Echoes in a Borrowed Body

A low, pained moan escaped Alastor as consciousness returned. His head throbbed with a dull, disorienting ache. He was lying in a soft bed, the sheets scented with a cologne he almost recognized. With a groan, he pushed himself upright and watched the room spin into focus—a lavish Art Deco space of sharp angles and polished wood, yet entirely unfamiliar. Cold panic prickled at the base of his spine. He had no memory of how he’d gotten here.

When he turned, Alastor saw Vox asleep beside him. Why was he in Vox's bed? His last memory was of searing pain, the taste of blood, and Adam’s triumphant sneer. He should be dead.

He had to leave. Now. Moving carefully, Alastor swung his legs over the side of the bed, but as his feet touched the floor, he nearly stumbled. Something was wrong—terribly wrong. The perspective felt off, as though the floor were farther away than it should be. Had he shrunk? A strange, heavy weight on his chest pulled him forward. Trembling, he raised his hands and brushed the soft, yielding flesh.

He fell back onto the mattress with a gasp, his hands flying to his chest. Breasts. He had breasts. His disbelieving gaze traced the unfamiliar curves of a woman’s body beneath the silk nightgown. A wave of nauseating vertigo washed over him, and he quickly looked away, his mind screaming in denial. This was impossible. He was a man. He was.

Vox stirred, half-buried in the blankets, and mumbled, “Alastor… Just go take a piss and get back to bed,” his words slurring together, heavy and slow with sleep.

This had to be a nightmare. He should be dead—Adam had killed him. Yet here he was, lying in a bed with Vox, the man’s scent heavy in the air, the sheets terrifyingly real.

How could any of this be real? How had they ended up together?

Panic clawed at Alastor’s chest. He couldn’t stay. Should he leave a note? Apologize for whatever had transpired? Explain that he had no memory?

Sliding off the bed, knees shaking, vision tilting, he searched the floor for clothes. All he found was a delicate, floral-print dress draped over a chair and a pair of heels placed neatly beside it. His stomach twisted. Narrowing his eyes, a flare of defiant anger cut through the fear. He refused to wear heels.

The cold air sent a shiver up Alastor’s bare legs as he stumbled toward Vox’s closet. He swung the door open to reveal a starkly divided space. One side held elegant dresses, blouses, and skirts; the other was filled with sharp, well-tailored suits. A profound dread seeped into his bones. Were they dating? The very idea was unthinkable.

He reached for a dark pinstripe suit, its style reminiscent of his own. The trousers were too long and hung loose around his waist. The shirt billowed across his chest but strained dangerously at the bust, the last several buttons refusing to close, leaving the fabric gaping open. Frustrated, he cinched the trousers with a belt, the leather biting into his hips.

His reflection was a grotesque parody of a woman drowning in a man’s clothes. Digging deeper, he cursed under his breath, searching for any shoes that weren't contemptible heels.

Vox stirred fully when the bed remained cold. The clock glowed 2:00 a.m. A smirk tugged at his lips as he watched her. She looked adorable in his clothes, like a child playing dress-up. His amusement grew as the trousers slid down her hips while she rummaged, listening to her mutter curses while she hitched them back up.

But the smirk vanished the moment her hands closed around a pair of his sturdy oxfords.

She was planning to run. Again. His amusement faded into weary composure. The device in his grasp gave a low, steady hum.

He believed he had shown her the cost of such recklessness, yet it seemed the lessons were already forgotten.

A sudden, excruciating jolt of electricity ripped through Alastor. White-hot agony seized his muscles, burning along every nerve. A raw, terrified scream tore from his throat as he collapsed to the floor, clutching his chest and gasping for air. What sorcery was this?

Wide-eyed with shock, he turned to see Vox standing by the bed, his expression unreadable. He had forgotten—Vox’s expertise was electricity. Had Vox finally done it?

Alastor’s hand flew to his neck, his fingers brushing against a cool, smooth band of metal. He clawed at it, searching for a clasp or hinge, but it was a seamless, unbroken circle. A collar.

With legs like water, he scrambled toward the door, driven by pure instinct. But Vox was faster, moving with unnerving speed to block his path. His arms wrapped around Alastor, the grip deceptively gentle yet as unyielding as iron.

“Alastor, you’re not going anywhere,” Vox whispered, his breath hot against her ear, sending a violent shiver down Alastor spine. “You told me you learned your lesson last time. So tell me, my dear—why are you disobeying me?” His voice was a low, threatening purr.

Alastor trembled, confusion and fear a toxic mix in his veins. What was Vox talking about?

In a flash of panic, Alastor bit down on the arm holding him, just hard enough to be released.

Vox growled, his patience visibly thinning. He raised his hand, and for a heart-stopping moment, Alastor was certain he would be struck.

That was when the old childhood nickname—a relic from a life a million miles away—tore from Alastor’s lips. “Voxxy! I don’t understand! What did you do to me? How did I get here?”

Vox froze. The anger on his face melted into stunned confusion. His heart pounded with excitement. “Voxxy.” She hadn’t called him that in years.

“Are we dating?” Alastor pressed, his voice cracking. "What do you mean by saying I 'learned my lesson'? Why am I here?” He kept the terrifying truth to himself—the chilling certainty that he was now inhabiting the body of his female self in a world not his own.

Vox pulled her closer, his grip tightening almost painfully, then spun and slammed the bedroom door shut. He pressed a button on the remote. A heavy, mechanical click echoed through the room.

Alastor stared at the door in disbelief. There was no keyhole, no visible bolt. His freedom was forfeited at the touch of a button. “How…?” he breathed, a mixture of terror and horrible, reluctant awe. Her astonishment was palpable. She used to give him that same look when he explained his inventions, back when he was just trying to impress the clever, sharp-witted girl he’d always been obsessed with.

Vox glared, searching Alastor’s face as he decided whether it was an elaborate ruse to avoid her punishment. Then his expression softened at the sight of wide, terrified eyes and a genuinely lost, vulnerable look. She wasn’t defying him—she was seeking protection. He grinned inwardly. And she thought they were dating? The absurdity was almost laughable.

He had forced Alastor to marry him two years ago. He’d systematically stripped away her job, her friends, and her independence, ensuring she would depend solely on him.

“Alastor.” Vox’s voice dropped into a calmer, more possessive register. “We’re not dating. We’re married. We’ve been married for two years.” He pulled her into a tight embrace, tucking her head under his chin as though soothing a frightened animal. “I saved you. Don’t you remember? You nearly died.”

He felt her trembling against him and frowned, mistaking it for guilt. “Sweetheart, I’m not angry with you anymore. I’ve forgiven your… lapses in judgment. I don’t blame you. I blame Charlie.”

His tone sharpened, the memory still raw. “You had to help her with that ridiculous hotel. She provoked Val by stealing his whore, and you nearly got yourself killed—taking a bullet for her.” Alastor hissed when Vox’s arms clamped tighter, only for them to slacken a moment later, though the raw pain and fury lingered in his voice. “I warned you not to get tangled up in that girl’s foolish dreams of saving degenerates. But you never listened, did you?”

His voice grew harsher, filling the room with anger. “You told me to fuck off. You said you didn’t need me. You said that you could take care of yourself. That I wasn’t your husband and had no right to tell you what to do.” Alastor shivered as Vox’s breathing grew heavier, his arms constricting once again, a flicker of fear flashing in his own eyes.

“I was with Val that day,” Vox continued, a dark chuckle rumbling in his chest. “I killed everyone in that hotel except Charlie and her girlfriend. I had to make you mine; it was the only way to ensure you’d never make such a disastrous choice again. I did what was necessary to keep you safe. Val took back his slut and got two new whores as compensation.

Lucifer stepped in to save his daughter, marrying her off to his business partner to make sure Charlie would stay in line and act like a woman of her breeding. She’s had twins; you saw them last month. A reward for being good.”

Vox chuckled darkly. “But poor Vaggie… Let’s just say she hung around until her last breath.”

Vox’s laughter sent a chill of existential dread down his spine.

This was an entirely different universe—a darker, crueler reflection of his own. Alastor's last memory was of the police raid on Charlie’s hotel, which was sparked by someone reporting Charlie’s relationship with Vaggie. For the authorities, it was a pretext to punish a woman who hired people of color, sheltered a drug addict, and offered a safe home to someone like Niffty.

He had sacrificed himself to buy them time, his final act entrusting Husk and Angel with leading the others to the emergency safe haven. His heart hardened against Charlie’s desperate begging until Vaggie intervened, pulling her away. As they fled, Husk clutched a sobbing Niffty, who reached back for Alastor, her small cries lost in the chaos. Husk shouted for Angel to start running.

Angel refused to flee, brandishing a gun and insisting he could fight. In that moment, Alastor’s low opinion of him shattered, replaced by a stunned respect for the fierce anger in his eyes. Driven by raw urgency, Alastor drew him into an impulsive hug. “Just keep Niffty safe for me. Promise me,” he whispered. Angel broke the hug, his expression raw with hurt. “Fine, Smiles,” he spat, the word thick with emotion. “But give them hell for me. I’ll treat her as my own.” Swallowing his tears, Angel finally turned and ran.

He had baited the police into a chase, drawing them away from the hotel and deeper into the woods. With every step, he hurled vicious insults crafted to shred their racist pride, loudly claiming he had seduced every white woman in town.

He had to give his family time; they needed to escape.

Alastor ran until his legs failed, then turned to face Adam. A sharp, taunting smirk was his only defense. He spat his final, personal blow: "Lute and the others said you're a failure in bed—that you can't satisfy them."

The gunshot was Adam's answer. Yet even as the bullet tore through him, Alastor died laughing, certain he had shattered Adam's ego. Alastor’s eyes widened in shock; this had to be Hell.

“No! You’re lying!” he cried, beginning to struggle fiercely in Vox’s embrace. He pounded his much smaller hands against the man’s chest. “I’m dead! This is Hell! I died!”

His breaths came in shallow, panicked gasps as the room spun around him, and he fought for air. Vox tightened his grip, his voice softening into a soothing cadence meant to calm a scared child. “Shhh, it’s alright. I’ve got you, sweetheart. You’re safe with me.”

His words were a gentle hum, but his eyes burned with a hungry, possessive light. “I saved you because I love you. I’ve killed to keep you, and I’ll eliminate anyone who tries to take you from me. You have nothing to fear.”

Her hysteria worried him; it was a stark contrast to the silent resentment that usually followed her nightmares.

Helplessness washed over Alastor, and he wept, shuddering sobs into Vox’s chest. This must be his afterlife, an inescapable reality. Vox kissed her head, then gently picked her up and carried her back to bed.

Alastor growled in frustration, producing a feral sound that only amused Vox, whose soft, eerie laughter filled the room as he undressed her and tucked Alastor under the covers.

Smiling down, he whispered, “You’re safe now, sweetheart,” placing a soft kiss on her lips before she could react. “Whatever terrible dream you had was just a nightmare.” Climbing in beside her, Vox wrapped his arms around Alastor, pulling her close.

When Alastor kept trying to pull away, each movement caused her to rub against his hardening length. Vox tightened his hold instantly, and his voice dropped to a low, intimate warning. “Stop moving,” he murmured, his breath hot against her neck. “I have work in three hours. If you keep squirming, I won't be able to sleep. Behave, or I’ll use a pleasant way to exhaust you. Now go to sleep, Alastor.”