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Velvette sticks around only long enough to laugh at Vox’s face. After she goes the way of Val, all he’s got left is a killer fucking headache, the smell of vodka permeating his suit…
And Alastor, grinning like a smug fucking cat meme in one of Valentino’s salon chairs, legs crossed as primly as any princess’s. Apparently whatever camaraderie he and Vox’s so-called goons have been developing, it doesn’t extend far enough to stop them from ditching his ass to Vox’s temper.
And, fuck, is Vox in a temper.
Good thing he’s got at least one outlet remaining.
He stalks toward Alastor, a growl rattling up his throat even as it cuts out intermittently, the bass of it too low for the limited woofers on his body to properly project. Alastor’s smile only widens, crinkling his eyes at the edges, even as Vox grabs the fucker by his gaudy-ass red coat and slams him into the vanity table.
Makeup goes flying. It’s all cans of hair product that Vox hasn’t used in seventy years and shitty, colorful plastic. A bottle of Love Potion smashes open against the floor with a crunch as Vox’s heel grinds against it, and Alastor just starts laughing and laughing and laughing.
This fucker. There’s strawberry-scented serum seeping into his hair, splayed open on the surface of the vanity, and his ears aren’t even pinned.
Vox grabs him by those stupid ears and discharges about as much electricity into him as he thinks probably won’t literally melt his eyeballs out of his skull.
Alastor stops laughing.
He stops doing much of anything so coordinated, actually. There’s something like the start of an involuntary shriek that’s born in the back his throat as it constricts, but it doesn’t make it half a second before getting aborted, the full-body spasm of muscle triggered by Vox’s electrical discharge strangling it in its infancy. His head slams back into the crimson surface of the vanity as his body contorts into an agonized, purposeless arch, straining against the cables still wound around his upper body. His eyes bleed black, and the sharp snap of electricity arcs into the empty air as Vox pumps more power into him, momentarily rending a pit of darkness into the void before fizzling away.
Vox lets the electric current slowly peter out, not quite cutting it abruptly but instead letting it ebb away, enjoying the way that Alastor’s body slowly transitions from a rigid rictus of agony to an uncontrollable, spasming tremble that wracks his body—watches the way his eyes slowly regain some semblance of presence and understanding past the pain, as Alastor shudders in anticipation of Vox ceasing the torture and only gets it in trickles and spurts.
When he finally finishes it, Alastor is panting raggedly on the table, trembling senselessly. He probably isn’t even aware he’s doing it. The pitch slowly leeches from his eyes, which are staring blankly at the ceiling—and he finally coughs once, then again, and drags his gaze down to Vox.
His smile hasn’t died—if anything, it’s pasted to his face, a frozen grimace. He opens his mouth—
And it just flashes through Vox’s ears, that smug fucking smile and mouthy little Mmm… seemed more like begging to me!, and he just—
He electrocutes Alastor again.
This time Alastor manages to scream before his throat locks up, short and with a wet quality like he’s choking on his own blood. Vox presses closer as he watches Alastor shudder, leaning down to admire the way his current curls the tips of Alastor’s hair and makes his throat vibrate.
When he lets his current fade out the second time, Alastor’s eyes are just glassy. They didn’t darken the second time, whether because Alastor was too off-guard or in too much pain, and Alastor’s teeth stay gritted as he forces himself to keep smiling, panting in shallow breaths that catch on little half-keens in his throat. He’s twitchy where he’s laying, arched backward over the vanity with Vox between his legs, pinned by Vox’s hand on his head and not much else, muscles gone shaky and weak.
“I asked,” Vox says, slamming his other hand down near Alastor’s head and leaning in close, “anyone else got shit to say?”
Alastor’s breath whistles through his throat as he fucking laughs again, quiet and raspy with pain. “I don’t know, old pal,” he manages, cringing as he forces the words through his raw throat. “Are you going to shock me again if I do?”
Vox grins down at him, lifting Alastor’s head just enough to slam it back down on the table, sending whatever of Velvette’s hair supplies hadn’t already fallen off rattling in their places. “What do you think, old pal? Who’s begging now?!”
The corners of Alastor’s mouth curl up a touch even as he blinks rapidly, stunned. “Get your memory checked, Vox! Because it’s still not me!” The last three words come out sing-song, if the person singing’s throat was completely fucked from thirty years of smoking crack.
Vox feels his face flicker, and he knows his grin has warped into an ugly grimace. “We’ll see about that, you fucking—”
And then he shifts slightly, a bit of air wheezes out of Alastor’s chest, and Vox realizes what, exactly, is pressing against the side of his hip.
“Are you—” Vox lets go of Alastor’s ears, hopping a step back. Then he blinks, changes his mind, and zips forward again with a scattering of electricity. “Are you fucking hard right now?!”
Holy shit, he is. Vox has never, in the entirety of their relationship, ever seen Alastor pop a boner. EVER. Granted, they haven’t exactly been seeing each other the last seventy years, nevermind the last seven, but there had been plenty of late nights. He remembers pressing his lips against the cigarette Alastor passed him once upon a time on his kitchen balcony, shoulders touching, and breathing as deeply as he could without embarrassing himself just to keep his lips where Alastor’s had been a moment longer. He remembers the brush of Alastor’s ears against his neck, his whiskey-tipsy friend humming nonsensically along with the piano Vox was still somehow managing to play the same four chords on as Alastor nodded off on Vox’s shoulder, and woke up with his head in Vox’s lap. He remembers one particularly pathetic night, when Alastor offered to teach him his favorite way to dance and let Vox—let Vox lead, let Vox place a palm at the small of his back, the tip of his pinkie skimming just over the top of Alastor’s ass as their bodies pressed together and Vox for the first time found himself thanking the universe that he hadn’t figured out what kind of modifications he’d need for something more realistic (more responsive) than a packer—
But never. Never.
(He’d wondered, once, if Alastor was like him—if he even had a dick down there at all—but Alastor’s form doesn’t hide his features the way that Vox’s does, and his pretty cheekbones aren’t that specific type of pretty. Wouldn’t matter today, but they didn’t fucking have the Velvette Special goddamn surgical suite back then for all the miserable fucks who aren’t made of enough plastic; all to fix Vox’s tits and give all of her models and also possibly Valentino a dysmorphia-induced eating disorder, so—)
“Pff—are you serious?!” Vox demands, dragging a hand over his head and sending his antennae bouncing. “The frigid fucking Radio Demon, and all it took was some manhandling and a couple of love taps? God, you must have been hiding a stiffie this whole freaking time if a little BDSM is all it takes to get you going! How fucking embarrassing for you!”
He steps in even closer, kicking Alastor’s knees apart. His hands land on Alastor’s hips, and he forces Alastor’s trembling still as he rolls his hips forward into a languid thrust, grinding against Alastor’s dick. Alastor shudders, blinking rapidly in a way that looks downright owlish.
“How about it?” Vox rumbles, leaning down low as he grins his smuggest grin right at Alastor’s face. “I can see the headline now: Radio Demon? More Like Radio Bambi! Decrepit Old Fuck Can’t Get Off Unless He’s Playing Damsel in Distress!”
“Oh, wow!” Alastor’s laugh is a glassy cackle that makes the pit of Vox’s stomach twist. It goes on for just a moment too long, hysterical tears springing to Alastor’s eyes. “Electrocuting me made my dick hard! I’m so—HAH!—shocked! Is this how you get all the ladies, Vincent? If so, here are some more interesting facts: the grass is purple, the sky is red, more news at seven—oh, wait! It seems the news is busy right now—”
“Wh—shut the fuck up!” Vox’s face fizzes over with a teal blush as he loses his rhythm. How the fuck is he the embarrassed one right now!? “You’re such a hypocrite! I fucking hate you and I should have killed you the second you stepped foot in my tower! And instead you’re in here getting all buddy-buddy with my partners? You? Mister ‘There are no friends in hell’?!”
He grabs Alastor by the hair, yanking his head back as he forces him to look at Vox. And then he opens his eye wide, black on red on black on red in an endless spiral as he demands—“Just tell me the fucking truth, Alastor! What kind of game are you playing?!”
“Well, to be perfectly honest, I wish you’d be a little rougher!”
Alastor’s teeth click shut on the tail end of the words as he shakes the hypnotic spirals out of his eyes. Vox’s hand has gone too limp to bother keeping him still. When he glances at Vox’s face again from the corner of his eyes, he actually has the gall to look—sheepish.
Vox stares down at him.
“I mean,” he says. Fuck, fuck. He’s on a precipice. “I can do that.”
Alastor stares back up at him.
“Not that you have a choice,” Vox hurries to clarify. “Of course.”
There is a long pause. “Of course,” Alastor says slowly.
His ears twitch, flicking. He doesn’t say anything else. More specifically, he doesn’t say ‘no.’ He just shifts slightly, shivering as the pressure of Vox’s leg between his thighs shifts with him.
Vox grabs one of those twitching ears and tilts Alastor’s head to the side until he’s looking directly at Vox again. He holds Alastor’s face in his other hand, keeping him still.
He lets the hypnosis vibrate through his voice again, watching the spiral of his eye reflect in Alastor’s red, red sclera. “Relax, old pal,” Vox says. Alastor’s smile softens, and Vox can feel the tension of him relaxing against Vox’s body. Vox can feel something rising up within himself in parallel counterpoint, an oscillating giddiness that makes him want to—to take something and break it.
Thankfully, he still has, what was it? One outlet remaining.
“That’s a good boy. Now be honest with me, hm, Al?”
“Ah, fuck…” Alastor’s eyelashes flutter. The reflections in his eyes are just that—reflections. Vox’s hypnosis isn’t fully taking hold, but the suggestions are there, enticing, tempting. A warm embrace to relax into. It’s times like this that he can’t brute force his way through making someone do what he wants—but Vox has always been good at convincing.
Except, of course, when it comes to Alastor.
Still. Alastor’s body is soft against his. His ears are a satisfied sort of limp, eye half-lidded, and when Vox lets go of his ear just to pet his fingers over it, he doesn’t move his head away.
“Oh,” Vox hums, letting it resonate through Alastor’s ears. “You like this, hm? Like it when I take control?”
Alastor’s breath sighs out of him, shaky. “Yes…”
“It’s nice, isn’t it? Making someone beg. Giving them a taste of their own medicine.”
“Mmm…” Alastor’s teeth bite into his lip as he watches Vox. “Nicer if you hurt me again.”
“Jesus fuck, Al, what the hell?”
Alastor’s static bursts out of him in an aborted cackle as he shakes in silent laughter against Vox, and Vox flushes again, the pulsating red gone to his pale blush of blue-blue-blue. And Alastor just won’t stop laughing.
Vox winds back and slaps him across the face.
He holds back just the slightest bit at the last second—just enough that his claws don’t leave a gash in Alastor’s cheek. The force of it still whips Alastor’s head to the side, and he stays frozen where he lands, eyes wide and hunted as he stares at Vox out of the corners of them.
Vox wraps a hand around Alastor’s throat and electrocutes him again.
He really lets loose this time. Lets it go harder, last longer—really flexes his proverbial muscles at it, and also his literal ones, squeezing tight around Alastor’s throat as his skin burns underneath Vox’s palm. Tears spill unwillingly out of Alastor’s blind eyes as his mouth drops open in a silent scream, and evaporate just as quickly, little curlicues misting off of his cheeks and leaving behind dry salt. Alastor’s thighs squeeze down around Vox, who rocks into it with a satisfied hum like Alastor’s genuinely trying to get fucked rather than just convulsing under Vox’s own power and finds that it’s a nice enough pressure against his dick. Even better is the squeal of sharp edge on metal as Vox realizes Alastor’s claws have curled through the surface of Valentino’s vanity and gone straight through to the support structures of it. Take that, fucker.
When Vox releases Alastor from the current, he takes a step back, and Alastor slumps straight to the floor. He lands on his knees and then tips forward, and Vox catches his upper body in his lap, sitting back in the very same chair he’d ripped Alastor out of earlier. Without the running current, Alastor’s cheeks are wet again. He moans, a low sound that’s less fucked-out and more just animal agony.
Vox is so fucking hard right now.
He tips Alastor’s limp chin up with a finger, and licks the salt off of his cheek.
Alastor barely reacts. He’s back to shaking helplessly under Vox’s fingers, only staying up on his knees courtesy of being tipped between Vox’s supporting knees. He’s looking up at Vox, technically, but his mouth is open in a little senseless oh that’s just barely still smiling, and—
Fuck, fuck, fuck, if Vox doesn’t get his dick sucked in the next five minutes then he might actually black out the tower again.
“Alastor?” Vox asks, testing. He cups his hands around Alastor’s face, tilting his head one way and then the other. Alastor’s eyes follow him with a split-second delay, and his face turns in toward one of Vox’s hands, chasing the warmth. Vox lets him, and rubs his other thumb against Alastor’s bottom lip.
Alastor’s teeth are sharp and gleaming in the warm light of the vanity. Sharper than most things Vox is willing to put his dick near, even if he has backups—but Alastor doesn’t bite at him, doesn’t so much as nip, and Vox hisses a breath in through his teeth as he takes a chance and slips two fingers into Alastor’s mouth.
It’s hot. Hotter than it should be, probably because Vox has basically fucking barbecued the guy, but also hot in the proverbial sense that has Vox’s cock twitching in his pants. Alastor’s tongue is soft and wet, and just a little bit of texture as Vox’s fingers rub over the length of it, like he’s already fucking Alastor’s mouth.
He keeps his other hand at Alastor’s cheek, petting his thumb over Alastor’s damp cheekbone. When his fingers push too deep, making Alastor twitch, he doesn’t pull them out—just shushes Alastor, lets the winding, spinning spirals of his eye press into Alastor’s skull and calm him down.
“It’s okay, Bambi,” Vox whispers into the air between the two of them. Alastor keens a little, shivering under Vox’s palm, and Vox presses his fingers even deeper, feeling his cock throb. “It’s okay. Just relax. Let daddy take care of you.”
Alastor settles, even as his throat spasms around Vox’s fingers, and Vox can feel the manic laughter bubbling in his chest. He doesn’t let it out. Fuck. He wanted to hurt Alastor—wanted to really make him pay, to vent that frustrated anger of Valentino being an uppity bitch about freaking Angel Dust of all the whores, and Velvette just rubbing salt into the wound when Vox was the one dragging them to within fucking inches of victory if only people’s petty little hurt fee-fees wouldn’t keep getting in the way—
But then Alastor’s throat clicks wetly around his fingers, and his ears droop far enough that the tip of one brushes against the back of Vox’s hand, and Vox finds himself whispering, “Oh, good boy. You’re doing so good, baby. Just keep relaxed and follow my lead. Look at you, fuck…”
He’s so—docile like this. The familiarity of it aches. Not real familiarity, of course—Alastor would never have let him do anything like this before, never ever ever. But the familiarity of closeness, of the invisible downy fuzz on Alastor’s cheek, the prickle of his ambient radio static against Vox’s antennae, the fucking privilege of straying this close to his teeth and getting nothing for it but big doe eyes, hazy with booze or the endorphin rush of pain or the occasional Mary Jane.
This close, it’s clearer than usual how fucking young Alastor was when he died, too. The decrepit fossil is older than Vox if you count their years of existence alone, and notably older in the eyes of hell’s hierarchy, but he must have been… in his mid-twenties, maybe, when he died. Half of Vox’s age, or thereabouts. Decades upon decades in hell, and he still has a prettiness to his features that any twink crossing thirty would shank a bitch for. Any time his face relaxes enough to smooth out, lose some of the tension around his eyes, it shines through. His emaciated frame passes for coltish youth with enough layers of good tailoring. He looks like a pretty young thing, and fuck if it doesn’t get Vox’s dick hard.
Vox lets his fingers slip out, painting a slick little shine over his bottom lip, and starts unbuttoning his slacks.
Without fingers in his throat, Alastor slumps forward again, suspended in Vox’s lap by his armpits. The cables slipped off him just as he slipped off the vanity earlier, but his arms dangle limply over the sides of Vox’s legs, and his knees are splayed askew between Vox’s shoes. Vox swings one of his legs back just so he can maneuver it carefully between Alastor’s thighs, and presses the toe of his shoe between Alastor’s legs.
Alastor’s whole body jumps a little bit, something between a cry and a whimper warbling out of his throat. Vox laughs, soft and mean. “Oh, poor baby,” he says as he pulls his boxers down and drags his spit-slick hand over his cock. “Sore in all the wrong ways? Want it hard but can’t hardly move? Don’t fuss, Bambi, you’re the one that asked for this. Besides, I’ve got something better for you to think about…”
He squeezes the back of Alastor’s neck and drags him forward just a touch, feeling almost like he’s scruffing him, until the tip of his dick touches Alastor’s lower lip.
Alastor’s breath shudders out of him, harsh and stuttered, and, fuck, Vox feels it so acutely. His dicks nowadays get pretty realistic—not that Alastor cared to know what he had in his pants at all back in the day—and there’s lubricant beading at the tip of it as arousal thrums through his body. It’s not real, but in a lot of ways that just makes it better, since Vox can swap out flavors and colors and, if so inclined, give it a little bit of a kick.
But the only Love Potion in the room is splattered across the floor, seeping into the hem of Alastor’s pants and quite possibly the air—not that Vox needs it with how keyed up seeing Alastor wrecked has gotten him—and the only thing special about his dick today is that it’s got little glowing stripes going up the side and his lube is cherry-flavored. Val’s favorite, but Alastor is just going to have to deal.
“You sure you want this?” Vox simpers, letting his eyes go big as he feigns a pout. “Last chance to back out, Al, speak now or forever hold your peace!”
Alastor, obviously, can say nothing. Vox grins, letting go of his cock to cup Alastor’s jaw and press his fingers into the joints on either side, forcing it open—and then his cock is sliding in, just like that, slick and hot and easy as anything.
Vox groans, throwing his head back. It’s like slipping into a jacuzzi, the way it makes him flush. Alastor’s mouth is soft on his cock, all slick, limp tongue and lax lips. He can’t keep his head thrown back and keep watching through the cameras, though, so he quickly tips his face back down and—
“Fuck,” Vox says, and shoves Alastor’s face the rest of the way down onto his cock.
Alastor’s whole body flinches again, and his hands come up, scrabbling loosely at Vox's hips, uncoordinated. His fingertips slip off, unable to catch so much as a loose thread in Vox’s suit jacket, and Vox lets a little sputter of electricity fizzle along his fingertips. Not enough to do more than startle—but enough to make Alastor jerk senselessly, a reflexive, panicked motion that just knocks him into Vox’s left knee and makes his throat swallow spasmodically around Vox’s cock. His monocle jams into Vox’s leg, and there’s a tinkle of glass as it topples off his face and to the floor.
Vox winds a fist into the hair at Alastor’s nape and tugs him off, just enough that he’s not actively strangling Alastor’s ability to breathe, and drags him into an arch. Alastor’s eyes are hazy with pain and the leftover trickles of hypnotic suggestion, scarlet gleaming like wet viscera as reflexive tears bead up. His breath puffs rapidly out of his nose, frantically taking what he can get even though Vox is frankly not sure that Alastor actually needs to breathe. Just an uncontrolled panic response. Vox’s rough-handling has sent his tie askew, and he can see the edge of a scar peeking out from under his disheveled collar. He’s got a body so bone-thin even Valentino would be jealous; Vox would have his hands full, trying to feed the both of them.
A pretty young thing with Vox’s dick in his mouth, and a fucked up, scarred, starving monster all in one.
Vox can feel his own grin growing manic, clipping jaggedly off of his screen.
“There you go, baby. Not such a brat after all, hm?” Vox’s voice is rough. His next command pulses, a thick throb of hypnosis that makes Alastor visibly reel, ears pinning. “Be a good boy, Al, and suck daddy’s cock.”
He’s not totally sure how much of this Alastor is going to remember—with his luck, most of it, because the hypnosis is clearly not taking as well as it would on nearly anybody else. He is almost certainly never going to live down the ‘daddy’ thing. He is way too horny about it all to care, especially when he slowly, carefully, levers his hand away from where he’s been prying Alastor’s jaw open by force, and… Alastor’s tongue moves, slowly, against the bottom of his cock.
Vox hisses to himself, half-pleasure and half unadulterated delight. He pets his newly freed hand over Alastor’s flattened ears, a touch shaky from the adrenaline of just having risked getting his dick bitten off (look, the advancements in prosthetic dick nerve endings are too good sometimes; it only took getting nailed in the nuts one time to swap to models that don’t have any, but he can’t apply the same logic to the rest of his dick).
Alastor’s eyes drift down, and Vox has to wonder if Alastor is really as out of it as he seems, or if just too embarrassed to even admit he’s embarrassed as he starts, clumsily, to suck at Vox’s cock.
He’s not very good at it. Clearly not done it very much in the past, if at all. Virginal inexperience is overrated and annoying at best if you ask Vox, unless it’s Alastor, in which case Vox is left frantically brainstorming additional ways he can work another ‘daddy’ into this situation as he guides Alastor’s head up and down over his shaft. His lips are too lax and his tongue is uncoordinated, but his throat opens up so nicely as Vox bullies the head of his cock against it.
There’s a blossoming bruise on Alastor’s cheek, and Vox presses a thumb into it just to hear the way it makes Alastor whimper, and to feel his cock pressing against the inside of Alastor’s cheek. He lets Alastor go slow, at first—he’s magnanimous like that—and rolls his hips into it after a few moments, helping him along. Alastor doesn’t seem to know enough to fucking appreciate it, though, because the moment Vox’s hips kick up a little bit, a reflexive thrust into pleasurable heat, Alastor’s eyes blow wide again, a strangled hiccup twisting out the back of this throat.
Vox rolls his eyes. “Fuck, Bambi, relax.”
He doesn’t put any suggestion into it this time—just grips Alastor’s hair harder, and discharges another current into him, letting it flow blindly at some ridiculous amperage. Alastor’s throat locks up immediately, fibrillating very nicely against Vox’s cock in a vibrating little massage.
“Or don’t!” Vox laughs over the crackle of electricity that’s frizzing up Alastor’s hair. “Fuck, keep it just like that!”
Not that Alastor has a choice. Vox holds him there, curled into Vox’s lap, and thrusts roughly into his mouth. The time for a slow and gentle fucking is over—Vox wants to come down Alastor’s throat, and the tight, hot pressure of his spasming pharynx clamping over Vox’s dick is exactly enough to get him there. He comes with a long, low groan, bending over Alastor moment as his dick pulses, helped along by the now-sputtering, haphazard current he’s trying to maintain. It makes Alastor’s throat flutter sporadically, a staccato, cut-off whine ringing tinny out of a nearby speaker. Alastor is shaking again, almost violently.
“Fuck,” Vox says with spirit, and uncurls himself from over where he’s nearly gotten impaled on Alastor’s antlers. Alastor is definitely crying again, senseless, and doesn’t look like he’s aware of it. Vox tugs his dick out of Alastor’s mouth slowly, biting down on his lip with a little moan as Alastor’s lips finally drag back over the tip of his cock and Vox can tuck himself away.
There’s a trail of spit drooling from the corners of Alastor’s mouth, and a smear of white on his lower lip. Still cherry flavored, but Vox thought it would be weird to change the color from standard. Vox wishes that Al and Velvette had spent enough time together that she actually did his makeup, just so that he could see his eyeliner run, or a smeared mascara. What a fucking view to admire, either way—he only lasts three seconds before leaning down to pull Alastor into a deep kiss, unraveling his tongue into Alastor’s mouth and pushing his own cum deeper, using the thick length of his tongue to force his spend down Alastor’s throat. He massages his thumb over Alastor’s Adam’s apple, prodding him into a flinching swallow, before parting—and then diving back down, taking advantage of the way Alastor is panting to brush their lips together again and spit into his fucking mouth.
Alastor’s teeth click shut just shy of Vox’s face, but he doesn’t quite manage to lunge forward, hair caught in Vox’s grip, and all he succeeds at doing is make the most hilariously betrayed expression Vox has ever seen as he realizes he’s just swallowed Vox’s spit. It’s not even directed at Vox; he looks like he’s just fucking pissed at his own damn self for falling for it.
Vox laughs in his face.
Alastor moans thinly, sharp claws curling little pinpricks into the fabric of Vox’s slacks threateningly, but there is no sudden crack of growing joints or splitting antlers, no cold lick of darkness lapping at Vox's psyche.
“Fff—fuck,” Alastor manages after a solid twelve seconds of trying to pull himself together. It’s slurred, half-decipherable, and he’s still not keeping his own head up without Vox supporting him. He’s just slumped into Vox’s lap like a pretty, wrecked doll, lips and cheek bruised into a tight-lipped, wobbling smile.
“Fuck, yeah,” Vox agrees, laugh petering out but still threading through his voice. He pets over Alastor’s ears again soothingly, rubs a bit at the base of an antler. His ears are so soft, so expressive. He’s always wanted to indulge, to touch. “Don’t worry, baby, daddy’s not done with you yet.”
That makes Alastor’s eyes flicker up, widening just enough for alarm to shine through.
“Wanna watch you come,” Vox says, and he means for it to be a threat—a reminder that Vox is in control, that they’re going to do what he wants, fuck it if Alastor is tired or wrecked or done being yanked around—but instead it comes out embarrassingly warm.
Fuck, he’s fond. Why is he always so fucking fond of the exact assholes determined to ruin his life?
“Nn—no—”
Alastor twitches slightly, as if to strain away, and Vox nudges him closer instead like a misbehaving pet. He leans Al’s face against his thigh, watching his unbruised cheek squish against the expensive fabric of his tailored pants, and presses the sole of his shoe over Alastor’s dick.
Alastor shudders roughly, eyes screwing shut. He bites down onto his own lip, his previous attempt to get away dissolving as he instead turns his face further into Vox’s leg. Vox can’t take his eyes off of him—the flickering expression, like he’s upset, like he’s in pain, except he’s so lax against Vox, all boneless, sore, aching muscle, whining quietly as Vox presses his shoe between Alastor’s splayed thighs and rubs and rubs and rubs.
“I should make you beg for it, too,” Vox tells him, breathless as he watches the pleasure play over Alastor’s face. It looks less like pleasure and more like anguish—distress and desperation and that persistent electroshock tremor that won’t let him fully relax even as he can’t quite catch control over his own limbs. Alastor’s hips twitch and Vox relaxes his foot, relieving him of any satisfying friction. Then he presses down again, just to remind Alastor that they’re doing this on his terms. “You’re lucky I’m such a nice fucking guy, Al.”
It doesn’t take long. He’s wrecked Alastor so many times today that he’s surprised he didn’t just come by himself at some point without Vox noticing, but it’s barely noticeable even when it does arrive. He comes quietly, with a whimper and a long shiver, pressing tightly not up against Vox’s shoe but to the side, into his thigh. It almost makes Vox feel bad—or at least resigned enough to resolve to do Alastor’s laundry at some point, seeing as he’s now covered in cold sweat and his own come. He drags the rough sole of his shoe over the hard length of Alastor’s cock, and watches wetness spread across the crotch.
“Oh, Bambi,” Vox sighs. Alastor turns in against Vox’s leg completely, hiding his face, and Vox rubs a slow, warm hand up the back of his neck. His whole spine is rigid, having apparently clawed back enough fine motor control to languish in the sheer humiliation of it all. “Oh, buddy. Got in over your own head a bit there, huh?”
Alastor doesn’t nod. He doesn’t acknowledge that he heard what Vox said at all—but he does relax slowly, one vertebrae at a time, his panicked, puffing breaths against Vox’s leg eventually slowing to a calmer rhythm, his shoulderblades losing some of their sharp edges as his back untenses.
Vox just keeps petting along his spine, slow and steady.
Vox ends up yanking them both through the electrical wiring and dropping Alastor off onto his own bed. Al proceeds to immediately hog all of the blankets, a feat he achieves by some kind of fork-in-pasta-esque twirling maneuver when Vox turns away for approximately six seconds to throw Alastor’s clothes into an automated laundry hamper. When he turns back around, his well-made (via robot, thanks, Vox does not have the time to bother making his own bed), king-sized bed and all of its plethora of high-thread-count, perfectly-matched bedding has been turned into a sheet-covered mattress with a blanket-mound cave in the dead center of it. The red flash of one hoof and the inky blackness of a trailing tentacle disappear into the mess. Red eyeshine gleams from a dark crevice when the light of Vox’s screen passes over it.
Vox groans, dragging his hands down his screen so aggressively it pixellates at the edges. “Fuck you, asshole, at least leave one for me!”
Alastor does not leave one for him. He also doesn’t move from the dead center of the bed, though he does seem to be curled into as small of a ball as possible underneath all the blankets. Vox ends up having to call fucking Ethan of all people to get him a spare blanket, and drags it around himself with the edges tucked in at the edge of his own bed, lest Alastor catch a corner and steal that, too. He suspects that if he gets any closer, he might catch an antler to the monitor, but he’s not ditching his own fucking bed to sleep on the couch, no matter how awkward and uncomfortable this is—
He really started this whole thing to take out his frustrations on Alastor’s helpless ass, so why does he still kinda feel like he lost?!
He lays there like that for a long moment, feeling weird about trying to nap in the middle of the afternoon. Why did he even come here? He should have just dumped Alastor in the shower and then tied him back to his assigned wheely chair after he was back in clothes that didn’t look and smell like the aftermath of the photoshoot Vox interrupted Valentino at. Strawberry and smoke—he wonders if Alastor is craving a cigarette right now as badly as Vox is.
Despite his racing thoughts—or perhaps because of them—he drifts off eventually. Alastor may have buried himself into his weird little blanket nest, but the signal of his perpetual radio transmission prickles at the back of Vox’s consciousness like an ever-present, deeply judgmental cat sitting on his shoulder. Vox finds himself reaching out, the receiver to Alastor’s transmitter—and when their signals tangle, he finally slips into a dream.
“Well, that was certainly revealing,” Alastor murmurs into Vox’s ear. His hand slides over Vox’s hip, fingertips trailing over his belly, and Vox can feel the way his body shakes with laughter, pressed up against Vox’s back, as Vox’s breath stutters in response.
“Wh—you’re supposed to be passed out,” Vox accuses. He doesn’t move away, but Alastor’s hand doesn’t linger long anyway. It skates over his ribs, looping around him in a loose hug, and then Al hooks his chin over Vox’s shoulder and wraps his other hand around Vox’s throat.
“Mm,” Alastor agrees. Vox can’t turn to look at him like this, but he can feel the way Alastor’s claws prickle over his jugular. Fuck. He should reach for the wiring—zap himself clean out of Alastor’s arms before his blood decorates the floor. Or just electrocute Alastor again; not that Vox thinks it will be particularly useful in the long term when Alastor isn’t letting him. “Actually, I think my nervous system is still trying to knit itself back together. You really did a number on me!”
Vox’s brows furrow—and then he groans, slapping the bed. “Fuck, this is you sleeping. This shit again.”
Alastor shrugs against his back. “Not my fault you forgot to turn off your superhet before falling asleep.”
Vox didn’t forget, but he’s not going to tell Alastor that. “What do you want, Alastor?”
“I think the more topical question,” Alastor says, tapping his claws along Vox’s throat—he considered giving himself a more prominent Adam’s apple once upon a time, but at this moment he’s grateful there’s less for Alastor to fuck with—“is what do you want, now that you have everything within your grasp? You’ve been awfully…insecure…for someone who keeps saying—insisting, even—that he’s won.”
Vox rolls his eyes. “I think I’ve been pretty clear about what I fucking want, Alastor. I want everything I deserve—to rule heaven, to rule hell, and you, crushed under my heel.”
“And yet, here you are,” Alastor murmurs. He sounds like he’s crooning into the late night airwaves—the same tender, salivating tone he uses for his two-am broadcasts, right before the needle clicks and Vox really does have to cut off his superhet as the airwaves fill with the endless shrieking gibbering of lost souls. “Cozying up with me in bed, while you lean on your…compatriots to do all the hard work for you. You know, I think Velvette likes me more than she likes you, at least right now.”
“Wh—Velvette does not like you!” Vox protests. He nearly jerks away, but Alastor’s hand tightens on his throat, and as much as they’re both still dreaming, Vox doesn’t enjoy the feeling of getting eviscerated enough to press it. He is very familiar with how realistic Alastor can make it feel.
“Doesn’t she?” Alastor asks. “I’ll ask her about it later. Someone is going to have to fix my hair after what you did to me.”
Vox snorts. “Fuck off. I’m tying you back to that chair as soon as you wake up and have a fucking shower.”
Alastor laughs, long and low. “Greedy.”
“Obviously.”
“Needy.”
That one shuts Vox up, and he grits his teeth, scowling. “Big talk for someone still regrowing their nervous system.”
Alastor’s hand twitches on his throat, a telltale giveaway to his irritation. Being this close is a double-edged sword. As much as Vox can’t wrestle Alastor’s control away, Alastor can’t hide how he really feels, not even with his cheek pressed to the side of Vox’s screen and face tucked out of sight.
“My bad,” Alastor drawls. “I’ll let you get back to your big boy dreams, then. Enjoy cuddling up to my unconscious carcass. I’m sure that was exactly what you dreamed of when you begged me for my permission the other day—rendering me nearly comatose for a half-present blowjob. Big man! Good job, ‘daddy.’”
Vox flushes, hot with humiliation. “You—I—that—you were fucking asking for it!”
“Was I?” Vox can practically hear Alastor’s brows go up. “How so? Was I dressed too provocatively for you, Vincent? Flutter my eyelashes too lasciviously? Did I not resist enough when you burrowed those insidious little powers of yours in to manipulate my mind? Did the ropes you used to bind me press against my skin in a way that was just—too—tempting?”
“FUCK you!”
Alastor finally pushes away from him, cackling as he fades into the darkness. Vox whips around, lashing out with a claw—but Alastor is all shadows, trailing through his fingertips. “Too bad, so sad! I’d say you already did, but we both know you missed your real chance!”
And then he’s gone, leaving behind gelid ichor that trails down the walls of Vox’s dream bedroom, and a throbbing hard-on between Vox’s legs.
Fuck it, Vox decides as he shudders himself awake. There’s cold sweat dripping down the back of his neck, and his clawtips are sparking with residual anger. He slides off the edge of the bed, throwing his spare cover over Alastor’s little blanket empire. It immediately vanishes into the pile, but there isn’t any sign of life from the shitty deer aside from that.
Fuck it, he thinks, stalking out of the bedroom as wires start trailing out of his spine to retrieve his clothing. Fuck Alastor. One shitty blowjob wasn’t enough to properly blow steam off, anyway, and who needs Alastor when he has a business partner to win over to his view of things?
God knows Valentino at least doesn’t have a gag reflex.