Work Text:
It’s nothing really.
It’s harmless. Meaningless.
But they don’t talk about it.
The first time, it isn’t even … anything. They just …
It’s been a fun night, all the dancing and drinking and mayhem. It always is, when they’re together. He thinks it’s funny, how poised and perfect Alastor is on the dance floor, but the moment they spill out of the club and into the street, he becomes a giggling, stumbling mess. The way he leans on Vox, trusting him to keep him upright, the way he clings to him … it makes Vox feel all … well …
He wants to scoop the Radio Demon up and carry him home.
He doesn’t though. He knows he can’t. He doesn’t have a death wish.
Their meandering eventually takes them to Vox’s place, if only because he’s promised his friend there’s more/better booze there.
When he finds that Vox’s place is dry, Alastor pouts. It’s adorable. Vox smiles stupidly as his friend complains. “You’ve lured me here under false pretenses, you fiend.”
Vox giggles. They’re sitting on his couch together. Alastor reaches out and pokes Vox in the chest. “Ow,” he whines dramatically, even though it doesn’t hurt at all. Alastor grins wider and does it again. “Ow, Al -” without thinking he grabs Alastor’s hand, “hey, knock it off!”
Alastor looks down at their now-clasped hands. He glares blearily. Vox gulps.
He doesn’t quite remember what happens next. All he knows is that one minute, Alastor is looking at him with a warning flashing in his eyes, and the next, he’s lying on his back on the couch, Alastor’s face buried in the fabric of his sweater.
Oh.
Well, okay, then.
“Uh, Al…?” He ventures.
“Mmph. You ...mmph.”
“Huh?”
Alastor doesn’t reply. His breathing grows deep and even, and it eventually dawns on Vox’s alcohol-soaked brain that he’s fallen asleep.
So Vox does the only logical thing to do, which is to wrap his arms around Alastor and fall asleep too.
He wakes up the next morning with back pain and a hangover. Alastor is nowhere to be found.
The next time they meet, Alastor doesn’t say anything about it at all. And neither does he. They carry on as usual, and Vox starts to think that maybe it never happened. Maybe they simply parted ways after they left the bar, and the whole thing was a whiskey-induced dream.
He’s pretty much convinced of himself of this, when it happens again.
This time, they’re at Alastor’s place. They’re drinking again and arguing amicably about something, he doesn’t remember what. Alastor calls him a silly little picture box.
Vox calls him a fossil. “A handsome fossil,” he adds, and Alastor rolls his eyes.
“A face made for radio,” Alastor mutters.
“A face made for movie screens,” Vox counters, and Alastor huffs.
“A face made for television screens,” Vox adds. Alastor chuckles.
“You wish.”
“I do. I really do.”
“Ugh. What am I going to do with you?”
“Anything you want.”
“Don’t tempt me Vox …”
These flirtatious (?) little interactions only ever happen after they’ve been drinking. Vox often says stupid, sappy shit he wouldn’t dare to say sober. Alastor tolerates it with (mostly) good humor and even seems to encourage it on occasion.
It’s harmless, really.
Nothing will ever come of it.
He knows that.
He *knows* that.
It’s still pleasant, though, when it leads to another night with Alastor curled up in his arms.
“You’re warm, Picture Box.”
“Am I?”
“Mmm. S’nice.”
“Thanks. You are too.” Vox dares to rub his Alastor’s back. The Radio Demon sighs and snuggles in closer.
He’s gone by morning.
Vox doesn’t mind.
The next time …
It’s just kisses. It’s just stupid, silly, sloppy kisses. It probably doesn’t even count. Alastor is so high on his latest triumph, so drenched in gin, he’d probably kiss anybody at this point.
Well, maybe not anybody…
“You taste good. I should eat you.”
“Holy shit, Alastor, you can’t say stuff like that!”
“Why, does it scare you?”
“Maybe a little.”
“Good.”
When he wakes up in the morning, Alastor is still there.
Vox stares at him. Alastor glares back.
“What?” He snarls
“Nothing!” Vox stammers. “It’s … nothing!”
Alastor looks away and crosses his arms. “I have a meeting with Rosie,” he says, and stands abruptly.
“Ok. See you later?”
Alastor shrugs. “Perhaps,” he says, and disappears into his shadows.
Vox frets.
They don’t talk for a week. Vox wants desperately to reach out, be he’s too afraid of what might happen if he does.
When Alastor shows up again to make fun of his new TV show, he wants to sob with relief. He nearly does.
They never talk about it. They can’t.
It happens again. Then again. These ridiculous little make-out sessions. Only ever when they’re drunk. It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t mean anything.
“Touch me,” Vox gasps, one night, when Alastor has him pinned up against the wall. “Take me. Do whatever you want with me.”
Alastor laughs, low and thrilling in his ear. “I want to tear you apart.”
“Yes!”
“Oh Vox, have you no self-preservation instinct?”
Alastor presses his whole body against Vox’s.
He gets hard. He can’t help it.
Alastor growls. “Control yourself.”
“C-can’t…”
“You pathetic …”
Alastor slips his hand between their bodies, pushing himself away. Vox whines at the loss of contact. He screws his eyes shut, not wanting to see Alastor’s expression. He must be … disappointed. Angry. Appalled.
And then …
Alastor’s hand brushes against his crotch.
Vox’s eyes pop up open, “Wha –”
“Shut up!” Alastor hisses. “Shut up, shut up, shut up!”
And Alastor kisses him again, as if it’s the only way he can think to keep him quiet. This can’t be real, Vox thinks deliriously, as Alastor fondles him through his clothes.
This can’t really be happening.
But it is. Alastor unzips his pants, pulls his boxers down so his erection can spring free. When Alastor takes him in hand, Vox moans, loud and long.
“I said shut up!” Alastor hisses again. He’s stroking him, fast and rough. “Is this it, is this what you want, you revolting little –”
“Yes!”
“Pathetic, ridiculous little excuse for an overlord –”
The insults only make him hotter. “Please!” He whines. “Please, please!”
“I like you like this. I like you begging,” Alastor growls, and bites his neck. Vox comes with a cry.
Alastor strokes him through it, worrying the skin of Vox’s neck between his teeth. When he finally lets go of Vox’s spent member, his biting turns into licks.
“Tu es à moi,” he whispers against Vox’s skin.
And then abruptly, he straightens up, pulls away.
“You … you … you’ve made a mess, Vox,” he says, shakily. “Clean it up. Clean yourself up.”
Vox just stares at him in a post-orgasm haze, until Alastor snaps. “Now!”
Vox scrambles to obey, pulling his pants and boxers halfway back up as he stumbles towards the bathroom.
Alastor’s laughter follows him. “Good boy.”
When he comes back out, he expects Alastor to be gone.
Instead, he’s lying on the bed.
The Radio Demon looks at him expectantly.
“Well?”
That’s it. He’s died (again) and gone to Heaven.
“If you’re going to just stand there staring, perhaps I should just leave –”
Vox zaps over to the bed and kisses him. Alastor lets him. Even lets him wrap his arms around that slender waist.
But when he cups Alastor’s erection through his clothes –
“DON’T.”
Vox immediately backs off. “Sorry, sorry … I just thought … I wanted to make you feel good… the way you made me … I’m sorry… are you okay?”
“Of course I am, you idiot!” Alastor snaps, but there’s a strange look in his eyes. Maybe it’s fear, maybe it’s lust, maybe it’s both. Vox can’t be sure.
But he knows, suddenly and with absolute certainty, that Alastor has never done anything like this before.
Anything sexual. With anyone. Ever.
He doesn’t know why he knows. He just does.
Stupidly, it makes him feel special. Even more stupidly, it makes him feel … protective.
“I’m sorry,” he says again. “I’m an idiot, you know?”
“Hmm. Well, we can agree on that, at least.” He sighs. “I’m tired.”
Vox rolls onto his back. “Me too. You wore me out.”
“You’re so vulgar,” Alastor says, but he seems calmer now. He hesitates, looking at Vox. Then slowly, carefully, he moves over to him, lays his head down on his chest.
They both take some slow, even breaths.
“Can I hold you?”
“I suppose.”
Vox wraps his arms around him, and they fall asleep.
In the morning, Vox wakes up reluctantly and heads to the bathroom. He looks at himself in the mirror. Something’s … different.
That’s when he realizes.
Alastor gave him a hickey.
When he re-emerges, Alastor is also awake, looking at him curiously.
“Why are you grinning like an idiot, Picture Box?”
“Look who’s talking.”
“Careful, Vox.” Then his eyes flick to Vox’s neck, and his expression … shifts. It’s subtle, but there’s something in his gaze that looks like … satisfaction.
Like he knows he has claimed Vox. Branded him. Marked him as his own.
“Don’t wear that turtleneck today,” Alastor tells him. Vox blushes and obeys.
The next time it happens, Vox discovers Alastor has a tail, and Alastor is furious.
Until he isn’t.
Alastor has him pressed against the wall again. Vox’s hands wander lower down his back, and when they rest on the curve of his ass, he doesn’t seem to mind. That’s when
Vox feels something… wagging …
Wait...
Wagging?
Oh. My. God.
“Alastor, do you have a –”
“I’m going to kill you!”
“Holy crap, you do! You have a tail!”
“And you have a death wish!”
“Can I see it?”
“Are you insane?! No, no, you can’t –” Abruptly, he stops talking. And Vox realizes that without thinking, he’s begun – well, sort of stroking or petting Alastor’s tail, over his clothes.
And Alastor … doesn’t seem to mind.
Quite the opposite, actually.
“Can I take it out?” He must really have a death wish this time. But unbelievably, Alastor actually …nods, as if not trusting himself to speak.
Very, very carefully, Vox pulls Alastor’s pants down, just little bit. And then it’s in his hand, soft and fluffy. He hears Alastor’s breath catch. He strokes his tail again.
Alastor makes a noise. His hips start moving.
“More?” Vox whispers.
“Mm. Hm-hmm.”
Vox keeps going, stroking, petting, and tugging, playing with Alastor’s tail.
“Good?”
“Good,” Alastor whispers.
“Like that?”
“Like that… oh, yes, like that. Just like that …”
Alastor is rutting against him now, his breath hot and heavy. Vox’s hips rise to meet his. Their movements become frantic, uncoordinated, but Vox makes sure he keeps his hand on Alastor’s tail, and then Alastor’s gasps. “Just right, right, just right …”
Alastor shudders in his arms and makes another noise. Vox could swear it sounds like a deer bleat.
Did he just make Alastor come?
He did! He absolutely did!
Vox follows fast behind him.
“Oh,” Alastor sighs, and goes boneless, collapsing in Vox’s arms. “Is that … is that what all the fuss was about?”
“Yeah. Congrats on your fist orgasm, Al.”
“Hmph. It hardly seems worth it.”
This time, it’s Vox’s turn to laugh. “Liar.”
They still don’t talk about it.
He supposes they don’t need to.
The next time is after Vox gets himself in trouble.
They’re walking along the streets of Hell in companionable silence when a poster catches his eye. It takes him a moment to realize it’s a sinner, and a scantily clad one at that. Things like this are hardly uncommon in hell, but for some reason, this one makes him want to stop and look.
The sinner featured is certainly … unique. He’s tall, lanky, and … purple? He’s also got a red hat and … red coat? With a white heart-dotted fur ruffle? It takes a minute for Vox to figure it, but when he sees the antennae, he realizes …
The sinner is a moth.
A …weirdly hot-looking moth …?
Without thinking, he whistles.
He hears Alastor’s neck snapping as the Radio Demon turns to look at what has caught Vox’s attention.
“What’s this?”
“Oh, uh – nothing –”
“See something you like, do you?”
“N-no - I just –”
Alastor rips the poster from the wall, glares at it briefly, and then burns it up.
“Well, trust you to salivate over someone this cheap.”
“No! I wasn’t!”
“Hmm … perhaps we should find … what did it say … Valentino? … for you … maybe for the right price, he’ll satisfy your perverse desires –”
“No! No please Al! I don’t want … that. I don’t want him!”
Alastor pulls him into an alleyway, pins him against a wall. His eyes turn into radio dials. He is growing to monstrous size, and he is furious. Powerful. Terrifying.
“Don’t you?!” He roars.
Vox cowers. “No,” he whispers. “I only want…”
“What?!”
“I only want you. I only ever want you.”
Was it the right thing to say? He hopes so. It’s the truth, after all. No one can hold a candle to his … to Alastor.
Slowly, Alastor reverts to his normal form. He’s still glaring at Vox, breathing heavily.
Then his shadows engulf them, taking them back to Alastor’s home.
Alastor is kissing him, clutching him, manhandling him into the bed.
“Tell me,” Alastor says.
“I want you.”
“Only me.”
“Only you.”
“No one else.”
“No one else. Ever. I need you…I … Alastor … I…”
He’s tearing Vox’s clothes off, touching him everywhere, and Vox can’t get enough.
“Please, please, please …!”
“I like you begging. I love you begging … I love…”
“Please, please, please … I love you, Alastor.”
He prepares himself, and shows Alastor what he needs. He guides Alastor into body, helps him find a rhythm that pleases them both. They gasp and groan together as their bodies are joined.
They don’t last long. They don’t need to.
When they come, they come together.
They still don’t talk about it, of course.
But Vox knows now. It’s real. What he and Alastor have, whatever this is, it’s real.
At least, that’s what he thought, back then.
But it wasn’t real. It wasn’t real at all. Alastor never loved – cared for him. None of it mattered. Alastor was simply curious. Not just about sex, but about how far he could manipulate Vox, what he could get him to do for him. And when Vox’s idiotic, slavish devotion ceased to be amusing, it was easy for Alastor to walk away.
Vox knows this. He knows it’s the truth. He knows it, because Alastor told him so. When he left him. Left him with a broken screen and a broken heart and a broken soul and a broken mind.
But Vox is older now, older and wiser. And so, so much stronger. Stronger and more powerful than Alastor could ever have imagined.
He’ll conquer Hell. He’ll conquer Heaven. He’ll crush Alastor. He’ll grind his bones into dust beneath his feet.
And when Alastor is finally dead, he’ll never be able to hurt him again.