behind his back as though he hadn’t spent the last ten minutes silently calculating how many exits the room possessed. The space was wide, all bright lights and polished floors, with a backdrop curated to highlight the Vees’ aesthetic: neon-drenched, sharp-edged glamour with hints of curated decadence.

The trio was in their element.

Valentino draped himself against Vox with lazy sensuality, all fluttering lashes and smirks that promised trouble. Vox countered with a cocky tilt of his shoulders, the glow of his screen bright enough to halo them both. Velvette, meanwhile, glided around them like a shark in designer heels - sliding in, pressing close and shifting her pose with predatory confidence.

They moved together beautifully.

Too beautifully.

The kind of chemistry that came from power, ego and an adoring audience.

It would be Alastor and Angel Dust’s turn soon enough. But for now, they stood to the side, decorative and unnoticed. Expected to wait and watch. 

Angel let out a theatrical groan, fluffing his chest fur with both hands. “I swear, Vel keeps tryin’ to corset me into oblivion. Look at this - my tits are practically screaming for help.”

Alastor hummed politely, gaze drifting over the spider’s frills before returning to the Vees’ performance. “You do look rather… buoyant,” he drawled, quietly. “Very… lifted.”

“Oh, bite me,” Angel muttered, though he preened a little anyway. “What about you? You comfy in that getup?”

Alastor glanced down at himself. Deep crimson blouse, flared trousers that moved like liquid when he shifted and not a single ounce of fabric hiding his hooves or the sleek line of his tail. Velvette had insisted his more bestial traits were ‘marketable.’ That word alone had made him question his life choices.

He exhaled a thin, sharp little sigh. “It’s tolerable,” he replied. “Though the public’s fascination with my legs continues to mystify me.”

Angel grinned. “Oh sweetheart - they ain’t fascinated. They’re feral. Half the comments on your last promo shot were just people droolin’ over your feet. What do they call you now? 'Bambi?'”

Alastor’s smile twitched at the edges. “Yes,” he replied, flatly. “How very… quaint.”

Angel snorted, elbow bumping his arm. “Could be worse, babe. Could’ve been ‘Venison.’ Valentino got a good laugh outta that shit.”

Alastor blinked slowly. “I hate that you’ve given them ideas.”

The lights flashed again across the studio bringing with it another burst of white brilliance as the Vees locked themselves into another sensual tangle of pose-perfect silhouettes. Vox’s laugh carried through the room, sharp and triumphant. And Valentino’s answering purr followed, accompanied by Velvette’s pitched titter. 

“Showtime soon,” Angel murmured, tugging one last time on his outfit before giving up. “Ready to be cute and useless?”

Alastor folded his hands primly in front of him, his posture immaculate.

“My dear Angel,” he said, softly, “I was born ready.”

They shared a quiet laugh, eyes glittering with a shared affection. 

Chapter Text

Vox had changed in ways Alastor could never have predicted. Not fully, at least. The man he’d married thirty years prior - that soft-voiced, adoring and almost painfully earnest Alpha -  had been chipped away one upgrade at a time. 

It was subtle. A gradual sharpening of edges. A steady hardening of tone and posture and presence until Alastor sometimes wondered whether the television-faced man in the penthouse was truly the same creature he’d once known.

He hadn’t noticed it at first. No one did. Vox’s transitions between models were always marketed as improvements. Sleeker lines, crisper projection, better sound quality and an enhanced sensory output. But the upgrades bled into the man as well. 

A new model meant a new program of behavior. A slightly altered voice. A new set of algorithmic tendencies. He retained his memories, yes, but his temperament… that shifted. Just enough to matter.

Just enough to unsettle.

Alastor saw it most clearly in the small moments. The way Vox’s smile became a fraction too sharp and the way his tone carried a bite even when he intended sweetness. He no longer fawned. No longer spilled affection in gentle waves. Now he curated it, controlled it and delivered it as though hosting the evening news. 

Hell adored the change. 

The citizens swooned for the confident Vox -  the cocky Vox -  the brightly lit tyrant who delivered the news with swagger and smirking charm. They celebrated every update as though receiving a new emperor. Vox basked in it. He played to his audience. And power began to truly shape him. 

Alastor felt this shift acutely. Vox still loved him - there was no denying that. Thirty years had not dimmed the man’s devotion. If anything, it had intensified to something nearly obsessive. But sweetness had given way to scrutiny. Devotion had hardened into expectation. Vox watched him more closely now. Corrected him softly, then sternly. Wanted him polished, presentable and perfect in every public appearance and every private moment.

He wanted his wife to match his image.

That meant attire tailored to the era. Alastor’s fondness for vintage elegance now considered “quaint” rather than charming. Vox would gently brush a sleeve, adjust a collar or outright toss aside an outfit with an irritated, “No, honey, that won’t photograph well. Change.”

He also wanted Alastor tech-literate. 

“The world is modernizing,” Vox had said as he pressed a gleaming smartphone into the incredulous doe’s hand. “You’re a public figure. You need to keep up.”

Alastor had stared at the device as though it were some dangerous artifact from an unfamiliar dimension. Sleek, cold and glowing faintly in his palm. He’d fumbled with it so spectacularly that Vox, with a patient little sigh, had activated the accessibility features and locked half the apps to prevent Alastor “accidentally deleting something important.”

Thank fuck for Angel Dust.

Angel had perched beside him during one of their shared afternoons, long legs crossed and amusement dancing in his gaze as he guided Alastor through the absolute basics. 

“No, babe, that’s the power button - not a self-destruct switch. And that little ding? That means you got a message, not that you’re cursed.”

Alastor had muttered darkly under his breath. “It feels cursed.”

Angel tittered. “Everything’s cursed, sweetheart. Welcome to Hell.”

Without Angel’s quick instruction, Alastor would’ve been hopelessly behind - likely another weakness Vox would eventually notice and “correct.” But because Angel had stepped in, Alastor passed - just barely - every silent little test Vox placed in front of him.

❧

Alastor felt the pressure of time like a hand at the back of his neck. Fifty years had once felt extravagant - a cushion large enough to soften any fall. But then fifty slipped to forty, forty slid into thirty and now only twenty remained; thin as a thread. 

A single strained decade and a half, with change leftover. The diminishing number pulsed in his mind whenever he caught his own reflection - whenever he saw the glint of the bond-scar on his throat - whenever Vox held him just a little too tightly.

And still no Adam.

Nor a stone-faced king. 

The first few years he had written draft after draft of letters in secret, only to realize that sending even one was too dangerous. Vox saw too much. Vox noticed everything. Well, almost everything. 

Still.

The letters remained unsent and thoroughly destroyed as the longing curdled into something sour and heavy.

The anxiety built in increments, subtle but relentless. Every year that passed pressed deeper, leaving bruises he carried beneath that perfect smile. Some nights, when the dread twisted too sharply in his gut, he drank until thought blurred into fuzz. Nights when Vox was away enjoying Valentino’s company, Alastor would greedily claim a bottle and fall into a drunken stupor. 

Angel Dust had once told him, with casual honesty and a sympathetic pat, “You’re a functional drunk, babe. Nothin’ wrong with that in this city.”

He’d said it lightly with no judgment present in his tone. And Alastor, listening through the blissful fog of his fourth glass had almost laughed. Because yes - he was functional. He did the chores, charmed the public and fucked his husband when required. 

He just preferred doing all that with a warm buzz in his veins.

The mark on his neck had faded from raw tenderness into something healed and permanent - serving as a constant reminder. The boon held strong, insulating his mind from the tug of the bond; but he could feel its edges thinning. Not yet failing. Not yet dangerous. But softer than they once were.

He needed Lucifer.

He was ready to throw himself at the King’s feet if that’s what it took. Ready to grovel and bargain and bleed. But what if no one came? What if the King had simply lost interest. Leaving one more stray Omega to slip between the cracks of eternity?

That fear clung to him more viciously than any nightmare. Sometimes he’d lie awake beside Vox, watching the glow of the screen-face flicker with serene, sleeping animations and he’d imagine himself trapped in this life forever. Forever performing, forever beautiful, forever swallowed whole by someone else’s narrative.

The thought left him cold.

Angel Dust offered what comfort he could. Their friendship had become a small mercy in a world that felt otherwise barren. They shared wine, secrets and the occasional wicked joke that kept insanity a step away. And yet even Angel could not soothe the ache for Niffty - the little Beta he loved like family, kept now at arm’s length out of caution.

Vox disliked her and Alastor knew exactly what could happen to those an Alpha disliked.

So visits were rare. Careful. Brief touches of nostalgia and affection before distance was reestablished. 

But at least he wasn’t alone.

At least there was a creature within reach that looked at him not as a possession or an ornament or a prize to parade, but as a person. 

It was… nice.

So nice.

Just enough to keep him sane while time continued to unwind beneath his feet.

❧

“Oi, Vox. Looks like your little bella is unsteady on his feet.”

Valentino’s voice slithered across the room, amused and entirely too pleased. The words scraped along Alastor’s ears, already twitching from the quiet hum in his skull. He knew he shouldn’t have drunk as much as he had. He had told himself that today was the wrong day to indulge. Vox was set to broadcast within minutes. The studio was full of eyes and cameras.

But for one blissful hour, he hadn’t given a single damn.

Angel Dust clung to his arm like a lifeline, trying to reposition himself in a way that made it look like casual affection rather than desperate stabilization. Those delicate hands dug lightly into Alastor’s elbow, trying to compensate for the way his knees seemed intent on drifting toward the floor.

“Fuck, babe,” Angel muttered under his breath, his smile stretched charmingly for the sake of anyone watching. “This is the wrong time. Wrong fuckin’ hour. Wrong universe. Just - fuckin’ stand still. Pretend you’re conscious.”

Alastor blinked very slowly. One lid cooperated. The other lagged behind. He gave no verbal answer. Just a faint, muzzy stare that slowly drifted toward Angel’s shoulder and then off into nothing at all.

“…Alastor?” Angel’s worry spiked, his voice thinning.

The soft support vanished abruptly.

Replaced instead with claws.

Vox yanked him forward with a grip meant for metal, not flesh. Alastor’s breath hitched as blue fingers framed his face with surgical precision - pinching his cheeks, forcing his unfocused gaze upward until he met the cold shimmer of Vox’s screen. The holographic eyes narrowed, flickering with a displeasure sharp enough to cut.

“Alastor.” Vox’s voice lost every ounce of public warmth. It was cold, clipped and far too clear. “How much did you drink?”

Alastor blinked.

Once.

Twice.

His mouth opened - 

- and the world lurched.

He didn’t even feel the warning twist in his gut until it was too late. A wet, violent heave tore up his throat and he keeled forward. He vomited a spectacular, wine-soured splash directly onto Vox’s immaculate suit jacket.

The studio fell silent in a single, suspended heartbeat.

Then - 

“Oh, for fuck’s sake - !”