Chapter Text
“Vel, I do not want to do this!”
“Well, I want to be rich and famous, so get on with it!”
Alastor sighed, pulling at the hem of his black turtleneck sweater. Velvette’s studio had amazing lighting. Of course it did, as if she’d settle for anything less. Though perhaps “studio” was a polite term for “broom cupboard she’d filled with mirrors and enough ring lights to be visible from space”.
It was the perfect place to take photos he didn't want to take, and send to some old prick he hated. Even if the prick in question was unbelievably rich and well-connected.
“I’m still hoping to hear back from the audition,” Alastor called through the door, hating the desperation in his voice.
“Which one?”
“The radio station!”
“That was months back! Come on, Al, it ain’t like you to be this delusional.”
“I prefer ‘optimistic’,” he snapped.
“Call it whatcha want, babes. Radio ain't paying these days. You're a century too late.”
“I hate you.”
“Nah, you don’t. You’re my gay BFF, remember?”
Alastor pinched the bridge of his nose. He wasn’t even at work yet, and he could feel a headache coming.
“Vel, that's wrong on so many levels.”
He heard her cackle. “Oh, come on! You suck far too much dick to be ace!”
“You’re the one that introduced me to these damn labels!” he shouted back, flushing furiously.
“Hey, everyone deserves to have their identity respected.”
“But you just said-”
“Come on, twink! Take the damn photo.”
Alastor could see how this would play out. The angry protests, the inevitable surrender. The inability to work his way out of this.
“And why am I showing him my waist again?”
“That slutty waist of yours will be his new god.”
Alastor grumbled. He fiddled with the damn phone, trying to work the damn camera, glaring at the damn device as if willing it to work through spite alone. After a few minutes of fumbling, Velvette spoke again.
“Do you need me to take the photo?”
“No!”
There was a moment of silence before:
“You could just jump straight to nudes-”
“No!” Alastor snapped. “I will not degrade myself any further!”
For now. Men like Vincent Whittman would never be satisfied. One did not run a massive multinational corporation by being satisfied with what one had.
Alastor eventually battled the phone into submission, picking an angle that showed off his body, the black clothes hugging his hips tightly. He pulled the turtleneck up enough to reveal his slim figure, the tiny waist and smooth chest. The gentle curves of his hips, the flawless brown skin. This was small, controlled, tasteful. At least, that’s what he was desperately trying to convince himself. He took a few before deciding to cut out his face. A shame, really. He took after his mother: delicate features, big eyes, thick lashes, wavy brown curls that fell how they pleased. But it was only smart, even if it felt hypocritical given his damn nipples were visible.
“And how do I send it?”
The door burst open as Velvette marched in. Alastor hurried to pull his jumper down, nearly dropping the phone in his panic.
“Relax! Dyke, remember? Right, you have his number?”
He nodded. “Do I send a text and attach the image?”
“Oh my god,” Velvette rolled her eyes. “You're so old!”
“I’m literally in my 20s-”
“Whatever!”
After trying to talk Alastor through the finer points of sending tasteful photos (he loudly denied they were nudes), she eventually wrested the phone from him and took over.
“Can I ask again what the master plan is?” Alastor asked as he left the ‘studio’ and collapsed onto the sofa. Velvette's flat was already cramped, made worse by the presence of at least three sewing machines, enough fabric to last someone a lifetime, and a dozen mannequins. Alastor swore they moved at night.
“Easy!” Velvette strutted out after him, still fiddling with his phone in one hand, iced coffee in the other. “Make Whittman fall in love with you, and take him for all he's worth.”
One eye twitched.
“Let me guess: if he’s got a film coming up, suggest you for the starring role?”
Velvette span on her heel, looking horrified.
“Ew! No!”
Alastor raised an eyebrow.
“You recommend me if he’s looking for help in wardrobe, or a stylist, or-”
“I get it. I get it.” Alastor sighed, running a hand through his messy curls. “You know he hasn't officially asked me for anything, or offered anything.”
“You want a goddam contract or something? You said he was flirting with you?”
“Yes, but you've jumped straight from ‘flirting’ to ‘sugar baby’.”
“And? It's what old, rich creeps do. You think they've got the time to date normally?”
Alastor rolled his eyes and dragged himself off the sofa towards the kitchenette in the corner of the room, ducking between two mannequins to do so. “You really think I’d make a good sugar baby? I sure do love being told what to do by creeps twice my age.” Sarcasm dripped off each word.
“Some guys are into that-”
“Velvette, I swear to god, if you call me a brat one more time-”
Velvette snorted as Alastor made himself coffee, stubbornly refusing to look at her. “It's true. Just make him fall in love with you and spoil you rotten. It's easy to wrap men around your finger. I just offer to let them watch, and they offer up everything short of their soul.”
“...is that why Melissa is angry at you?”
“I’m not serious!”
“...does she know that?”
For once, Velvette snapped her mouth shut. “...touché.”
Alastor chuckled as he sank back onto the sofa, coffee mug steaming in his hands. Velvette insisted coffee should be iced, with enough sugar syrup to kill a man. Alastor insisted coffee should be black and hotter than the fires of hell. They were both utterly adamant that only they were correct. He groaned as he watched his distorted reflection in the coffee. “It feels like being a whore with extra steps.”
She cackled. “Your words, not mine.”
He put the mug down on the cardboard that doubled as a coffee table, sinking back in the sofa, hands gently tugging at his hair. Velvette watched, her expression softening as she sank down next to him and handed him the phone.
“Al, you’ve been couch-surfing for months.”
“I know.”
“I can’t keep covering your phone bill.”
“I will pay you back, Velvette.”
“And your Mam’s medical bills-”
“I’m aware!” he snapped.
She sighed. “I’m just saying, if you need money so bad, you could speak to Val?”
“And what? Become one of his ‘angels’?” Alastor winced, remembering the bruises, the way his staff would flinch when touched. “If Maman knew I was resorting to prostitution to pay her bills, she’d kill me herself.”
Alastor looked at the phone, at the image, at what remained of his pride. Velvette was right, and this was not a bad option. It could be so much worse. The smallest shred of doubt gnawed at the back of his mind and began to fester. He knew he looked good, but surely Whittman had his pick of people around the globe. Why would he pick him?
“And if he laughs in my face?” he asked quietly.
“Honey, your body has reduced grown men to tears. He won't,” Velvette said, getting to her feet, iced coffee back in hand. “Besides, you owe me. Call it rent.”
“I entertain an old pervert in exchange for your sofa?”
“I’ve always said you shouldn’t suck dick for free.”
“I will kill you.”
“Nah, you won’t. Or you’re stuck doing the open and close at work.”
She grinned. He smiled back softly.
“Besides, we both know you're too stubborn. If you really, really hated this, you wouldn't be entertaining it.”
Damn her.
“...touché.”
“Right, I'm off to work; see you on the close tonight?”
He nodded, still glaring at her.
“Right, see you in hell! Lock up!”
She left, leaving him alone with the phone. It was several models old, and the screen was cracked and scuffed. The sound didn’t work, and it could barely hold a charge. He hated it. He’d only gotten a phone at all because his Maman insisted when he left New Orleans.
He looked at the app where he’d been chatting with Whittman, and began scrolling through the messages. The latest from ‘VW’ was the usual lecherous nonsense. The man seemed to have the libido of a teenage boy. To say the conversation was ‘flirty’ was a vast understatement. Vincent Whittman appeared to have no shame in making his desires exceedingly obvious. The man didn't stop.
“I always get what I want,” he had said.
Alastor looked at the phone, as if willing something to happen. Eventually, he held a trembling thumb over the ‘send’ button. Velvette was ultimately right. If he really hated this, he wouldn’t entertain it. After all, it was hardly his first time sending such pictures. An even smaller part of him almost vibrated in excitement, arguing that he didn’t hate this at all. The feeling burned under his skin; he wanted adoration, wanted to be seen and worshipped.
But by some white creep old enough to be his damn father?
He pressed the button.
The response came through almost immediately.
VW: 👀🥵🤯
VW: holy fuck baby
VW: look at ur waist
VW: id give my empire to see you in lingerie
Alastor laughed. The lecherous old pervert! He typed as if each letter cost money. And the grammar! Why did full sentences and punctuation go ‘out of fashion'?
Alastor: I don’t own any such thing.
VW: I could fix that
He wanted to tell Whittman to fuck off, to pay Alastor's damn phone bill if he was so willing to throw cash away.
But Velvette was right (again, not that he’d ever tell her; her ego was big enough). This opportunity wouldn't pass by again. It’s not like Whittman was some poor, vulnerable victim. It was hardly manipulation; men like Whittman knew exactly what the hot 20-something wanted from him, and had made clear what he wanted in return.
Ultimately, he had bills to pay and wanted off Velvette’s couch.
And this was entertaining.
Alastor: Seems like a waste of money for something I’d so rarely wear.
VW: then u should wear it often
Alastor: Why would I do that?
VW: to show off for me?
VW: id love to dress u up
VW: u look hot in anything tbf
Alastor did not respond immediately. His pride protested - he did not want to be a doll for any man. But there was something so enticing about wrapping him around his finger.
Alastor: I’ll consider it.
VW: 🥳😍🥵🥳
VW: when are you next working?
Alastor: So you can harass me again?
VW: youre such a dick
Alastor: And you're obsessed with me ; )
________________________
How had it started?
When Vincent fucking Whittman strode into hell.
Officially, “Club 666” was a speakeasy-themed lounge and bar owned by a thug of a man named Valentino. It had an extensive cocktail menu, pool tables, dart boards, nice music and good food. It hosted live performers, bands, and quiz nights. Everything the staff had come to call ‘heaven’.
The downstairs had the main stage, hosting burlesque shows, and the “fake” stripper poles saw regular use. Val refused to be seen as “yet another sleazy strip club”. The bar specialised in whisky and similar drinks. There were private rooms for ‘VIPs’ with a ‘personal bottle service’. Gambling tables dotted the room.
Unofficially, to the staff, it was “hell”. Not that they’d ever call it that to Val's face. It really sold the decadence and indulgence of the time well, perhaps too well. Half the downstairs staff were Val’s “Angels”. A quiet word, discreet, pass some cash, and you’d get ‘private service’ in a private room for an hour at a time. Val also let them keep tips under the table and had been willing to hire a desperate Alastor when he first arrived in the city, broke, alone and far to young.
Alastor had been working the bar when Val swept over, chopping fruit and replacing garnishes.
“Still being a prude, honey?”
“Huh?”
“Had another gent asked if you’d ‘take him to heaven’,” Val said; his wink was not subtle.
“I said no, Val.”
“You’ll cave,” Val said with a shrug that made Alastor’s shoulders tense. “I need to speak to you later. I’ve had more complaints.”
Alastor bristled. Velvette carefully took the very sharp knife out of Alastor’s hand before taking a deep interest in cleaning a patch of floor next to the two men.
“What now?”
“You told one patron to ‘order a damn drink or stop wasting my time’.”
“Ok, but that was-”
“And I believe you told one gent, ‘Oh honey, not if you had the last dick on earth’.”
“In my defence-”
“And you told another his breath smelled like roadkill.”
“That was accurate!”
Velvette was trying not to laugh, fist in her mouth and shoulders heaving.
“Allie, sweetie, baby. You know I love you,” Val purred, leaning across the bar to cup Alastor’s jaw. “But I cannot have you insulting my customers.”
Alastor tried not to flinch at the touch. Fists clenched. Jaw tight.
“Alright, Val.”
“If I get another complaint, I’ll have to cut your hours,” Val said with a shrug, dropping his face and stepping back.
Alastor’s head shot up, eyes wide as his pulse roared in his ears.
“But Val-”
“No more complaints!”
He turned on his heel, shouting over his shoulder as he strutted away.
“We have a VIP group in tonight; they booked the private room. You’re on bottle duty.”
Alastor could only throw his head back, slump against the bar and groan. Velvette got to her feet, judging it safe to hand the knife back.
“That sucks.”
“Very sympathetic, Vel. I appreciate it.”
They returned to bar work. It wasn’t quite rush hour, giving them time to prep the bar. Velvette had lost rock-paper-scissors, leaving her to battle the malfunctioning ice machine while Alastor daintily cut fruit for garnish. Alastor’s mood was lifted listening to his friend thump the machine and swear, only to plummet when a group of men wandered in.
They were all white, older men who carried themselves with the absolute certainty that money could solve everything, who had the privilege of having never once worried about paying their bills. They were all dressed in expensive-looking suits, wearing expensive-looking watches and accessories. At least, Alastor assumed. Frankly, if you told him your luxury watch cost five figures, he’d tell you that you’d made a catastrophic error in judgement. Maybe not in such polite terms.
While Velvette complained no end, Alastor much preferred the 666 uniform; waistcoat or suspenders, white shirt and tie, even sleeve garters! It felt elegant, timeless, classy.
“Of course you like it,” Velvette had said when he first voiced this sentiment. “You look like you’ve got a damn corset on under that waistcoat.”
It certainly helped his tips.
Alastor watched the men enter the bar, only for Val to immediately sweep in and greet them in his typical way, exaggerated and overly enthusiastic. Sickeningly, frankly.
There was another thump, an even louder swear, and Velvette reappeared from the back, looking at her hand in horror.
“I think that damn ice machine just broke my nail!”
“So?”
“So? So?! Alastor, this is a catastrophe! My nails are-”
She glanced up from her devastating wound, catching sight of the newcomers as Valentino frantically shook hands. Her jaw dropped.
“Oh my god.”
Alastor tilted his head towards her. It was rare that she was stunned into silence.
“That’s Vincent fucking Whittman.”
“...is his middle name really ‘fucking’?” Alastor quipped.
“It might as well be!” Velvette’s eyes were huge and unblinking, her mouth hanging open. She turned on Alastor, grabbing him by the tie and yanking him down to her level. Alastor was not particularly tall, but he was still bent almost double.
“Alastor fucking Hartfelt, you listen to me,” she hissed through gritted teeth, eyes wide and frantic. “That man is a fucking billionaire! You get over there, and you suck up, or so help me, I’m replacing all your coffee with decaf.”
“...excuse me?”
“I will replace everything in my flat with AI-assistant smart versions. I’ll power my lights with SIRI.”
“You wouldn't dare.”
“I will wake you each morning at 6 am with electronic dance music!”
The eye contact burned as neither was willing to budge an inch. Alastor, remembering who he was dealing with, caved. He’d once known Velvette to queue from 1 am outside a store for some sort of limited-edition fabric release and physically fight someone over an incorrect Starbucks order.
“Suck up or suck off?”
“Both! Either! Who cares?” She released him and stepped back, throwing her hands up. “He’s a billionaire, suck something!”
He sighed, glancing back at the group. “Which one is Whittman-”
He paused.
Most of the group were men in their 50s or 60s, bald and overweight in ways that spoke of decades of luxury and decadence, of time spent in office chairs rather than the gym.
One stood out.
He was strikingly handsome, with sharp features, pale skin and dark hair flecked with silver. He was tall and well-built, impeccably dressed in a dark blue suit that likely cost more money than Alastor had ever possessed.
But it was the eyes that drew Alastor in, their eyes meeting briefly across the noisy bar. They were mismatched; one was bright green and the other a pale, almost sky blue.
They were striking.
“You got ‘im,” Velvette said, nudging Alastor in the ribs and breaking the searing eye contact. “You never heard of old ‘demon eyes’ Whittman? CEO of Voxtech?”
Even Alastor, chronically offline, his hatred of modern technology bordering on pathological, knew the name.
“He owns Voxtech?!”
“Yup!” Velvette said, popping the ‘p’.
“The media company?”
"Correct."
"The one that just brought out Disney?!"
“You get the idea.”
“Fuck me.”
“If he tries, let him!”
“I’m not a whore, Vel!”
“Anyone’s a whore for a billion goddam dollars! What is he doing here?”
Odd glances were thrown their way as they realised the conversation had gotten a bit loud. A few patrons gave them odd looks. Velvette only laughed and shoved Alastor away.
“Val’s waving you over; get to it.”
Alastor resigned, straightened his waistcoat and tie.
“How do I look?”
“Like an absolute twink.”
“Glowing praise, thanks.”
The evening went exactly as Alastor expected.
He was treated as little more than a prop by men who didn’t acknowledge those they deemed beneath them. They ordered top-shelf drinks and expected them to be served impeccably, with a theatrical flourish, as if it were the damn nectar of the gods and not fucking whisky. Alastor held his temper, thinking he deserved a fucking medal for not beating some old prick to death with the ice bucket.
Between calls of “boy!” and clicking their fingers, he was sent running to and fro. This orange garnish wasn’t twisted correctly; he’d clearly used white sugar instead of brown for this Old Fashioned. This drink clearly contained only two drops of Angostura bitters, instead of three! Just how incompetent was their server?
In blatant disregard of anti-smoking laws, the room soon stank of cigar smoke, making Alastor’s eyes water. He was unsure about what business was being discussed because at one point, they started playing cards. Chips appeared on the table as they insisted he deal cards. He nearly blanched when someone raised more than he made in an entire year.
And then there came the other type of comments.
“You’re a pretty little thing, aren’t you?” one man cooed.
“And so young!”
Hands wandered, eyes roamed. Alastor’s skin burned as he kept a wide smile firmly on his face. This was hell after all; it was to be expected. Any more complaints and Val would fire him, he kept reminding himself. He desperately needed this job; he kept chanting in his head like a mantra.
So he laughed at their bad jokes, batted his eyelashes and leaned in close when pouring drinks. He leaned into touches rather than away from them, even when they felt like sandpaper.
It was all a damn performance, a stage, a production.
And Alastor was an entertainer.
Besides, this was nothing new to him. It could be so much worse.
Whittman, it turned out, was exactly what he’d expected.
Yes, he was articulate, charismatic, and he oozed authority and power. Group decisions weren’t made without his approval; the underlings glanced at him, looking for a small nod. He met Alastor’s gaze with the collected expression of someone who expected the world to adapt around him. Up close, his eyes were even more striking.
He was frustratingly attractive, Alastor realised with an internal groan.
But in a way that Alastor found oddly reassuring, he was also a lecherous creep.
His eyes roamed Alastor without shame; his hungry gaze lingered on his body. Hands lingered at the small of his back, at his waist and, as the evening drew on and the room began to smell of spilt liquor, his behind. At one point, he was tugged into Whittman’s lap as hands grasped his waist.
“You know, if you wanted more private entertainment, I have several colleagues who can assist,” Alastor whispered as he tried to wriggle free with his remaining dignity intact.
Whittman only clutched him tighter. “I’m far more interested in you,” he purred.
“I’m not for sale.”
Whittman laughed. “For the right price, everything's for sale.”
As the evening drew to a close, Alastor’s nerves were stretched tight enough to scream. If he were called “gorgeous” or “pretty boy” one more time, heads would roll. He felt flayed open, his head pounding, and he wanted to scream until his vocal cords shattered. He knew that Velvette would kill him, but he wanted Whittman out before Alastor’s last shred of patience snapped and he gutted the bastard.
The final bill made Alastor want to vomit, and it was too high for the wireless machine normally used. Instead, Whittman followed Alastor to the bar, insisting Alastor lead the way so Whittman could ‘appreciate the view’.
“Thank you for your business,” Alastor said through gritted teeth as Whittman signed the cheque. He glanced down. The ‘tip’ line bore a big, fat “0”. Behind the man, he could see Val gesturing frantically. “Is there anything else I can get for you this evening?”
“Yeah, your number,” Whittman said with a smirk.
“Hilarious,” Alastor said, completely straight-faced. The words left his mouth before self-preservation could intervene.
“I try,” the older man said with a wink. “Let me convince you,” he said, pulling a bill and dropping it into the tip jar.
Alastor resisted the urge to gawp. That was a $100 bill!
Instead, he raised an eyebrow, face carefully impassive. “How cheap do you think I am?”
“I think you’re expensive, but worth every penny,” Whittman said, shoving another bill into the tip jar.
A flush started to spread up Alastor’s neck as he fought to keep his composure.
“If you want a whore, I can recommend a friend,” Alastor said, deliberately ignoring Valentino, who was growing increasingly frantic with his gestures.
“I just want your number,” Whittman said with a shrug and another bill.
By this point, Alastor was stumbling over his words and elected to just glare at the man. To his right, he could sense Velvette staring daggers into him.
Whittman chuckled. “You’ll need a new tip jar before I run out of patience, baby.”
The flush was now firmly on Alastor’s cheeks. Vincent leant forward with another bill; his cologne was rich and intoxicating. God, he was such a prick, Alastor thought. A handsome prick, a part of him unhelpfully added. Despite himself, Alastor felt his resistance crumbling.
“I always get what I want,” Whittman purred. Those demon eyes bore into his own.
Alastor’s resolve snapped. He told himself it was because the expression on Val’s face threatened harsh consequences later, because half the bar was staring, because the cash was not something to sneeze at.
It was not because the man was irritatingly handsome, perversely charming and apparently generous. Alastor grabbed a napkin, scrawling his number on it before thrusting it at Whittman.
“Here you go; now get out of my damn bar.”
Whittman laughed and dropped another bill in the jar. “Anything for you, gorgeous.”
________________________
Alastor stared at the chat exchange, at the photo he’d sent. He knew he looked good; he had received enough compliments over the years. A part of him preened under the attention, his ego swelling nicely at the thought of someone so powerful, desperate for his affections. A smaller part of him wondered if this was going too far, if giving Whittman his number had been a bad idea.
Not that he’d had a lot of choice.
As if summoned by fate, his phone rang.
The caller ID showed a smiling face, a head of neat white curls and eyes so dark that they appeared black.
“Ms Rosie, to what do I owe the pleasure?” his accent slipped comfortably into its natural state, a southern drawl that sounded like warm honey.
“Young man, I’ve told you time and time again to just call me ‘Rosie’; how many times must I repeat myself?”
“Always at least once more, Ma’am.”
A sigh came through the line, long-suffering and exhausted. “You Hartfelts are going to be the death of me.”
“What’s Maman done now?” He asked with a grin.
“The price of her medication has gone up again.”
His grin slipped from his face and shattered on the floor.
“...by how much?”
“Enough that your Mam didn’t want me to tell you. She keeps saying you send us enough as it is,” she chuckled. “I can send over exact figures-”
“Do that,” Alastor said quickly, his heart racing as he tried to push down the rising tide of panic. “I’ll cover it.”
“You always do, darling. Are you still at that dreadful bar?”
He swallowed, words about the cut hours and customer complaints caught in his throat.
“Of course, Ma’am.”
“Good.” The line went silent briefly. “Your Mam thinks she puts too much pressure on you; she keeps talking about stopping all her medications so you can focus on school.”
“No!” Alastor was on his feet, trembling and clutching the phone tight enough to hurt. “Rosie, please, she can’t-”
“I know, dear, I know. I won’t let that happen.”
He breathed a heavy sigh of relief. His heart seemed to settle in his chest.
“...thank you,” he said quietly, wishing (not for the first time) that he wasn’t so far away.
“Anything for you, darling. Now, how is your schooling going?” Rosie asked. Alastor could visualise her expression perfectly. It was one he’d seen often growing up: the raised eyebrow, the unimpressed scowl. He had learned long ago not to answer these hypothetical questions.
“I thought so.” Rosie sighed. “I take it that I’m not to tell her?”
“No, she doesn’t need the stress.”
There was another sigh. “As I said, you Hartfelts are going to be the death of me.”
The call ended not long after. The apartment felt terribly empty in the quiet that followed. As he got ready for work, trying to tame his curls and tie a tie neatly, he half-glanced over the figures Rosie sent him.
Sums. Budgets. Calculations. Numbers weren't his strength, but the situation made it essential. Money was already stretched so, so tight. But the alternative was unthinkable. It was fine, he told himself. He would solve this. He could beg Val for more hours, try looking for a second job again, or maybe take out a small loan.
He breathed out slowly. This was under control.
There was another ping as he clipped his suspenders into place. This time it was a message from Whittman. Alastor’s stomach clenched.
VW: how about we go to dinner instead
Alastor: Unfortunately, I’m on a strict budget.
VM: let me treat you
VM: you deserve it
VW: you can thank me with that gorgeous mouth of yours
Alastor was running late but suddenly found it very hard to care, sinking into the sofa. He clutched the phone with both hands. He knew this game. He could play, and he could win.
So why was he trembling?
Alastor: Can I now?
VM: how about Dante’s Inferno? Friday 8pm
Alastor’s jaw dropped. Velvette never shut up about it, citing the endless celebrities who’d eaten there. World-renowned. Michelin stars. The wait list was supposedly months long. Alastor’s stomach growled. He missed good food. Hell, he missed not skipping meals. He missed his Maman's cooking. Velvette’s kitchen consisted of a single broken burner and a mini-fridge full of iced coffee and vape liquid. She called it “girl dinner”.
Maybe this could solve his problems.
Or at the very least, it would be entertaining.
Alastor: Very well.