🏳️‍⚧️JAM🦇

The first time Vincent asked Alastor if they could “work together,” it wasn’t even a question.

He said it like a vow. Like he’d already carved their initials into something bleeding.

Alastor noticed.

Of course he did.

The man watched everything the way a wolf watches a shaking rabbit — with amusement, hunger, and just enough restraint to stretch the moment out.

It started on a fog-choked street, bodies cooling behind a boarded-up butcher’s shop. Vincent had done the heavy lifting — cracked skulls, dragged corpses, grinning the entire time like violence was oxygen.

Alastor arrived late.

Because he always arrived late.

Because he liked watching Vincent twitch with anticipation.

“You came,” Vincent purred, already stepping too close, red flooding his cheeks like he was one compliment away from collapsing.

“Mm. I was curious,” Alastor replied, wiping his gloves with a grace that made the murder scene look like a ballroom. “You said you had something to show me.”

Vincent beamed, desperate and bright.

“This. All of this. I want— I want to do this with you. Always. You’re— you’re perfect, Al.”

Alastor let the nickname slide only because he found it pathetic in a charming way.

Vincent would’ve done anything if Alastor asked. Kill, die, kneel — didn’t matter.

And Alastor… Alastor saw that.

He stepped forward, his shadow swallowing Vincent’s. A single gloved finger hooked under Vincent’s chin and lifted it, slow and deliberate.

“You’re very eager,” he murmured.

Vincent practically melted. “I want to be useful to you.”

Ah.

There it was — the weakness. And Alastor’s favorite kind: devotion disguised as capability.

“You already are,” Alastor said, smiling wide enough to make Vincent’s heart stutter. “But if we’re to work together… I’ll need you to follow instructions.”

“Anything.”

Alastor’s smile sharpened.

“Good boy.”

Vincent’s breath hitched — embarrassingly loud. And that was when Alastor understood he had found the perfect tool.

Not just a partner.

Not just a killer.

A man who would tear out his own heartbeat if Alastor asked sweetly enough.

From that night on, Alastor used it.

He’d lean in close after a kill, whisper something soft and poisonous into Vincent’s ear — a plan, a command, a suggestion — and Vincent would crumble for it. Not because he feared Alastor.

Because he adored him.

Vincent would walk into danger just to impress him.

Take risks just to make Alastor proud.

Smile through blood because Alastor happened to look in his direction.

And Alastor?

He would watch Vincent’s obsession bloom like a bruise.

He would feed it scraps — a touch, a compliment, a look — just enough to keep Vincent orbiting him like a dog begging for affection.

It was toxic.

It was uneven.

It was perfect.

And one night, after another flawless kill performed exactly how Alastor liked it, Vincent turned to him with wide, hopeful eyes.

“Did I do good?”

Alastor stepped close, letting his voice dip just enough to make Vincent’s knees go weak.

“You did wonderfully,” he murmured. “I knew you’d be useful to me.”

Vincent flushed so deeply it looked feverish.

And Alastor smiled — pleased, entertained, and fully aware he’d just tightened the leash a little more.

They weren’t lovers.

Not yet.

But Vincent was falling.

And Alastor?

He was letting him.

Slowly.

Cruelly.

Deliciously.

Because a lovesick monster is far more predictable than a partner.

And far more fun to break.

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