Chapter Text
The bed was a nest of tangled sheets and satisfied bodies.
Vox lay curled against Alastor's chest, his fingers playing with the microphone pin between them. A small smile—silly, genuine—curved his lips as he spun the little silver jewel, catching glimmers of the room's dim light.
"Going to think I'm so cheesy for loving this so much," he murmured, more to himself than to Alastor.
"Who?" Alastor asked, his voice a lazy vibration against his neck.
"No one... you... shut up."
Alastor laughed—a low, warm laugh—and his fingers resumed their lazy journey along Vox's waist. Tracing circles. Caressing. Claiming.
But then—they stopped.
Vox felt the tension before he saw it. The way Alastor's fingers froze on his skin. The way his breathing changed—more controlled, more dangerous.
"What is this?" the alpha's voice was low.
Vox looked down. Alastor's hand pressed gently against his side, right where a mark—bruised, ugly—spread across his skin like a reminder.
A bruise.
One Alastor hadn't left.
Vox snorted. Tried to downplay it.
"Val," he said, as if that explained everything.
Alastor's jaw tensed. Vox felt it against his back, felt the shift in his body, the anger bubbling just beneath the surface.
"Did he...?" he began, but couldn't finish the question.
"No," Vox interrupted quickly. "It wasn't that."
Alastor pressed the mark—just a little, just enough to claim it—and waited.
Vox sighed.
"We had a fight," he explained. "Creative differences. He wanted me to do something I didn't... well." A mischievous smile curved his lips. "You should have seen how I left his eye."
The silence stretched.
And then Alastor smiled differently.
A slow, satisfied, proud smile that Vox felt more than saw. He kissed his shoulder—a soft, possessive gesture—and his fingers found Vox's, intertwining with them.
"I don't want," he whispered against his skin, "you to keep having sex with him."
Vox went still.
"I don't want," Alastor continued, his voice low, serious, "you to be intimate with anyone else."
Vox slowly turned in his arms. His eyes—wide, surprised—met the red ones.
"You want to be... exclusive?" he asked, as if the words were too big for his mouth.
Alastor nodded.
Once. Firmly.
His hand—the one not holding Vox's—found the mark on his side and pressed. Gently. Deliberately.
Vox gasped—surprise, something more—and his body responded to the contact before his mind could process it.
"Alastor," he whispered.
"Tell me no," the alpha said, his red eyes fixed on his. "Tell me you're not interested, and I'll never mention it again."
Vox shook his head. Slowly. Devastatingly.
He leaned forward—seeking his lips, needing them—and whispered against them:
"I haven't been with Val."
Alastor froze.
"Since our first night," Vox continued, his voice breaking slightly. "In this hotel. I haven't let him touch me since."
The silence was absolute.
And then—Alastor kissed him.
It wasn't a hungry kiss. It wasn't a desperate kiss. It was slow. Deep. The kind of kiss that said everything words couldn't.
When they parted—panting slightly—Vox rested his forehead against Alastor's.
"Only you," he whispered. "For months now. Only you."
"Good," Alastor replied, his voice hoarse. "Because I'm not going to share you. Ever again."
Vox smiled. That radiant smile that only Alastor saw.
"Sounds like a plan," he murmured.
And they kissed again.
The pin—forgotten—gleamed somewhere on the bed.
---------------
The following days were an exercise in silent obsession.
Alastor couldn't stop thinking about it.
The idea—the mark—had lodged itself in his mind like a catchy tune, repeating over and over in the most unexpected moments. During Overlords' meetings. While signing deals. In the middle of a radio broadcast.
Bite him. Claim him. Make him officially his.
Was it too soon?
They'd been at this for months. Weekly encounters at the Eclipse Hotel. Entire nights of incredible sex and conversations that lasted until dawn. Gifts. Laughter. That moment when Vox had whispered "I love you" without realizing it, as if the words had slipped out.
No. It wasn't too soon.
Maybe—maybe—he was already late for this.
Vox wanted him. Had told him he loved him. Had accepted the pin—a courting gift, even if neither had said it aloud—and wore it to every encounter, gleaming against his lapel like a promise.
Things wouldn't be that different.
They'd still have their room at the Eclipse. The music. The incredible sex. The conversations until dawn. Only now... now they wouldn't have to hide.
The moment his fangs marked Vox's skin—the moment his scent became permanently embedded in him—anyone who approached would know. Valentino would have to back off. The other Overlords would understand. All of Hell would know that that omega—that proud and precious omega—was his.
But... how did one propose something like that?
Should he simply bite him the next time they were together? In the middle of sex, when instincts were raw and Vox was too lost in pleasure to protest?
No. Not that. Vox deserved more than that.
Maybe... a dinner.
Yes. A dinner.
Vox—beneath his facade of indifferent CEO, of cold and calculating executive—was an incurable romantic. He loved these details. The candles. The music. The small gestures that showed Alastor thought about him.
A dinner would work.
He could take him somewhere special—not the Eclipse, that was their place, too casual for this—but an elegant restaurant. With a reservation. With intention. And during dinner, when the air was charged with that electricity that always sparked between them...
"Alastor?"
Vox's voice—real, not imagined—pulled him from his thoughts.
Alastor blinked. He was in the Eclipse Hotel room, sitting on the edge of the bed, with Vox in front of him wrapped in a sheet and looking at him curiously.
"You've been staring into space for ten minutes," Vox said, tilting his head. "What are you thinking about?"
Alastor smiled. That soft smile that only Vox saw.
"About you," he replied. "Always about you."
Vox rolled his eyes, but his smile—radiant—betrayed him.
"Liar."
"You know I'm not."
"Maybe." Vox approached, climbing onto his lap with the naturalness of someone who'd done this a thousand times. "Are you going to tell me what you were really thinking about, or am I going to have to drag it out of you?"
Alastor held him by the hips. His red eyes—intense—scanned his face.
"This Saturday," he said. "Are you free?"
Vox raised an eyebrow.
"Free for what?"
"A dinner. With me. At a place I know you'll love."
The silence stretched. Vox looked at him—searching, scrutinizing—and something in his expression shifted. Became softer. More vulnerable.
"A date?" he whispered. "You want to have a date with me?"
"Yes."
"Like... for real?"
"Vox."
"It's just that you've never..."
"Vox."
Vox stopped. Swallowed. And then—slowly—smiled.
A huge smile. Radiant. Foolish.
"Yes," he said. "Yes, I'm free. Completely free. Absolutely free."
Alastor laughed. Pulled him into a kiss—slow, promising—and when they parted, Vox was glowing.
"Where?" he asked. "What time? What should I wear?"
"Surprise."
"Alastor."
"Surprise, darling. I'll pick you up at your tower."
Vox snorted, but his smile didn't disappear.
"You're so insufferable."
"I know."
And while Vox kept talking—excited, happy—Alastor smiled against his skin.
It would work.
It had to work.
----------------------------------------------------
The following days were torture.
Alastor practiced the words over and over in his mind, as if rehearsing a speech for one of his broadcasts. In front of his bedroom mirror. While walking through the hotel hallways. In the moments of silence between meetings and commitments.
"Vox, I want to mark you."
No. Too abrupt.
"I've been thinking about us and I believe we should..."
No. Too formal.
"Vox, I want everyone to know I'm your owner."
No. Too primal. Vox would tell him to go to hell.
"Darling, I want you to be mine. Forever. With my mark."
That... that sounded good. It sounded good.
But the doubt—that damned doubt—was still there. What if Vox said no? What if it was too soon? What if—despite everything they'd shared—he didn't want that?
Three days left until the Saturday date. Three days to find out.
And Alastor—the Radio Demon, the Overlord who never feared anything—was nervous.
But Vox wasn't his only problem.
Lucifer.
The King of Hell kept appearing in his room with a regularity that was becoming uncomfortable. Gifts. Smiles. Attempts at something Alastor had never promised. And the worst—the worst—was that his body... reacted.
He couldn't help it. Lucifer was beautiful. Soft. Available. And there was something in that vulnerability—in the way he looked at him as if he needed something from him—that pulled at strings Alastor would rather ignore.
But weeks had passed since the last time. Weeks of ignoring him, avoiding his gaze, hoping the message was clear.
Apparently it wasn't.
Because when Alastor arrived at his room that night—exhausted after a busy day with Charlie—he found a familiar figure waiting against the wall by his door.
Lucifer.
The dark robe he wore—silk, shimmering—left little to the imagination. Alastor knew what was underneath. He'd seen it. Touched it. And for a moment—just a moment—his mind wandered to those memories.
But he stopped.
Before Lucifer could show him, before he could tempt him, Alastor raised a hand.
"We need to talk," he said, his voice firm.
Lucifer blinked. His smile—that hopeful smile—wavered.
"Talk?"
"This." Alastor made a vague gesture encompassing the robe, the situation, everything. "Whatever this is. It has to end."
The silence was heavy.
"Your company," Alastor continued, choosing his words carefully, "was appreciated. In a way. But what we had was just sex. It was what we agreed upon from the beginning."
Lucifer swallowed.
"And now?"
"Now it's no longer necessary."
Another pause. Longer. More painful.
"It's because of Vox," Lucifer said, and it wasn't a question. His voice—trembling—grew firmer. "You always arrive smelling of him. You flaunt his scent as if... as if you're showing off."
Alastor clenched his jaw.
"That's none of your business."
"Isn't it?" Lucifer took a step forward. "After everything we shared, it's none of my business?"
"You're already marked," Alastor held his position, unmoving. "You belong to Lilith. This... this was never more than an arrangement."
Lucifer looked down.
His hands—those small, soft hands—trembled slightly at his sides.
And then—slowly—he lifted his head.
His golden eyes—bright, wet—met Alastor's. He took another step. And another. Until he was close enough to touch.
His hand—trembling—found Alastor's chest.
"One last night," he whispered. "Just one. And after that... after that I'll forget everything. What was between us. What could have been."
Alastor should have said no.
The word was on his tongue. Ready. Easy.
But Lucifer looked at him like that—pleading, needy—and his body—that damned body—remembered.
What would one last time be?
Just one.
Nothing more.
"Lucifer," he began, but the King leaned forward, his lips brushing Alastor's.
"Please," he whispered against his mouth. "Please."
And Alastor—for a moment—stood still.
Not saying no.
Not saying yes.
Just still.
----------------------
Vox had been updating his outfit for the date every day.
He knew it. It was ridiculous. Pathetic. He was acting like a lovesick teenager—with butterflies in his stomach and stupid smiles that Velvette had already started noticing. But he couldn't help it.
It was his first real date with Alastor.
Not a casual encounter at a bar. Not an escape to the Eclipse Hotel. A real, planned date, with candles and music and everything. He wanted it to be perfect.
Maybe—just maybe—this would be the night they finally formalized their relationship.
He didn't want to stop going to the Eclipse. That place—their place—was special. But he did want to stop hiding. He wanted everyone to know he was Alastor's. That Alastor was his.
Three days left.
Three damned days.
And he couldn't be more restless. More impatient.
That's how he ended up in front of Alastor's tower—the hotel, not the Eclipse—with a bottle of Sazerac in one hand and a set of scarlet lingerie under his coat.
Velvette had given them to him months ago. From her collections, always provocative. Vox had never worn them—never felt he had the curves for it, not like other omegas—but tonight... tonight he wanted to try.
For Alastor.
Would he like it?
He hoped so.
Teleporting to the suite was easy. Alastor had mentioned once that he always left his phone in his room—he couldn't stand the constant vibrations—and tracking the energy was simple.
When he arrived, he melted.
Everything smelled of Alastor. Moss. Whiskey. Home.
He left the bottle on the dresser next to the bed. Took off his coat. And then—in front of the mirror—he began to try poses.
Should he strike a provocative pose? Something casual? Lying on his side, like in those old paintings?
He tried different positions. Felt foolish—completely foolish—but also... excited. The scarlet lingerie fit better than he expected. The lace. The embroidery. The way the fabric clung to his skin.
God, I hope he likes it.
And then—the door.
It burst open.
Vox held his breath. His heart—racing—pounded against his chest as he settled onto the bed, searching for that perfect pose he'd been rehearsing.
But what he saw froze him.
Alastor didn't enter alone.
Lucifer was with him.
And they were kissing.
Vox blinked. His brain—refusing to process—went blank as he watched the King of Hell cling to Alastor's neck, his small moans filtering through the kiss. Lucifer's dark robe—open—revealed bare skin beneath.
The world stopped.
The bottle of Sazerac—forgotten—waited on the dresser.
The scarlet lingerie on him suddenly felt ridiculous.
And Vox—who had spent three days choosing outfits, who had smiled like an idiot, who had believed—could only watch.