Vox went further than Alastor had anticipated. He knew the television-screened man was deranged in the most vile of ways, but he hadn't anticipated for him to try and pull a stunt like this. Desperation must be at the forefront of his mind.

Alastor tapped his shoe against the ground, barely able to revel in the pained groans of the grunt he had all but torn apart. Much like the contract he had torn in the same manner, the paper scattered about on the wooden table.

He breathed in. A deep, hearty breath.

Alastor was a stickler for a lot of things. Always freshened his hair first thing in the morning. Beauty was important in any society, as much as a smile was. He took time to carefully iron out his clothes, to ensure he looked presentable in every aspect of his public appearance. That was who he was, a fundamental of his character he showed to others.

One habit he had picked up, seven years before he appeared at the hotel, was looking over anything people tried to get him to sign.

Alastor never had the need to sign anything when he was starting off in hell, not until he started to amass massive power. However, soul contracts had been so straightforward then that he never needed to. He could always take one glance at a soul contract and know, instinctively, who it was for.

Nowadays, soul contracts are much more complicated. Full of tedious wordplay and elongated sentences. Alastor had learned to read everything given to him with scrutiny when he had nearly signed a contract to harbor his soul away before that woman nearly ripped him apart. Alastor spent seven years licking his wounds and bruised pride, and learned a good few lessons from that incident.

Like fully reading a contract. So when someone had approached him regarding the possibility of expanding his radio show, while he had been interested, Alastor performed his due diligence. Being able to broadcast to the other rings of hell would be a perfect endeavor to focus on so he wasn't twiddling his thumbs waiting for the wedding. It was easy to get lost in his obsessive mental ramblings about the skeleton that broke through his defenses, so he made sure to take time balancing his other hobbies and relationships as well.

Alastor hadn't expected to find content regarding the ownership of his soul in the contract.

Though, he supposed the man who delivered it hadn't expected the violent reaction Alastor had. A very mutual exchange for the both of them.

So now he was torn open like a can of sardines, and Alastor was fuming. Trying to put a cap onto his burning rage would do no good, so instead he set forth to utilize it. Let it simmer, like a slow cooker. Until it would pop open and allow him the best of revenge on the television.

Vox had been quiet. Other than the blackout that continued on for the rest of the day, the man hadn't set foot out into public. Alastor assumed he was doing much of what he had done all those years ago—licking his wounds in solitude, to save himself the embarrassment of roaming outside with a short fuse. Of course, that was under the assumption that Vox was anything within the realm of logical.

Oh, but to be plotting to try and steal away Alastor's soul?

What a devious little idea he had brewed up. It never would have worked, but the sheer gall of trying to pull that off was enough to piss him off. And Alastor knew what Vox would do if he could get his hands on Alastor, too. Knew the gross, sexual acts he'd enact for his little fantasies. Vox was dating the head of the porn industry in hell; of course he had all sorts of ideas and gadgets stored away.

Alastor would have to pay Vox a visit once he got his wits back. This was a step too far, too unacceptable for him to be able to tolerate it.

How unsettling that Vox could have succeeded if Alastor hadn't been thorough. There was no safeguard Alastor could put into place. One single signature on the wrong page, and it was over. There was no undoing a soul contract by anyone other than the contract owner. Alastor would be helpless to their orders, nothing more than a pawn. Absolutely disgusting.

The only way to prevent it would be to have someone own his soul, so all future contracts would default to invalid. But there was no one in hell Alastor would dare to hand over that much power to anyone. Ever. If anything, he would just toss it to Sans and call it a day.

His ears perked.

No one in hell. But there was one person in existence Alastor would be willing to trust with such a task.

He was worried about the idea of Sans getting to hell as well, for that exact reason. People loved to prey upon the newcomers, to force them into contracts before they could even register what they had just signed away. If Sans was too unrecognizable or fell into hell too far from Alastor, someone could try to trick him into signing away his soul. Like someone had tried to do with Alastor that very same day.

If Sans' soul was owned by someone else, that problem would be averted. The same with Alastor.

His tapping legs paused.

Technically, two people could own each other's souls. There was no rule in place against giving one's soul to someone they owned, but it never happened. Why would someone go through the effort of making a contract to own someone, just to give them that very same power? It made no sense. No pair was that obtusely obsessed with one another to go through such a decision.

Except for Sans and Alastor.

Alastor didn't just want Sans; it had become this intangible need of him. Integral to his being as a whole. Ever since Sans had stepped into the forbidden inner circle of Alastor's heart, he was forever changed. An existence without his Mother was dreadful, but he knew it was for the better. For her. She deserved better.

An existence without Sans wasn't feasible anymore. Sans taught him so much, became so much, that Alastor couldn't imagine an existence without him. He'd wilt away into a shadow of a man, nothing more than that. He doubted he would have stayed sane if Sans didn't have the intrinsic need mirrored toward Alastor. Alastor would have probably scooped down to scummy levels, much like how Vox did, for a morsel of Sans' attention and affection.

Not that Vox would get any pity from Alastor. He tried to steal his soul for depraved, sexual needs. Alastor would take Sans' soul to cherish.

They weren't the same.

Of course, Alastor would respect if Sans didn't want to give away his soul. The thought was unsettling, but Alastor was already so tied to Sans that having him own his soul wouldn't be much of a change at all. He'd rather give his soul to the person he trusted, his fiancé, his soon-to-be husband of a bestie, than risk leaving it open for more attempts like this. And he'd feel comfortable if Sans would agree in turn, so they both could have safeguards.

And it would be a far more intimate sign of trust and companionship than silly rings.

Alastor found the thought of giving control over to Sans the most preferable of outcomes. But he supposed he gave up caring ages ago. Having so little interest in other people meant that Alastor was simply helpless when one did come along. It was just in his nature.

It would be another reassurance to have as well, in case anything did happen. Alastor despised that absent look on Sans nowadays, dull on pills that dulled all the wrong senses he didn't need dulled. It was infuriating to watch. Alastor had half a mind to flush those godforsaken pills down the toilet and kill the man that dared to make such a baseless prescription.

Alas, Sans insisted on abiding by laws, and someone else would step into the man's shoes and continue the prescription and threat of a random test over Sans' head.

Alastor moved to stand, tucking his chair back underneath the table. It would be just a few months, then Sans would be back to his full force.

For now, he had to make an example out of a television.

Vox was laughably easy to find. He always was, in his damn tower labeled with the first letter of his name. On the opposite side of the spectrum from Alastor, but a narcissist all the same. Foolish, really. He should have hidden better if he was going to try and pull a move like that. Vox was working on something unrelated, an insistent grinding of his pixelated teeth as he murmured to himself.

None of it mattered. What mattered was showing Vox who he chose to mess with.

A tentacle snapped out, snatching around Vox's ankle and sending his body flying into the wall of screens stationed around him. The man screeched out from the sudden attack, his limbs flailing and jerking out like a useless fish out of water. Alastor relished in the impact, in the explosion of screaming metals and shattering screens.

He wanted to say the sight before him was beautiful, but it wasn't. It was forgettable, the kind of afternoon meal you had that you wouldn't remember in a week. Nice at the moment, but worthless. Vox was always worthless, and his death would be equally so. If he did ever die. Alastor would be willing to bribe some angels down for one more extermination if it meant getting rid of the bastard.

His stalker, to be specific. Alastor was so much better, asking Sans for permission. And Sans was perfectly content with it. Something Vox would never understand.

"Vox, my annoying little stalker," Alastor said, drawing forward. His feet crept steadily, tauntingly. He reveled in the glitched groans of the annoying overlord, and basked in the horrified expression the man projected once he realized who had invited themselves in.

"Alastor, what are you doing here?" Vox asked, his voice trembling. His arms tried to steady him, but a quick flick of Alastor's wrist sent Vox slamming back down against the ground.

"Why, didn't you just send over an invitation? I'm surprised you thought I wouldn't come after receiving such a declaration of war. Quite insulting, I must say!" His voice bristled near the end, and Alastor ricocheted his head from side to side, crackling at each bend. "I can't believe you thought I'd be so shallow as to sign something without reading it."

Vox coughed a brittle, rattling noise. His face strained, eyes wide and mouth ajar. Alastor wondered what the screen would look like once the man was truly dead. Would his eyes be closed, or would the screen flicker off entirely?

Alastor craved an answer to that question very, very soon.

"You bastard—"

Another flick of his wrist cut off Vox, who was flung back against the wall again.

"I believe I should be calling you that," Alastor hummed. He straightened his posture more, not allowing such tiresome company to cause him to stray from manners. "After all, you dared to try and trick me into signing away my soul?"

"I—you didn't—" Vox was all over the place, limbs flailing and head glitching as he tried to stand his ground.

"I'm to be wed, and should be enjoying the engaged life with my fiancé, and yet—" Alastor narrowed his eyes. "Yet I got interrupted by you of all people. Are you seriously so deranged that you had to throw a temper tantrum?"

Hook, line, and sinker. The squabbling little fish snared around the worm, his eyes flaring with possessive anger as he surged forward. A problem easily solved by another tentacle flicking him away.

Really, it was a shame who could become overlord nowadays. When Vox didn't have his hypnotic powers, he was quite a useless little bug. Depending too much on an ability that couldn't affect everyone could only result in failure.

"Who is it? Who are you fucking marrying?" Vox roared, half trying to crawl toward Alastor. His gaze was fierce, as if he wanted to rip apart Alastor for daring to have his own life.

"And why should that concern you?" Alastor asked.

Vox snarled. Alastor picked between his nails and hoped this would fasten a screw back into his bothersome mind.

"You little—"

Another tentacle, and by god above, was this getting tiring now. Vox was a hamster wheel of meaningless objections, and the thrill of violence was starting to dissipate.

"Who I choose to form relationships with is none of your concern," Alastor continued, his voice thin and waning. "Who I choose to marry, for whatever reasons, is none of your concern. I don't know why you've gotten this idea of you and me being eternally bonded through friendship turned rivalry, but I'm going to put a stop to it now."

Alastor hunted, and Vox shriveled. Shadows blossomed underneath his feet, a vile cacophony of power and hatred alike. His annoyance bristled, causing green and red to flash out from the darkness.

Eventually, Alastor was standing over Vox. He leans forward.

"This is your final warning. If you ever pull that again, I will rip you apart and feed you to my future husband," Alastor whispered.

Vox's eyes narrowed.

"So it's a fucking guy?" He shrieked out.

Oh, for fuck's—

Alastor swatted away the thought, littered with the disgusting foulness of a swear, and brought down his attacks until Vox portrayed the pretty image Alastor left his goon in. A mockery of it, really.

This one was far more bloody.

Sans was sleeping when Alastor arrived. Tuckered underneath a blanket on his living room couch, immobile. Skeletons didn't need to breathe. It was fascinating to watch him, as still as a rock, linger in a state that resembled death yet continued to be ever so alive. Alastor never was one to enjoy watching others sleep, and he would continue to claim so to this day.

Watching Sans sleep wasn't an endeavor he took for enjoyability. More so curiosity. To pick apart this species other than himself, understand how it ticks. It was the closest Alastor would ever come to being a scientist, dipping his toes into the exploration before tugging away from the sharp cold water.

Alastor did have better things to do, after all. Sans would answer any question willingly, and sometimes with glee.

It was nice to know Sans was excited to talk about his biology. Alastor would be, too, if he were the representation of death.

There was busywork to be done, though, so Alastor allowed himself to get swept away in it. A kitchen to be cleaned, a hallway to be swept. Idle work that allowed him to drift, half there as his mind dazed about. All the while, Sans slept, a rock to the world.

It was near infuriating.

This wasn't Sans. Sans jostled and groaned from anguish from noises at night. Sans leaned over and all but slapped Alastor awake because he had been tossing and turning too much, as a bastard would do. Sans didn't just sleep through it all as a corpse that was dragged onto the couch, instead of his best friend tucked in.

The broom in his hands paused. Alastor had to bite down the urge to steal himself down to hell again to take a second swing at Vox.

He continued to sweep until his joints ached.

Eventually, the house was sparkly clean, and Alastor had nothing else to do but to return to Sans' side and jostle him awake. The skeleton awoke slowly, each limb outstretching in a stretch that had every joint crack and groan.

"Mornin'," Sans grunted.

"It's four in the afternoon, Cheshire."

Sans' leg kicked out and missed by a good few inches. Alastor sat upon it the moment it crossed the threshold of the couch, effectively pinning the bottom half of Sans to said couch.

"You would not believe the day I just had," Alastor started, setting his staff to the side. Sans watched, amusement crossing his features in slow waves. A dripping faucet of personality, blooming Sans into something lovelier.

"Neither would you," Sans added. "Today, this demon broke in and crushed every bone I had. It was awful."

"Aw, what a pity. I was hoping to keep one of those bones to myself."

From the depths of Sans' throat, a go on noise carried out. Alastor obliged, telling Sans all about the bothersome little demon who dared to think he could trick Alastor. Nodding along, Sans lay there, ensnared by the weight of Alastor's body.

"Sounds rough, buddy," Sans said after the tale dried like a well amidst a desert storm.

"I suppose it was—why, it was certainly more bold than his previous attempts. A terrifying prospect I hadn't anticipated anyone pulling." His finger, at some point, began tapping against his chin.

"It's high risk, but high reward. Plenty of people would dive onto a meager chance—it's why the lottery and gambling are so damn popular."

Ah, yes. Wanting to be 'the one.' Alastor never quite understood it. The odd thrill people had toward risking everything at the chance of winning everything, no matter how meager or rigged the system was. Perhaps it was the laziness and the addictive sweetness of a promised happily ever after that lured them so.

Alastor never bothered to understand. Another typical personal desire others had that eluded him, like all the others.

"But," Alastor continued. "It gave me some time to think."

"Do tell."

"The rules of selling one's soul are pretty straightforward, you see. Soul contracts can be voided if the soul is already owned by someone else."

Eventually, Sans' face fell away to realization. Fingers itched across his chest for a moment, silence permeating through the air.

"That's quite the request," Sans settled for.

"I won't deny it. But you did request marriage as of recently, and considering how big of an ask that was, I think I'm allowed an absurd request of my own."

"Oh, shut up. There's a difference between a new ring and forever binding my soul to a demon."

"I don't see any difference, frankly. Both are practically the same thing."

Sans dwelled for a moment longer.

"I dunno, that's a big ask there, bud." His voice wallowed for a moment, as if trying to decide if it should be angry or confused. "I mean, we're getting married, I definitely do trust you, it's just a bit weird, ya know? It's like asking me to put a leash onto myself and hand it over. It's not that I don't trust you; it's just a weird fucking ask."

"I understand," Alastor said, because he wasn't a fool. "You can take the time to—"

"Nah, I'll do it."

Alastor startled, his ears flattening, as he gave a slow look over to Sans. And there Sans was, half weighed down by Alastor, with a small reassuring smile drawn onto his face.

"Really?" Alastor asked.

"Let's wait until the wedding, or something, to make it feel more important," Sans said. "But I'm game. If the TV guy is gonna keep trying to pull that crap, I'd rather have a safeguard. But I need time to get used to the idea. Does that work?"

"It does," Alastor said, unable to fight down the biggest smile of his life. "It really does."