Work Text:
The silver platter started out as a joke.
It was kind of an ironic dig at first, something to make Vox chuckle to himself while he arranged sinner flesh in artful whorls on the gleaming tray, but now it’s just another tradition of theirs—something to look forward to, something to make the occasion feel special, unique. After all, he visits so irregularly these days. It does no harm to spice things up a bit.
He sets the silver platter onto his marble countertop, briefly smiling at his own warped, shiny reflection. Sliding over the white and pink striped specialty box from Rosie’s Emporium in front of him, he runs his claws through the frilly white ribbon and unfolds the cardboard flaps, very familiar with this ritual by now. The cannibalism stuff used to disgust him in the early days, but he’s had seven years to get over himself in that regard; it’s all meat at the end of the day. Not that he’s ever going to try a bite himself, but, well.
Outsourcing it is a pain in the ass, though. Rosie, that stubborn bitch, refuses to sell to anyone officially associated with the Vees anymore, so nowadays Vox pays a few different unrelated imps under the table to have delivery shipped to the tower. An annoying circumvention, certainly, but it avoids the fruitlessness of attempting to negotiate with the Cannibal Queen, and Vox makes due.
He sighs, rueful. So much of life is about accommodation.
Tonight, dinner is sinner tartare and almond pralines, paired with a Sazerac cocktail that Vox brings out as a reward when he’s in a good enough mood and a certain someone downstairs has been on his best behavior. He lifts the packaged tartare from the box and sets it on the tray, leaving it wrapped for now, then rummages around in his cabinets to procure a little ceramic side dish to put the pralines in. The whiskey gets poured into two glass tumblers over ice and a spiral of lemon peel.
Vox is humming to himself by the time the platter is ready, inordinately proud of himself and eager to see how it’s received. The elaborate spread isn’t really for him, no matter how much he insists on referring to these dinners as shared meals between old friends, but there’s no need to clarify this out loud. They both understand the unspoken subtext.
Curling his claws gingerly around the silver handles, he lifts the platter with care and makes his way to the elevators.
Going down.
Seven years ago, Vox killed the Radio Demon.
Or so the story went, anyway, when the official announcement came out, sponsored by Voxtek and broadcast on every available frequency in Pride. By that point, small-scale journalism had been thoroughly quashed under Vox’s sticky-fingered monopoly on the press, so no one could independently verify his narrative even if they were brave enough to try. Besides, he had the footage to back it up, and it didn’t matter that the video was ever-so-slightly… embellished with AI, because who the hell was going to outright challenge the guy who just murdered the Radio Demon in broad daylight?
No one, that was who, and anyone who harbored lingering doubts either strategically shut their fucking mouths or found out what death by twenty thousand volts tasted like.
Vox has repeated the same story for seven years, and he’ll keep repeating it for as long as it takes to stamp out every last sinner’s memory of Alastor from their minds besides this one: the one where Vox, finally, wins.
The trivialities of the fight aren’t relevant. What matters is the ending: the angelic dagger in Vox’s hands. Alastor’s microphone snapped cleanly in half. The gruesome, triumphant sensation of driving the knife deep, deep between Alastor’s ribs, carving through putrid flesh and puncturing organs, blood pouring in thick rivers down Vox’s arms and dripping from his elbows, splattering his screen, staining his shoes. The way Alastor had choked on his own agonized laughter, weakly gripping Vox’s wrists; those bright crimson eyes of his losing focus, fluttering shut, ears limply folding back as he’d collapsed to his knees. The way his smile stayed to the very end.
Which is around where the truth and Vox’s propaganda begin to diverge.
Even Valentino and Velvette aren’t privy to this next part, and Vox intends to keep it that way. He trusts the other Vees with his life, but this… this is for him. This is his indulgence, his secret—his personal, private show.
The elevators carry him down, down, down.
As he descends, his omnipresent awareness of the city dims, fading into a background hum of radiation. The sheer noise from being hooked up to the city’s electrical grid usually crowds in oppressively at the edges of his consciousness, a vast ocean held at bay with a single locked door, but this far underground, it’s like the difference between a jet engine and a kazoo. Everything is dialed down. No signal reaches this place that doesn’t come from Vox himself.
As such, and since they are still in the heart of his territory, he never feels truly disadvantaged down here; just uncomfortably stifled, as though his speakers have been stuffed with cotton. Like the dinner in his hands, the near-dead zone in the bowels of V Tower is personally tailored to only one demon’s physiology in particular.
Ah, the things he does for love.
Finally, the elevators let out a pleasant ding, sliding open. Vox steps out onto the lowest floor of the building, one level below the shared basement. Valentino and Velvette have no idea this place even exists.
It’s not large. Just shy of nine hundred square feet, the space can generously be called an open-plan apartment, since Vox lives by the motto that anything worth doing is worth overdoing: all deep blue walls, gray tiled floors, bolted-down furniture here and there, cameras in every corner (both obvious and subtle ones), a clawfoot bathtub tucked into an intentionally and decidedly not private alcove, a kitchen and a bar—both left perpetually empty, of course, they’re only for show—and a reappropriated conversation pit in the middle of the room, now functioning as a makeshift bed. Vox had intended for the conversation pit to be just a place where they could talk and hang out during his visits, but his initial offering of a real bed had been rejected in favor of piling up all the blankets and pillows into the pit, and at a certain point Vox had given up trying to impose rules about petty things like that. It really doesn’t matter in the long run.
The real star of the floor plan is Vox’s most important modification. In the center of the room, there’s a supportive pillar braced floor-to-ceiling, and drilled into the base of this pillar is a heavyset, industrial-grade chain.
Angelic steel.
He’d blown a ridiculous amount of money on that chain and had to fabricate some bullshit excuse to explain to the other Vees where the conspicuous aberration in the company’s finances had come from, but it had been necessary. He can’t risk everything he’s worked so hard for escaping right out from under him.
Not that he worries about that very much anymore. Again, seven years is a long time to acclimate oneself to a situation. It’s a bit hysterical to think about, but Vox genuinely feels like they’ve both grown domesticated, and see? All it took was a bit of… recalibrating, so to speak.
Vox has only ever wanted for things to work out between them. It’s a shame they couldn’t get here peacefully, but it’s a small price to pay, all things considered.
The lights are off, so he flicks them on, flooding the gloomy space with bright fluorescents.
Vox blinks, and then sighs.
The place is destroyed. The damage is glaringly obvious under the lights: ugly gouges from claws and antlers mar the walls and flooring, the sofa has been gutted and its inner stuffing strewn about, and the only glass paneling in the whole suite—the inlaid mirror on the far wall—has been shattered, shards of glass speckling the ground.
There’s blood, too, but not insane amounts of it, which is reassuring.
Bad day, then. Vox mentally pivots from good-time buddy mode to damage control mode.
Somehow despite all of this, it’s not immediately evident where Alastor is. Frankly, there shouldn’t be any real places for him to hide, but—ah, there we are, Vox thinks a moment later, shaking his head fondly. Under the harsh beam of the lights, it’s easy to see where the steel chain unspools away from the pillar, pulled taut to its maximum twelve feet of slack, looping around the side of the kitchen island and disappearing from sight.
“Honey, I’m home,” Vox drawls, picking his way through a sea of sofa innards and broken glass. His heels click hollowly, reflecting the emptiness of the space, and he doesn’t get a response, which is typical. He sets the platter down on the sleek white surface of the island. “Hey, Alastor.”
There’s a quiet scraping sound, claws skittering on smooth tile. A soft huff of breath. Vox waits a gracious three seconds before circling around to the other side of the island, bending at the waist to look underneath it.
He smiles, warm and sympathetic. “That can’t be comfortable.”
In the shadowy nook beneath the island, Alastor is crammed as far backwards as humanly possible, knees crushed to his chest and head ducked low, hidden, as he shudders at Vox’s words. One ear flicks towards him in an unmistakable tell, and then a glaring crimson eye peers out between a gap in his folded arms.
“Vox?” Alastor says, fraught and hoarse.
His radio filter is muted at the best of times these days, but it’s completely gone now, stripping his voice bare. The sound of it like this always sends a honeyed thrill down Vox’s spine.
“I noticed you wrecked the apartment again,” Vox says evenly. He tries to avoid rewarding poor behavior. “I thought we talked about this.”
Alastor snarls, but it’s toothless. “You’ve been gone for a month.”
Oh. Shit. Has it really been that long? Vox briefly checks his calendar and internally winces; seven weeks and three days since he’s been down here last. More than a month, but Alastor has no way of tracking time down here besides by Vox's visits, and Vox doesn’t have a consistent schedule for these little check-ins, per se—but he’s never stayed gone longer than two weeks before. He’s just been so swamped with busywork lately that Alastor had completely slipped his mind.
Guilt pools in his gut.
“My bad, buddy,” Vox says, shifting his register into a more placating tone. “I was really slammed this past month at work, and I lost track of time. I promise I didn’t leave you alone on purpose.”
“Of course not. Only under extraordinary circumstances could you be compelled to forget about me.”
Alastor’s words are arrogant, but his voice is strained, and even in the darkness Vox can see the fine trembles wracking his body as he huddles under the island, curled so rigidly in on himself that he’s shivering with tension. He must be starving.
“Yeah,” Vox agrees easily. He extends a hand. “Here, why don’t we get up off the floor, hmm? I brought dinner.”
In the early days, Alastor had been much more reticent when it came to touching Vox. He’d refused to let Vox bind his wounds, help him walk, anything that either implied he needed Vox for something or gave Vox any degree of satisfaction—but they’ve since put that needless obstinacy behind them. Alastor only refuses now when he wants to punish Vox or make some kind of statement, and Vox can see the wavering resistance in Alastor’s body language as he struggles between clinging to his resentment over being abandoned for a month or succumbing to his obvious relief about Vox returning.
The relief wins, and that, too, has not always been the case. Vox smiles when Alastor slowly unfolds from his hiding place, reaching out to slip his hand into Vox’s.
Vox really is pleased with how far they’ve come.
He guides Alastor to his feet, letting Alastor lean heavily on him as he awkwardly shuffles on the slick tile with his hooves. By design, nothing in this suite is convenient for ungulate legs—if Alastor wants any degree of meaningful mobility, he either has to crawl or use Vox as a crutch, and one of those options is consistently less humiliating than the other.
Technically, Vox could have installed some carpet, or given Alastor proper shoes, or even ordered a new cane, but of course he hadn’t done any of that.
That would defeat the point.
Alastor clings shakily to Vox’s proffered arm, squinting under the bright lights. His smile is a lukewarm thing compared to Vox’s broad, encouraging grin, but it never leaves his face.
Also, out of the dim shadows, it’s even more apparent that Alastor is in fairly rough shape. His hands and face are littered with shallow cuts, likely from the shattered mirror, and the cable knit burgundy sweater Vox had provided him hangs loosely off of his gaunt frame, dipping low to expose his collarbone and the soft, dark fur there that’s now matted with drying blood. The tip of his left antler is clipped, the velvet chafing in uncomfortable-looking strips.
Around his throat, the angelic steel collar glints dully. The chain clinks, metal whispering across the floor as Alastor steadies himself, claws accidentally biting into Vox’s wrists with how hard he has to grip to stay standing.
“You really did a number on yourself, huh?” Vox says, helping Alastor circle around the island to slump exhaustedly onto one of the barstools. He settles Alastor in place, and once he’s sure the other demon isn’t going to topple off the stool and brain himself on the edge of the counter, he steps over to grab the dinner platter. “Did you reopen it?”
“No clue! I hadn’t cared to check.”
Vox levels him with an unimpressed stare. Alastor manages to return this look for only a moment before dropping eye contact first, glaring down at his lap. His arms curl subconsciously around his midsection.
He mutters, “It tore itself open.”
“It’s so funny how these things just happen. Dinner first, and then I’ll take a look at it.” Vox sets the platter between them, hopping up onto the barstool opposite Alastor. “Apology tartare from the Emporium, apology pralines from a new confectionary joint up northwest, and apology Sazerac from my special stash. Can you ever find it in your heart to forgive me?”
Alastor used to get deeply upset at the mention of either Rosie or the Emporium, so Vox takes it as progress that he doesn’t react to this mention; all he does is drag the platter towards himself, immediately going straight for the meat.
“You’re pathetic. Don’t patronize me.”
Vox lets him have that; it’s not like a few insults are going to give him back anything he’s lost, and none of this would be fun anymore if Alastor ever lost his ability to bite. With an angelic injury in his chest that will never heal, all but powerless without his cane, chronically underfed, and far away from any sources of electromagnetic signals to fuel his power besides Vox himself, all Alastor has are his words and the fangs in his mouth—the things Vox would be most disappointed to see disappear.
He doesn’t want a timid, beaten dog for a pet. He can get those a dime for a dozen topside. What he wants is Alastor, in all his monstrous, cruel, violent glory—he wants the Radio Demon on his chain and all that entails.
So Vox crunches a praline between his teeth, nurses his drink, and greedily laps up the sight of Alastor’s hungry eagerness as he shovels raw flesh into his mouth, hunched over the platter like he’s terrified it’ll be taken away from him. Vox does really feel bad for forgetting to visit for so long; after all this time, he’s come to think of Alastor as a fixture in the tower, someone he can always trust to be there in a way he never really could, before, and so it’s stopped registering as quite so urgent a responsibility to check on him regularly.
Although… he likes this flavor of desperation on Alastor, honestly. Leaning forward on his elbows, Vox watches with a small smile as Alastor licks a streak of hemoglobin off his palm, eyes fluttering shut with pleasure.
It confirms something Vox has suspected for a while now: Alastor misses him when he’s gone. Alastor depends on him for food, for companionship, for medical care. Alastor needs him. Alastor needs him.
Fuck, that feels so good.
Vox swallows thickly, attempting to wrest himself under control. He needs to fucking chill, but god, he wants to be touching Alastor right now; Alastor has finished off the meat and is moving on to the pralines, grimacing briefly because he doesn’t enjoy sweets (something Vox is fully aware of) but also unwilling to turn up his nose at the only sustenance he’s going to get for another few weeks. Hell, maybe Vox will take mercy on him and come back in a few days instead. He could use a longer break from the daily grind of capitalism than just this little rendezvous tonight, and he supposes he has been unfairly neglecting Alastor lately.
Alastor knocks back his Sazerac in one swig, lemon peel and all, breathing hard through his nose. His ears have been angled back all evening, not quite pinning but definitely not happy, and Vox watches as he sinks down in his seat, a hand going to lightly cover his chest as his expression pinches with pain.
Oh, fuck it. They both deserve to relax tonight.
Vox gets to his feet and circles around the island. When he reaches out to grasp Alastor’s elbows, tugging him to his feet, Alastor makes a thin sound of discomfort and latches onto Vox, swaying. He seems dizzy, uncoordinated.
“Probably coming down from all the adrenaline and excitement now, aren’t you?” Vox says, smiling. That’s not the problem and he knows it. Alastor clenches his jaw. “It’s okay, Al. I’ve got you. You’re so damn proud you can’t just ask for help, but I know what you need.”
“Hmm. You do, don’t you?”
Alastor sounds tired. He leans harder on Vox, and Vox gladly supports him.
They make their painstaking way across the suite, Alastor’s hooves slipping underneath him and his chain dragging over the tile as they go. The conversation pit is the only place in the whole apartment that isn’t trashed; in fact, it’s neatly made up, the blankets and pillows folded carefully off to the side, leaving the deep navy cushions and plush carpeting visible. At the edge of the pit, Vox hops down first, then offers his hand for Alastor to take. Alastor takes it and steps down into the pit, nearly tripping over himself before Vox catches him by the shoulders.
“Incredibly, I find myself falling for you after all,” Alastor says dryly, eyes averted, and Vox laughs, squeezing his shoulders.
“Careful, you’ll get my hopes up. Oh, here! Come sit down.”
Vox doesn’t let go as he falls backwards into the cushions, knocking Alastor off balance and making him stagger forward until he collapses into Vox’s lap with a pained yelp. Vox doesn’t give him time to overthink it, instead curling his hands around Alastor’s thighs and dragging him in close, settling Alastor so that he’s firmly straddling Vox against the cushions, pitched forward and forced to support himself with his hands on Vox’s shoulders. Alastor breathes in raggedly, ears fully flat against his head as Vox reaches up with one hand and tenderly rearranges the chain so that it isn’t in their way.
He keeps his other hand firm on Alastor’s thigh, holding him there.
“Shh,” Vox murmurs, cradling the side of Alastor’s face. He strokes the pad of his thumb over Alastor’s cheekbone, smiling at the way Alastor shudders and presses into the touch like a cat, shutting his eyes. Warmth swells inside Vox. Yeah, they both needed this. “I’m not going to hurt you. You know I don’t hurt you unless you ask for it, because this—is all I’ve ever wanted, Alastor. To take care of you. For you to let me take care of you.”
Alastor opens one eye, half-lidded. He brings one lazy hand up to trace a fingertip along the frame of Vox’s screen, and Vox sighs, pleased beyond measure.
“Please don't kid yourself, Vox. All you have ever wanted is to own me. I don’t…” Alastor trails off, voice thin and uncertain, and he shudders again when Vox presses the tips of his claws into the vulnerable underside of his jaw. He keeps talking as Vox’s hand trails lower, sliding down his front and feeling the contours of that lithe body under his palm. “I didn’t… I never wanted… you made me like this. I never used to—to—”
“Most people,” Vox says, slipping his hands under Alastor’s sweater, “have no idea what they want, or what they like. They’re all just dumb, pleasure-seeking animals, cruising through life buying products they don’t need and sleeping with people they don’t love to fill a void left by a lack of control.” He curls one hand around Alastor’s waist and flattens the other over his hollow stomach, feeling Alastor’s abdominal muscles twitch involuntarily under the pressure. “You’re no exception, and that’s okay. You filled the void with power and violence before this, but you don’t need to do that anymore. You don’t need to be in control.” He adds, mildly, “You’re right. I do want to own you. But I think we both know that it’s better this way. Because I know what you want. I know what you like. I give you everything you won’t let yourself ask for.”
“I didn’t ask for the—the touching,” Alastor hisses, but he doesn’t try to push Vox away. In fact, he’s leaning into Vox’s hands, thighs squeezing around Vox’s waist as he tries to press closer, totally at odds with his words.
As always, Alastor betrays himself, every time. He’s his own worst saboteur. It’s cute.
Vox gives him a condescending smile. “Alastor, you obviously like it. Hey, hey, it’s okay, aren’t you listening? Look at me.” Alastor reluctantly meets his eyes. No hypnosis necessary anymore. The vicious thrill of triumph that sears through Vox is heady and addictive. “It’s okay. Nobody’s here but you and me, and I’m in control. I’m going to take care of you.”
Alastor swallows, blinking rapidly. The noise that escapes him when Vox’s fingers brush the dirty bandages around his ribcage is nearly a whine, and Vox wants.
Nearly there now.
“I’ve had you for seven years,” Vox murmurs, reverent, “and I’m not letting you go.”
It’s this, finally, that seems to break Alastor.
His smile fractures, breath stuttering. He abruptly crumples forward to press his forehead to Vox’s collarbone, clutching at Vox’s lapels and crowding in as close as possible; he gasps miserably, voice wet and cracking, as he whimpers, “Vox—”
“I’m here, I’m here,” Vox says, “come on, it’s okay.”
“I hate you, I—I—don’t you dare leave me alone that long ever again—”
“I know. I’m a piece of shit, but I’m sorry. I won’t do it again. I’m not leaving you.”
Vox slides his hands up and down Alastor’s back, petting over the knobs of his spine and holding him while he shivers and sobs, helpless and humiliated and angry—but so, so afraid of being abandoned again. The fear is really what Vox has been seeing this evening, more than anything else. Alastor hadn’t been certain that Vox was ever coming back. Alastor has no one else in the whole world but Vox, and Vox left him alone down here for seven weeks without a word: chained, injured, disadvantaged in every possible way.
While Vox can’t honestly say that he set out intending to engineer this reaction from Alastor, he can’t deny favorable results when he sees them, and, well. He’s never been one to ignore an opportunity when one is presented to him.
He lets Alastor’s little breakdown run its course. This happens sometimes, more and more frequently these days; Alastor’s moods are a mercurial roulette wheel, swinging wildly between one extreme to the next. He can be almost normal sometimes, holding sophisticated conversations and exchanging witty repartee with Vox like nothing has changed. Other times, he’s no better than any other rabid animal on the street. And then there’s moments like this: when he’s reached his limit and needs Vox to step in, hold him down, and put him in his place.
As he cradles Alastor’s shaking body against his own, Vox can admit that he has his favorites.
When Alastor finally collects himself enough to retreat, straightening and wiping furiously at the wetness streaking down his face, a sharp jolt of cold surprise strikes through Vox at the realization that, for the very first time since they met, Alastor isn’t smiling.
Vox can’t help the way he gapes, stunned. Alastor scowls down at him and mutters, "Fuck," hands flying up to cover his face in embarrassment, and it’s then that he tries to shift backwards and clamber off of Vox, but Vox hastily reels him back in, holding him in place. He attempts to wrangle his display back into something even remotely in the same universe as composed.
But the sheer, unadulterated glee rising inside him is overpowering. He can’t help himself.
“Look at that,” he says, awed. He knocks Alastor's shielding hands out of the way and seizes him by the jaw, dragging him in close and ignoring the way Alastor’s body flinches instinctually against the manhandling. It’s his fucking expression that has Vox’s full attention, a masterpiece of honest distress. “After all these years, and I’m finally the one to make the Radio Demon crack his smile. Holy shit. How proud of myself should I be right now?”
Alastor’s eyes are full of anguish. His fingers wrap weakly around Vox's wrists, giving a few ineffectual tugs, and he lets out a small, dismayed mmf sound that makes Vox bark a laugh.
“You’re a riot act, Al, seriously. Hey, come on, no need to look so sad. I just said I’d take care of you, didn’t I?” Vox lets go of Alastor’s face and grabs the hem of his sweater instead. “Let’s get this over with, yeah? I want to enjoy that pretty frown of yours, but I don’t want you to keel over on me. Arms up.”
Alastor is unresisting as Vox tugs the sweater over his head, letting it hang off of the chain. He jolts when Vox begins to unwind the absolutely disgusting bandages, but he stays exactly where Vox wants him: a nuclear reactor docile in his lap, every inch of him a raw, open sore without the shield of his smile protecting him. Giving this to Vox. Giving everything to Vox.
More. Vox always wants more. He is never, ever satisfied, and this indecent display of vulnerability is only making that obsessive greed more potent. It’s stinging the back of his throat like bile.
He swallows it down, for now.
The last of the bandages fall away, and then he’s looking at his handiwork. It’s an ugly wound, jagged and deep where he’d driven the knife through Alastor’s sixth and seventh ribs, carving upwards until the infamous Radio Demon had sputtered and gagged on the blood filling his perforated lungs—but hey, bygones. Vox is pretty sure there aren’t any hard feelings.
If Alastor was anyone else, this injury would have killed him. But here they are, seven years later, and it only looks bad instead of fatal. Vox’s neat stitches have done their job at keeping it closed, even though it will never truly heal.
Not too shabby, he thinks, smug, and gets to work.
He works quickly. He’d been genuine about wanting to just get this over with—while he normally likes to savor all the little noises and micro expressions that Alastor makes during the process, this time he wants to move on as fast as possible; he can’t stop sneaking glances at Alastor’s face, at the subtle unhappy downturn of his lips, the way his whole face transforms when it doesn’t have a constant, maddening smile burned into it.
Focus, Vox, he admonishes himself. He finishes cleaning and disinfecting the wound, then unrolls a new stretch of gauze and binds up Alastor’s chest again, firmly covering the injury.
Last are the various little cuts all over Alastor’s arms and hands, which Vox takes care of with the same gentle haste. Alastor stares down at his hands silently while Vox dabs antiseptic on a slice between his knuckles. The silence is a bit unnerving, actually. Vox isn’t sure he likes it. He presses the alcohol pad a little too hard into one of the larger gashes and relishes in the way Alastor’s ears twitch, reacting; Alastor’s control over them these days is shaky at best, but without his smile, it’s like every other defense in Alastor’s arsenal has been dismantled too.
He winds the last strip of gauze around a bare patch on Alastor’s wrist, taping it down. “There,” he says warmly, lacing Alastor’s fingers with his own. “Much better, wouldn’t you agree?”
Alastor looks at their joined hands for a long moment. Finally, slowly, he tightens his grip, reciprocating the gesture. His shoulders slump. “Yes. Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it. I’ll order a new mirror for the wall, and I guess it was about time for some renovations down here.” Vox glances around at the carnage, which makes Alastor shift, chagrined. “Hey, I’m not mad, shit happens. This is nothing compared to Val’s temper tantrums. I’ve got a whole separate budget for damage control on you two.”
“I don’t appreciate being lumped in with the likes of Valentino,” Alastor says sourly. His smile still hasn’t recovered, and Vox is beginning to hope it might not for a while.
“Don’t destroy my property and you won’t be.”
Alastor cuts his eyes away, frowning. Seriously, frowning, Vox feels like he’s tripped and fallen into paradise. Heaven has nothing on this.
“Hey, I know, it wasn’t your fault this time,” Vox soothes, holding onto Alastor’s hands when the other demon tries to pull back. “Let’s put this little episode behind us, shall we? I’m tired of talking about it, I’m sure you’re tired of thinking about it.”
Alastor exhales. “Alright. I am… exhausted.”
“Aw, I know. Poor baby.”
Vox grins when Alastor snarls, actually succeeding in yanking his hands out of Vox’s grip this time. Vox stays in his relaxed sprawl as Alastor staggers to his feet and puts some distance between them, scooping up his sweater and gingerly pulling it back on. Shame. Vox is still working on the clothing thing with Alastor—he is going to get his hands on that adorable tail eventually—but it’s going to take a lot more patience and careful prodding to maneuver that situation precisely where he wants it. He has all the time in the world.
“Are you still hungry?” Vox asks casually.
“You do so love to ask rhetorical questions, don’t you,” Alastor says, rolling his sleeve cuffs down to cover his bandaged arms. His voice lowers, darkening into a throaty, rasping purr that makes Vox have to resist the urge to shift in his seat. “My dear, I am always hungry. But you knew that already.”
“Yeah. I just wanted to hear you say it.”
Alastor adjusts the hem and neckline of the sweater, grimacing at the way he can’t get it to cover him up to the extent he’d prefer. He touches the collar around his throat before quickly tearing his hand away, shame flickering beautifully across his face for the scarcest of seconds. Vox wants to eat him up.
“Come here, Al,” Vox invites softly, patting the space between his legs. Hopefully, they’ve passed through the ‘coercion’ part of the evening and Alastor will come to him willingly now. “Let me give you what you want.”
Alastor looks at him askance, clutching his elbows like a child anticipating punishment.
There are still lingering embers of hatred lurking somewhere inside him, within the stubborn core of his pride that Vox suspects he’ll never be able to crack. But he doesn’t need to.
It’s what keeps Alastor interesting, after all.
Vox has a feeling they’ve crossed a milestone tonight. A point of no return. He will always know what Alastor looks like without his smile—he’s already backed up dozens of photos and video clips to his private servers to review later—and that’s a weakness Alastor can’t ever take back. It no longer matters if Vox were to unchain Alastor and let him loose on the streets tomorrow. They’d both still share this point of connection. Alastor will never be able to forget the festering, indelible mark of Vox’s violence on his body, hidden under his clothes. He’ll never be able to forget the memory of Vox holding him while he cries.
Vox has everything he’s ever wanted. He’s finally, finally, the center of Alastor’s attention. He’s made himself the star of Alastor’s solar system, and Alastor can’t ignore him now or ever again.
He’s won.
(Here’s what victory looks like:
Alastor, stumbling over to Vox on shaking legs. Sinking to his knees when Vox gently manhandles him down, pushing him to the floor and guiding his head to rest in Vox’s lap. The muted, tremulous sigh that escapes him when Vox begins to pet his ears, caressing the soft fur and playfully tweaking the tips just to hear Alastor’s half-hearted grumbling.
Running his hand along Alastor’s jaw, stroking his thumb over the corner of Alastor’s frown. The weary despair lining the downturn of Alastor’s mouth. The resentful, desperate longing in the way he turns his head, eyes closed, pressing into Vox’s touch. The heat radiating from his body; the comforting weight of him trapped between Vox’s legs, a reactive dog insistently nosing its snout into the muzzle.
The hitch in his breath when Vox lightly tugs on the chain. Alastor’s fingers curling around Vox’s ankle, claws prickling dangerously against bare skin.
A reminder running both ways.
“I’ll kill you for this, someday,” Alastor whispers into the fabric of Vox’s slacks.
“I know,” Vox says, terribly fond.
He isn’t sure which one of them is lying.)