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The bastard is back. Vincent knew he would come back, and still, he dreads to see him.
Alastor was beautiful, and his voice was well known on his radio shows and podcasts. He was well off, as evident by his attire, and he was prideful. All of that would be fine if he had any decorum with the waitstaff.
Okay. Maybe that was unfair. Alastor seemed entirely fine with everyone but Vincent, and maybe that was another factor that infuriated him.
Today he had ordered coffee, despite it being nearly 2:00 AM. Alastor was skimming through some papers, likely outlines for his radio show that Vincent knew he was going to tune into despite himself when it aired in the morning, but still, it was infuriating. Regardless, Vincent comes over after a few minutes.
He was the only server tonight in the shitty dive diner that Alastor clearly had no reason to frequent as often as he does, not when he had the money to go anywhere else. There was one cook in the back, who he preferred to avoid when there were issues from Alastor.
"Anything else tonight, or just the coffee?" He keeps his tone as polite as he can, smile tight on his face. Alastor hums, not even looking at him, as if Vincent were so unworthy of his time. His grip on the pen hovering over his ticket book tightens.
"Last time I was here, I had left a tip."
"Yes, you did. Thank you, it was very generous."
Which was true. Twenty dollars tipped for a cup of coffee and some toast was extremely generous, and while Vincent wanted to bash the disrespectful fucker's face into the table half the time he was here, he could be appreciative.
"Yes, well. I had left my wallet unattended for a moment, and there seems to have been an extra five dollars missing. I was wondering if your manager would check the camera footage."
This slimy little brat, who was not hardened by the years of hard work Vincent himself continued to put himself through, was trying to accuse him. Vincent couldn't prove it, but he knew it. He also had a feeling there was no missing five dollars, and that Alastor was just trying to irritate him, as he so often did.
He keeps his smile in place, because he knew how to smile through insult, it was a necessary part of working in the food industry as well as being an intern for the news station. Any day, he'd rise to power. Any day, he'd tell this diner to go fuck itself. Any day, he'd slam Alastor's face into that table.
Just not today.
"Ah, I'd love to give you a yes to that, but unfortunately…" He leans in, putting on his news station charm, lowering his tone, his voice. "They're just for show. My manager didn't want to shell out for the real deal."
Alastor doesn't seem amused by him, and his smile twitches.
"Are you going to take my order or continue looming there? Honestly, I wonder how they even hired you some times."
The order is simple. A steak, properly rare. Not even a good cut, not that a shitty diner like this has good steak anyways. More coffee.
The cook finishes the food, checks in on Alastor having it all, and then claps a hand on Vincent's shoulder.
"I'm running to the corner store. You're gonna be on your own for a few."
"What? How long?"
"Shit, maybe rest of the shift. Call me if people order food."
"No, you cannot— you cannot leave me alone with him—"
The cook steps away from him, and Vincent glares from the kitchen door as the cook checks in on Alastor again, Alastor who has eaten two bites of the steak and says it is perfectly fine when asked. The cook gives a thumbs up to Vincent, and away he goes.
No one else has come in, and the son of a bitch wasn't even joking about skipping uot of work. Vincent was irritated enough to complain to the manager tomorrow. He especially decides he will complain when Alastor snaps at him for attention.
He forces the grin back on his face as he comes over, gripping the pen tightly.
"Hey, Al."
"We talked about the pet names," He looks at the name tag as if he doesn't remember the name of the server he has been terrorizing for weeks, "Vincent."
The name is said with contempt, despite the bright smile Alastor wore. The pet names were a way Vincent felt he had power over this haughty little bastard, who always complains about the service, yet always tips and returns. It was all a shitty power play.
"I have a problem with my steak."
It is half eaten.
"Oh? What's the issue?"
"It's a little too rare."
He knows this is bullshit. He has watched Alastor eat extremely undercooked steaks before on buiser and earlier days. This little shit is trying to fuck with ihm.
"Oh, I'm sorry about that! Unfortunately, the cook is out right now, but I can try and—"
"Just fix it. It's not as if you're incapable of using the stove. Ha, unless you are incompetent in all ways!"
He isn't sure why he picks up the steak and heads to the kitchen, perhaps he is so shocked by the audacity. He stares at the half eaten steak, the red juice dripping down it, and he finds himself wishing he could put Alastor in his place. Shove his face into the table, choking him from behind, maybe put that skinny waist to good use by gripping it as he—
What the fuck.
He shakes his head, dumping the steak into the trash. He puts the emptied coffee mug in the sink with the plate. He looks out at Alastor. At the empty diner.
No one was aorund. No one would be around until the sun was rising, which wasn't happening any time soon.
What's stopping him from…
He goes to Alastor's table, looks down at him. Gone is his grin. Alastor looks up, one eyebrow raised. He's beautiful.
"Can I help you? And where is the—"
He unties his apron while Alastor starts his criticisms, lets it and its contents (ticketbook, cigarettes and lighter, pens) fall to the ground, and before Alastor can finish his yapping, Vincent's large hand fists in the back of those dark curls. Alastor yelps in surprise, and Vincent can't even feel shame at the way the sound goes straight to his dick.
He wrenches Alastor, who claws at his wrist in an attempt to get free, to his feet, before slamming him forward, face shoved into the table and body bent over it.
"I am so tired of your attitude."
"Get your filthy hands off of me—"
"You ungrateful fucking bitch!"
His free hand goes tfor Alastor's belt, and he presses a knee between his kicking legs, shoes stamping on the ground in a way that reminded him of a rowdy horse, or perhaps deer.
"I will kill you for this—"
Odd, that his threat went right to murder and not police. The hand slips from Alastor's hair to grip around his neck from behind, Vincent's chest flush with his back, squeezing around it until he can feel Alastor's breath cut off.
"Not if I kill you first. I could, you know. These cameras don't work."
The belt is undone, and he makes quick work of the slacks, as well, wrenching them down Alastor's thighs with one hand. Alastor's struggles begin anew, even with the lack of oxygen.
"I just might." HIs breath is labored, and he shakes Alastor's head a little by the throat. He twists himself around so he can look at Alastor's face, and there's something akin to fear in his eyes.
He wrenches Alastor's boxers down next, pressing against him to still his struggling, tightening his grip on Alastor and threatening, without words, to snap his neck or crush his windpipe, and it makes him hesitate, brows furrowed, unsure of himself. Good. Alastor has realized who the stronger party is.
He presses a hand between Alastor's thighs, prepared to stroke him to hardness, and stops when his hand is wet, pressed against a patch of curled hair and soft flesh. Alastor trembles.
"Well… Would you look at that…"
He lets his fingers slide along Alastor's cunt. Cunt.
"You have a pussy."
Alastor thrashes, but it is pointless, and his movements are slowing, lashes fluttering as he gets closer to blacking out. Vincent moans at the sight.
"Yeah, that's it, bitch. Struggle. Fuck—"
He pushes two fingers into Alastor's cunt, and oh, he's tight. He's tighter than anyone else Vincent has ever fucked before. He kisses Alastor's shoulder, cooing to him almost affectionately as he feels Alastor slowly stop struggling.
"I'm gonna let go so you can breathe, and if you misbehave, I'll just choke you out and fuck your dead boy. Understood?"
Tears are running down his face, but he nods after a moment. Vincent lets go of his throat, grinning as he listens to the way Alastor chokes and gags on the very air he'd just been begging for. Alastor makes this pitiful sobbing noise, clealry trying to get away, light headed and near delirious.
"Shh, shh. It's okay. Really, I'd rather not kill you, don't be so scared." He grips Alastor's hands before he can find something to stab him or hit himw ith, likely the napkin dispenser or his pen. He vaguely realizes throwing Alastor into the table like htis has disorganized his papers. He catches sight of one, just a list of names, some scratched out with red ink. A few are familiar, but he pays them no mind.
"I'll kill you— You disgusting—"
He pulls his fingers from Alastor's cunt, delighting in the unbidden whine that earned as he grips Alastor's arms, twisting so they're behind his back. It takes a bit of effort to hold him still with one hand, now that he caught his breath, but he gets his own tie off, and he manages to start tying Alastor's wrists together behind his back. Boy scouts was like muscle memory for hm. He did this many times with actual rope, around some shitty manager's throat after drinks, or around the wrists of a birghter, more feminine intern who caught the eyes of the boss, and he couldn't have moved here for nothing so he has to—
He breaks out of that reverie once Alastor is tied, screaming wordlessly and thrashing in his anger.
"Shh, what did I tell you?"
He unbuckles his own belt, unzips his pants and pushes them down his hips. His boxers follow, bunched up at his thighs now. Alastor had frozne, stiff like a deer in the headlights when he heard the zipper.
"No—"
"Relax."
"Don't you fucking dare—"
He takes Alastor's glasses, gently folds them and sets them aside like a loving husband, before he grabs Alastor by the back of the hair again, and slams his head forward, hard enough to nearly break his nose. He moans at the yelp of pain. He lifts Alastor's head, primed to do it again.
"Behave. I have no reservations about fucking you dead or alive, so you may as well make it easier on yourself. Besides."
He gives his cock two good pumps, already hard and leaking precum, before he presses forward, lining himself up with Alastor's cunt, cooing into his ear and reaching a hand up to gently pet his hair.
"I can imagine something you'd be far better for than killing, pretty thing."
"Ngh— No— Don't— Don't—" He's trembling, breath coming out in sharp, panicked breaths.
"What, are you nervous because you're a virgin?"
Another of those choked sobs, and they both stop for a minute.
"…You are."
"Don't do this—"
"I'm gonna be your first." Alastor makes a disgusted noise as Vincent slowly presses the head of his cock in. Just a little. He pulls back out.
"You never forget your first, baby. You're gonna remember this for the rest of your life."
He snaps his hits forward, to the hilt, in one sharp thrust, and he shivers at the strangled noise of pain Alastor lets out.
"Oh— fuck yes. You're so tight. Feel how full you are, Al? Feel me inside you?"
Alastor does not speak now, whining into the table, shoulders shaking as Vincent kisses the back of his neck, the top of his head, his cheek, as if they were lovers.
"You know," he says as he bgins a brutal pace, pulling almost all the way out before slamming back in, hard, "for someone who was threatening to kill me for this, you are pretty wet. What, you like this?"
Alastor's walls constrict around him.
"Oh, you dirty little bitch, you do. You like being raped by a bigger, stronger man, huh?"
Alastor moans and it sounds like a sob. Vincent moans above him, gripping his hips now, making sure it's hard enogh to bruise. He wants Alastor to remember this tomorrow. Fuck, he wants Alastor to remember this for the rest of his life.
"Such a tight, wet pussy. I should really thank you for letting me break you in. Haah, shit. I don't wanna share this pussy with anyone. You know what?"
"Stop—"
"Shh, don't beg now, precious. I got you."
Alastor is clearly in pain, the way his fists clench in their bondage, nails digging into his palms. His shoulders are tense, and no matter how wet he is, he's not loosening up, making Vincent have to force his way inside each thrust. Alastor's sobbing, broken, unbidden moans bubbling out between whimpers.
"I think I'll take you home, after my shift."
"No—"
"Keep you tied up and pretty in my bed. Plug this little pussy up before I go to work."
"No, nono—"
"Yeah, yeah, that's what I'll do.*
He reaches around Alastor, presses a finger against his clit, and grins when Alastor goes entirely stiff, rigid, horrified. Vincent begins massaging against the spot, biting into the soft flesh between Alastor's neck and jaw, moaning against the skin.
"I'll keep you. I'll breed you and keep you in my house, barefoot and pregnant—"
Alastor makes a noise like he's been stabbed, legs tensing, back arching, pressing his chest into the table. Vincent finds himself wondering if Alastor has tits, or if he had them removed. Part of him doesn't care, part of him hopes he still has them so he can see them swelling with milk.
He isn't sure when the breeding talk became so serious to him. It would be hardcore evidence against him to actually get this haughty thing bred and paraded around, but he can't help imagining Alastor returning to the diner, hand over his swollen stomach, shitty attitude made docile and obedient—
"Gonna make you my breeding bitch, Al. Yeah? Wanna be a mommy for me?"
"Fuck— you—" He's breathless, trembling. He's loosened up some, and Vincent grins, kissing his temple.
"Oh, of course. Whenever you want. Fuck, you feel so good… That's it, baby. I can feel you getting close. You can cum, sweetheart. You can cum on my cock, and I'll knock you up. Oh, you really like that idea, huh? Getting pregnant from being raped?"
Alastor wails, back arched as far as he can in his position, legs kicking against the floor helplessly as he cums, and Vincent purrs when he ends up squirting, giving five more sharp thrusts before he follows him, biting into his neck so hard he tasted blood, hand fisted in Alastor's hair. He practically growls like some sort of rabid animal as he buries himself as deep as he can, shuddering as he fills Alastor.
"Fuck yes! Take it, take you little bitch, that's it, yeah, you take it so well. So good. So good for me…"
He's cleaned himself up and redressed. apron back on. Alastor has not tried to get up from his position bent over the table, whimpering and trembling with a mix of what was likely fear and shame. The shame was more important than the fear, he'd be less likely to report anything if he was ashamed.
Vincent comes with one of the packaged cloths reserved for opening when the ratty ones grew moldy, and he wets it under the sink with cool water. He kneels by Alastor's feet, and Alastor whines, squirming, when he feels him.
"We're done, it's alright. Just cleaning you up. It's the least I can do."
Alastor whimpers again, face pressed into the table, trying to hide himself. Vincent lets him, focusing on cleaning cum from his tighs and bush, before he gets Alastor's boxers and pantsup, rebuttons and zips and clips the belt for him. He comes around, sitting at the table facing Alastor.
His eyes fall to the notebook. He traces his fingers over a crossed out name. Alastor tenses. Vincent ignores that tension, reading over the list of names, and he pauses as something clicks into place.
Missing men. Men whose body parts were found and identified but not the entire corpse. Men who had been found dead in graves in hunting grounds. Men who had been all over the news.
"…Hey." He snaps his fingers, and Alastor's eyes dart to him.
"The police would find this mighty interesting, wouldn't they… Let's make a deal, sweet thing."
He reaches out, cupping Alastor's face, thumb stroking his cheekbone. He sees Alastor struggling to not lean into it, wanting comfort after the violation. Human nature.
Vox didn't mind providing that comfort.
"I'm gonna untie you, and we're gonna pretend none of this happened. I never fucked you so good you came like a cheap slut—" Alastor flinches. "And I never caught onto your little hobby. If you fight when I untie you, or, God forbid, you call the police on me?"
He rips out the page, and a few others similar. He folds them carefully, and places them in the breast pocket of his white dress shirt.
"I'll make sure the police see this. Is that clear? Hey. Look at me. There you are. Trust me, it'll be better for both of us if we just play like it never happened, play ignorant."
Alastor is shaking, glaring at him. Vincent knows his arms are tired, his body sore. He likely wanted to go home and try to scrub the feeling of Vincent off of and out of him, though he'll never feel clean again. He'll always feel Vincent, under the skin of anyone else who dares to feel him.
He nods.
Vincent smiles, kissing his forehead so gently, one would think they were lovers, before he walks around and unties Alastor's wrists, helps him stand up. He places the ticket down, kissing his temple and grinning when Alastor flinches again. Intimacy has been destroyed for him. All forms will remind him of Vincent.
He has to swallow down the arousal that stirs.
"Your check, whenever you're ready."
Alastor sits there with another cup of coffee until the cook returns. He has a blank look despite the near constant smile. He'd cried off mascara, and Vincent had happily cleaned his face during that episode.
He pays for the meal up front, and he is limping when he walks to his car.
Vincent takes note of it. A vintage model. Deep green. License plat DR2K1. He memorizes these details, just in case.
He expects no tip on the table, but when he's clearing his tables, he sees it placed underneath the coffee mug. He's careful as he picks it up, staring blankly down at the crisp $100 bill in his hand, and the small folded paper beneath it.
Unfolded, it reads out a phone number in red ink, and a small note.
You're like me, aren't you?
Call me.
He shoves both into his pocket and hurries up to clock out.