Chapter Text
Alastor and Vox had many, many differences between them.
Where Alastor was cool and composed, Vox was impulsive and reactive. Alastor made his deals privately, preferring an air of secrecy when in the business of souls. Vox, on the other hand, was rather…theatrical with all things business; for him, the more eyes, the better. Alastor did things alone, in both life and death. Vox always relied on a team, sharing strength with the few he considered to be true allies.
A trait that they shared, though, was that they were both creatures of habit who valued, of all the things that held any sort of weight in Hell, time. Ironically, time was of next to no value in Hell—why would it be? They were dead and, if they were lucky enough to avoid the exterminations or the wrath of someone powerful enough to perma-kill them, they had eternity at their fingertips. Simply, time was of no use. Well, perhaps time was more precious for the hellborn in the rings below them, but at the very least, those that dwelled in the Pride Ring had little care for it. Naturally, that made the opposing media pair quite an enigma, even amongst the strange, ever-growing population in Pride.
What was even stranger was that they had a pact that relied on time. Not that anyone but the two of them knew that, of course.
Now, it wasn’t a formal deal by any means—it was something that had been established during a friendlier time in their afterlives, and now neither were willing to exchange anything of real value due to the mistrust and anger that hung heavily between them, though their history of hurt feelings and resentment represented a chain of sorts in its own way, forever choking the breath from Vox’s lungs and weighing Alastor down, their shared Nothing being the heaviest burden he’s ever had to carry. Neither would ever verbalize it, but they both knew that the fallout from their last friendly night at the bar did more damage than could ever be repaired, and the consequences from that night followed them every day since. No, their agreement had nothing to do with that wretched night or souls or territory or anything that resembled partnership; it was a matter of the flesh, nothing more.
It was common knowledge that the Radio Demon was exceptionally private when it came to, well, everything. He didn’t trust anyone to know about his deals, what souls he owned, matters of territory battle and trade, and especially anything else that regarded him personally. Aside from Rosie and, in a brief, deeply regretted, long-ago lifetime, Vox, he’d managed to keep his personal ties to a minimum and didn’t dare let anyone get close to him, earning himself a reputation as a powerful Overlord who was just as introverted as he was terrifying; someone who defied all laws of nature, given that he’d never once shown even a modicum of interest in having a partner, let alone a mate. Although he’d never spoken on the matter, it was widely assumed that he was an alpha, while others theorized that he was a beta, which, excluding his outward aggression and displays of power in battle, was also likely. If anyone theorized that he was a weak, lowly omega, they didn’t dare speak it, lest they become the next voice to join the endless choir on his broadcast. Really, Alastor just…seemed above it all in the end. He was music. He was power. He was eldritch horror. There wasn’t an omega in Hell whose scent turned his head. He was just…Alastor.
Vox knew better than anyone else, though, that as powerful and scary as Alastor was, he was also, like them, of human origin.
Truly, Vox had never met anyone like Alastor before, and he doubted that he ever would again. The red-clad asshole was everything an omega ought not to be; powerful, aggressive, dangerous, unyielding, and too damn prideful to lower his head, even when every instinct in his body was commanding him to. He was the only omega that Vox had ever truly wanted beyond fits of rut and heat. He didn’t just want to satiate the demands of their secondaries—he wanted Alastor.
It had taken years of getting to know each other for Alastor to open up to him, but those years had been some of the best in Vox’s life. Learning and mastering the ebb and flow of Alastor’s moods, following his lead and knowing the tell-tale signs of when to back off before he got his head bitten off, and picking up puzzle pieces along the way until the full picture that was Alastor came together. By then, they were as close as…well, he’d have liked to call them something more, something brighter, but the closest thing to a label Alastor had ever assigned them was company. They were likeminded company. They were close company. They were good company. It was never enough for Vox, but it had always been in his nature to strive for more.
He couldn’t remember why exactly Alastor decided to tell him about his omega status or what the conversation that led up to the revelation was, but he remembered the way a charge of electricity sparked off between his antennas when the words quietly slipped from the Radio Demon’s lips, his ears pressed flat against his skull in a way that made his own chest ache. It was a deeply uncomfortable thing for Alastor to talk about, especially when he continued to explain what his yearly heat cycle was like and how it made him feel within himself. Truthfully, Vox could never quite wrap his mind around the way Alastor…functioned? For lack of a better term, anyway. He had gone on to explain that his heats were intense—more than intense, really. They seemed to be rather debilitating and painful from what he understood. Also, where others experienced pleasure, he felt visceral discomfort, like his body was betraying him. He’d tried to get Alastor to explain what he meant, but it seemed that the right words just didn’t exist. He had just gone on to say that his body craved an intrusion and closeness from another that he, himself, did not actually want, and that every year, it felt as though his body and mind were at war, trying to split away from or completely take over the other, which was why he hid himself away whenever it began. He didn’t want anyone to witness him in such a pathetic (correction: vulnerable) state. That was the part that Vox really didn’t understand, but it was also the part that evaded Alastor the most; he’d never taken a partner or a mate because, outside of his heats, he didn’t want another person in that way. He said that he didn’t mind the idea of romance, but it was more of a fictional concept to him than anything else, but the idea of sexual intercourse had never been appealing at all.
That was when they began to establish their pact.
The details were rather simple, really. Alastor, being the meticulous person he was, had kept careful track of his heats throughout the years and was able to predict when it would start and end with near-perfect accuracy. It typically came somewhere between late October and mid-December, but he’d learned his body so well that he could detect the early signs of it and was able to hide himself away in his residence before the worst of it hit him. His heats also lasted about a week, give or take—from what Vox knew of other omegas’ heat cycles, this was typical—and Alastor had expressed some gladness in that. After all, it wasn’t unusual for any demon to disappear for a week or two, so despite it not being ideal overall, he wasn’t concerned that his absence would be noted while he dealt with his annual predicament. The part where Vox came in was, naturally, the most interesting. Between gritted teeth and a strained smile, Alastor had admitted to him that his alpha pheromones were the least unappealing he’d come across in both life and death, and that if it didn’t put Vox too much out of his way (not that anything he asked of him would have ever been too much), he wanted him to…visit him. At his home. During his heat.
Vox had damn-near short-circuited at the request, overheating so badly that he almost had to reboot himself. Alastor had made sure to specify that Vox was not his mate or heat partner or anything else related whatsoever, and that just because he was visiting, it did not mean that he was getting access to him by default. Of course, he had accepted Alastor’s terms without pitching any of his own because he, at the time, couldn’t imagine anything better than being the only person Alastor trusted to be with him at such a private time, his own physical needs be damned!
So, for their last few years as friends, partners, company, Vox made sure to keep his fall schedule wide open and patiently waited for Alastor’s call through the airwaves, a fuzzy little feeling that was more sensation than sound, as if his words were reaching inside him and touching the core of his very being rather than hitting his non-existent ears like regular sound did. Their shared frequency that belonged to them and them alone. Of course, Vox would zap there in an instant and do whatever it was Alastor wanted from him. Something he’d always found rather interesting but never dared to question was that, even after all the cruel words and laughter, the disrespect and hurt feelings, their arrangement never ended. Even after Alastor denounced their allyship (companionship?) and mocked him for his w̸̻̖̋͒ę̸͚̺̘̌̽̃a̴̲͙͉̒k̶͈͈̆ͅn̵͚̦͇̔̏̋e̷̝̯͉͔͆̋̂̃s̵̞̫͒̑s̵̳̰̾̎͝ , he still continued to call out to him every fall…and Vox always answered.
True to his initial warning, Alastor’s calls to him didn’t always mean he was invited to touch him.
Sometimes, during particularly rough heats, the Radio Demon just wanted eyes on him. For Vox to be there and make sure he didn’t die from the pain (he didn’t think that was possible) and to grab him food and water if the fever was making him too weak. Touch of any kind was too much, too overwhelming and agitating. They both knew that Vox’s presence was only aggravating things, that their scents and pheromones were made stronger together and that the thin thread of self-control they had between them was pulled taut and threatening to snap every moment they spent together, but all the same, Alastor never told him to leave, and Vox never offered to go.
Most of the time, Vox spent the week with his body wrapped around Alastor’s shaking, feverish form, his fingers plunged as deep inside of him as he could go, stimulating and overstimulating him over and over as Alastor keened and writhed against him. Every instinct in Vox’s body demanded for him to claim Alastor as his own during those heats, to bite his neck and mark him forever as his and take his pain away, but he never dared to even ask. He feared that, in the midst of heat, lust, pleasure, and desperation, Alastor might just say yes.
Then, there had been a few special, cherished years where Alastor wanted to take things further. Years where, with dizzying kisses and slick dripping between his thighs, Alastor’s wiry body took him in and, for a few brief moments in their forever, they were connected by more than just the airwaves.
But then, for a reason no one but Alastor seemed to know, he disappeared without a word, warning, or even a farewell broadcast. Then the exterminations began and…Vox couldn’t help but think that they were for him, as if the only thing that could kill the Radio Demon was to have all of Heaven fall from the sky. If he was being honest, Vox had somewhat driven himself mad in the first few months of Alastor’s absence, obsessively watching his cameras, then rewatching the footage with bated breath, half-convinced that he’d catch a flash of red movement against the backdrop of their equally, stupidly red ring. How he had gone for so long without anyone seeing him was damn-near impossible—yes, the Pride Ring was a big space, but it was also a finite space. No one could ever truly disappear…yet he had. And when fall came around without a call from Alastor, Vox knew he was really gone. Part of him had been sickeningly glad when that realization dawned on him, a biting type of glee that made it feel as though his grin was going to burst from the confines of his screen. It wasn’t the victory he wanted, but it was a win nonetheless! Video trumped radio! Out with the old and in with the new!
His elation had been much more short-lived than he would have ever anticipated, though. It was a cheap win—a boring one that came from a happenstance that had nothing to do with him at all! He felt robbed of the satisfaction of winning a good fight. Cheated, even. It wasn’t fair. Perhaps, beneath it all, he was a little concerned, too. Not really, not in a way that mattered, but in a way that was more curiosity than anything else. What had happened to Alastor? Had he finally picked a fight he couldn’t win? If he was alive, he was far—farther than their shared frequency reached, which, until that point, he hadn’t ever thought of it having a limit before. Despite it being a possibility on a technical level, Vox never truly put much weight in that thought, and though he had no reason to believe so after all that happened, he couldn’t help but think that if Alastor was dumb enough to get himself into real trouble—the kind he couldn’t get out of on his own—he’d find a way to reach Vox.
So, with a million unanswerable questions on his tongue, Vox had been forced to accept that Alastor was gone—dead or otherwise—and that he’d never get the closure he deserved from their stupid falling out at the stupid bar…and as the years began to pass, Vox’s anger grew, folding in on itself, multiplying, and mutating until the fondness he’d once felt for Alastor was all but forgotten, and the yearly neutral ground they’d found themselves in no longer mattered. Seventy years was a lot of time for anger to build. Seven years was enough time to forget all that was good.
Of course, because the Radio Demon was a one-man show, Alastor’s return had been a production in itself. Just as suddenly as he had disappeared all those years ago, he returned to Pentagram City like no time had passed at all. The fucker even went out of his way to show off for the camera, posing coquettishly as he purposefully caused Vox’s cameras to glitch and lose signal when on him.
For all the trouble Alastor had caused him over the years, he could’ve, at the very least, died in that ridiculous slap-fight the less-than-beloved princess had picked with Heaven. But no. Because he was Alastor and he was ridiculously powerful for someone as young (in loose terms) as he was, he managed to take a hit straight to the chest from a holy weapon that was being wielded by a literal arch angel—by Adam, the first fucking dick or whatever he called himself—and lived to slink away into the shadows to lick his wounds and tell the tale. Figures.
After the dust settled and the Heaven survivors backed off, Vox figured that things would go back to normal—well, the normal that had been established since Alastor’s return. He, Valentino, and Velvette would work to maintain their hold over the Entertainment District, and soon, expand to reach the overall masses of Hell, and on the side, he had begun another project. Something bigger—but that was a private project for now, something he needn’t bother the others with for the time being.
The last thing he ever expected to feel as he sat alone in his office was the telltale twinge of connection radiating through his antennas, a phantom call reaching him through the long-abandoned frequency he and Alastor shared. The one that had been dead for nearly eight years by that point and had only recently revived. Even if their conversation had been laid to rest decades before, he could still feel Alastor through the waves, and he was sure Alastor could feel him all the same. Still, the sensation of the other demon calling to him sent an involuntary shiver down his spine despite the heat being pumped through the vents in the Vee Tower. It was a chilly, damp fall day, after all, and Velvette couldn’t stand the cold—
Oh. Right.
It was fall.
Before Vox had much time to ruminate on whether or not he really owed Alastor an answer—pact or not—the feeling melted away, becoming just another bothersome memory Alastor left carved into his mind, their shared wavelength existing, more than anything else, as a bitter echo of a somewhat pleasant past. But because the Radio Demon was a cruel creature, the physical embodiment of calamity, Vox couldn’t be left in peace, even in the purposeful silence between them. Even as he tried to refocus his attention back onto the schematics he was working on for an upcoming tower upgrade, he couldn’t shake the feeling of unease that lingered… it felt almost as if someone had entered his bedroom and rifled around in his things without him knowing, leaving something ever so slightly out of place so he could tell that something was awry, but would never be able to pinpoint what had changed. He just felt…off and not entirely at home in his body, like it wasn’t fully his anymore.
There had once been a time where that feeling was welcomed. It was exciting and intimate and felt like trust.
Not anymore. It felt like someone unwanted was squeezing into the empty spaces between his ribs, twisting into something mangled and parasitic before making a home out of him.
He grimaced at the feeling and made a show of straightening the lapels of his blazer for his audience of none, making sure the dead air was aware of how unbothered he was, then went back to mapping out where he should install new security cameras.
Not even five minutes later, the sensation returned, stronger this time. Demanding to be heard. Felt. Acknowledged.
Alastor had always been a hypocrite; always the one to be heard but often refusing to hear anyone else out.
“I’m not listening, fucker,” Vox mumbled under his breath, glaring down at the paper in front of him as his somewhat neat writing turned into tense scribbles that dared to tear the paper. If he squeezed his pen any tighter, it was bound to snap and get ink all over his work. That would be Alastor’s fault, too.
The calls came faster after that, their frequency raising in pitch until Vox had no choice but to throw his pen down and clutch the edges of his screen in a combination of annoyance, discomfort, and frustration. His claws were going to leave ugly little scratches in the sides of his case, but he couldn’t bring himself to care about that, not when Alastor was incessantly banging on the inside of his (metaphorical) skull. The very essence of the other demon radiated panic and pain, the parts of him that were touching Vox’s soul felt purely electric, like he had been hotwired and was running on equal parts raw energy and fire.
“What the fuck, stop, stop!” Vox yelled out, his voice bouncing off the empty, too-tall walls and back at him like they were mocking him. Or he was mocking himself.
Pain was all Vox could think as Alastor clawed through their frequency to get his attention, the gaps between their connections shrinking until they were non-existent and his mind was just a continuous stream of the other demon’s rapid fire, delirious thoughts. He’s in pain.
He should ignore him. Let him suffer. Let him fail at every attempt to get himself off to alleviate his pain and discomfort until he loses consciousness from it. He should send a drone or even a crew up to that stupid hotel to show all of Pride what a pathetic creature the great Radio Demon is. He should—he should—he should—
But he won’t. He can’t.
Because the alpha-animal-whatever-the-fuck thing inside of him wouldn’t allow that. As much as Alastor was not physically marked as his, something deeper had been established during the years that they had partaken in their secondary instincts, and that part of him was telling him to go to him. To pick up where they left off.
With one last loud, frustrated sigh, Vox zapped up into the closest security camera and hit the city’s power grid, following the airwaves to wherever Alastor had hidden himself in the Hazbin Hotel.
Given Alastor’s aversion to tech, Vox was lucky to find a singular electronic source to zap out of once he had been able to pinpoint where in the hotel the omega was calling him from. It was fitting that the only source of electricity nearby was a radio, and from the fuzzy, almost dusty taste of the electricity that was coursing through his entire being, he could tell that it was an antique—most likely one of the cathedral-style radios that the sentimental fuck refused to let go of despite the much better, much more modern options on the market these days.
“Alright, Al, I’m here. What the fuck do you want—” Vox’s question was cut short the moment he fully materialized in the room the radio was in, nearly knocked to his knees as a thick wall of sweet, pungent pheromones hit him like a ton of bricks. He could’ve sworn that he literally stumbled back, but couldn’t be entirely sure, not with how immediately overwhelmed his senses were. “Woah, holy shit!”
The smell of Alastor’s pheromones haunted Vox’s wet dreams, honestly. For someone as bitter and conniving as he was, his scent was unexpectedly pleasant—a unique combination of pomegranates, sandalwood, and rain that Vox couldn’t help but be drawn to. It was delicious and addictive and it ignited something so endlessly hungry inside of him, beckoning him to the Radio Demon like a carnivorous flower that attracted insects into its open maw with its bright colours and sweet aroma.
He might very well have to kick on the fans in his system just to keep himself running smoothly.
Although the pair hadn’t spent any time together in the last near-decade, upon taking a quick glance around his surroundings, Vox instantly knew where he found himself, even if the where had moved.
For a reason Vox had never been able to dissect, Alastor’s specific power set came with the strange ability to open a little pocket dimension for himself, existing somewhere beyond the physical realm of Hell, but also not in the shadows he often used to travel…it was something other. Whatever the dimension was, it was made to forever resemble a peaceful night in a Louisianian bayou, a place that looked and felt like Alastor’s home back when he was alive, or so he’d told Vox on a drunken night between glasses of whisky. That had been one piece of sentimentality that he never thought to mock—hell, if he had the ability to bring a piece of home with him everywhere he went, he’d have done so, too.
He didn’t have much time to take in the distantly familiar environment (seriously, was it possible to miss a cabin out in the middle of a creepy-ass bayou?) before his eyes locked in on a dark figure curled up on the bed in the far corner of the room, his sensors simultaneously alerting him that the figure was the source of the pheromones.
“Alastor?” he asked tentatively, all his annoyance and faux bravado dropping from his voice when Alastor didn’t immediately fly into attack mode, as he so often did when Vox was nearby, let alone in his little safe haven. He took a few careful steps toward the other demon, his expression morphing into something dangerously close to concern when he realized that the darkness he was seeing wasn’t just a poorly lit corner of the cabin, but was Alastor’s shadow wrapped around his body like protective armor, the shadow-being hiding his master beneath his not-entirely-corporeal form.
When he got within arms length of the pair, the shadow picked his head up out of the indistinct darkness that was his own body and hissed at Vox, his eyes flashing red for a split second in a clear warning that screamed “stay away!”
Vox halted his movements and raised his hands to his chest, trying to show the creature that he meant no harm (this time). Slow and soft, as if speaking to a frightened animal, he said, “Sonm, it’s me. Vox. You know me.” A pause. “He called me here.”
Sonm, meaning “dark” in Louisiana Creole, if he was remembering correctly. Or, a somber sort of darkness, as Alastor had said once when he’d asked about the shadow. Real creative, Al.
The shadow-being’s ears pinned back to his skull, eyes still glaring but no longer glowing with the looming threat that he—whatever he was—had the power to drag Vox away into the shadow realm and make sure that he was never heard from again. That was the one fate that, in his mind, challenged Alastor’s broadcast of screams. At least on his broadcast, people knew you still existed somewhere. The shadows, though? Even Alastor didn’t know a whole lot about that particular plane of existence.
Sonm remained overtop Alastor for a few minutes longer, his glare gradually dropping into a blank, endless stare as he assessed Vox. There wasn’t a lot of expression to be read on his face, but even still, Vox couldn’t help but think he could see the way the shadow was doubting him, then himself, trying to correlate the version of Vox in front of him to the version he knew a lifetime ago. Maybe he was more Alastor than Sonm these days, each passing year stealing his shadowy independence from him and gradually transforming him into a real shadow. Another Alastor (the horror).
“I haven’t changed that much in the last eight years,” he huffed, his patience wearing thin when Sonm made no move to pull away from Alastor. Then, somewhat bitterly, he added, “I think you’ve changed more, if anything.”
He wasn’t sure if he really meant that.
With one last once-over and a faint huff, the shadow creature finally peeled away from Alastor’s body and went back to his usual place on the wall, seemingly having decided that Vox, for once, wasn’t a threat to Alastor’s safety.
Somehow, the wave of pheromones that were released once the veil was lifted were even more pungent than the scent already permeating the air in the humid cabin. This time, Vox really did kick on his internal fans, working in tandem to keep his head clear from the hormones that were beginning to run rampant in his body and keep systems cool so he wouldn’t overheat and be forced to shut down. There always had been something about Alastor that corroded him from the inside-out.
That being said, Alastor…did not look good. At all.
Vox had seen Alastor through some rough heats—he’d been there when his stomach cramped so hard he refused to eat for days on end; he’d soaked him in ice baths to shock him out of the submissive-omega-headspace he hated but his body sometimes forced him into; and he’d eased him through the discomfort of being knotted for the first time and didn’t even complain when Alastor literally ripped his arm off and devoured it. All in all, he’d seen a lot over the years, but this? This was new.
The first thing Vox noticed once Sonm removed himself from Alastor was that the other demon had been stark naked beneath his shadow, curled tightly into himself with his tail tucked down to protect his hind. That alone was enough to tip Vox off to something being wrong, given that Alastor was a prudish fuck who considered it to be obscenely intimate to roll up the sleeves of his shirt in front of others, let alone lay around naked when he was expecting company (that, and it had always been an ordeal in itself to convince Alastor to strip down before they fucked). With so much of his body exposed, though, Vox could see that the thin, almost emaciated-looking demon was damp all over, sweating profusely from the waist up and sticky with an overproduction of slick from the waist down, and that Alastor’s usual heat-induced blush had deepened from a healthy pinkish hue into a worrisome ruddy colour that melted all the way past his shoulders and disappeared into the taupe fur that covered almost the entirety of the rest of his body. Then there was the smell. The pheromones in the room smelled like how Alastor usually did—sweet, earthy, and warm—but what had been released from beneath Sonm’s protection was tinged with something sickly and sour, an uneasy smell that turned Vox’s stomach and alerted his more animal instincts that, human (demon?) feelings aside, he needed to protect the omega.
“Shit, Al!” Vox sucked in a sharp, surprised breath as he moved to take hold of the other demon’s shoulder and roll him over, stopping himself just short of actually making contact when he was hit with a startling reminder that unapproved contact with him could be…uncomfortable for both of them. Unmoving, he let his tensed hands hover over Alastor as he spoke, “Uh, is this a no-touch year? I’m not really equipped to lose parts right now.”
“Go away.”
The fuck? Vox thought immediately, his face falling back into annoyance just as easily as he had forgotten it when he realized how wrong everything was. His arms dropped limp at his sides, no longer quite so concerned with the other’s wellbeing. “You told me to come, asshole,” he said, his tone flat as he tried to maintain his composure and not fly off the handle. “You literally berated me over our frequency until I ditched work—you’re welcome, by the way—to come here.”
At that, Alastor curled in a little tighter, showing Vox the way the notches of his spine strained against his flesh.
“I apologize for disrupting your day, but your services are not needed. It was a misdial, my dear, nothing more.”
“Misdial, my ass” Vox scoffed. After a second, he decided that he could no longer stand the sight of Alastor’s bony back and risked it all to tug his shoulder, forcing him to roll over and face him.
Although he knew that Alastor was unlikely to attack by this point—if he hadn’t yet, he probably wouldn’t at all—he still tensed and readied a few of his electro-charged wires in anticipation for some sort of physical retaliation, whether that be a freaky shadow tentacle whipping him across the room or a mouthful of glowing yellow teeth tearing into his chest. Instead, all he received in return was the sight of Alastor’s painfully cute, fluffy tail flipping up to flash its white underside and his eyes opening to reveal angry, red radio dials flickering against pitch black sclera. A threat for sure, but a near-empty one.
“How long?” Vox asked, unphased. No point in mincing words if Alastor was in the mood to go southern-gothic-eldritch-horror on him.
“What?” he bit back, his smile strained into a near-snarl and his ears pinned flat against his skull.
“How long have you been in heat?”
Instead of answering, Alastor squeezed his eyes shut once more and let out a small sound under his breath, something between a sigh and a frustrated growl that betrayed the pain he was in despite his efforts to smile through it. A smile can’t hide everything, Vox supposed, though he already knew that. He knew Alastor’s tricks well.
With Alastor’s body turned toward him, Vox could see the wound he’d sustained by Adam the Dickmaster™ in high definition. In short, it was gnarly. It was bigger than the drone feed had made it seem, the open gash stretching from his left shoulder all the way down to the ribs on his right side—and that motherfucker looked angry. Even from where he was standing, he could feel the pulse of the remnants of angelic power that were weaving through and festering within the inflamed and poorly stitched wound, infecting Alastor with a type of magical purity that was not meant to touch a creature like him. Like any of them, really.
“Is that what’s hurting you or is it your heat?” he tried again, pointing a sharpened claw at the angelic wound. He was growing unsure of what to do. He and Alastor had hurt each other plenty over the years, but they’d never really taken care of each other in the aftermath, especially when either of them hadn’t been the cause of the injuries. Wounds sustained from other battles and other sinners were not something they typically acknowledged, but nothing else they’d ever experienced seemed as serious as this. Would Alastor even let him do anything about it? Could he do anything? Did he even want to? Did he really care?
Too many questions. He was bound to bluescreen if he kept overthinking.
Just when he was he was about to accept Alastor’s silence as yet another non-answer, the cathedral radio across the room turned on, a wave of static bristling through the ancient speakers. Somewhere amongst the interference and white noise, Vox could’ve sworn he heard Alastor’s voice whisper a faint “three days.”
“Three days?” he echoed back, frowning at Alastor’s sharp nod and the way he attempted to curl in on himself more, covering his wound by crossing his arms over it. Christ on a stick, that wasn’t good. It typically wasn’t a good thing to leave omegas on their own at all during heats unless they’d taken some sort of measure to lessen the effects, but Vox knew that the old-timey fuck was so stuck in his ways that he wouldn’t even take medicine that he deemed frivolous and too modern (whatever that meant), and things like heat suppressants had come onto the scene way after he died.
He’d forced himself to suffer alone for three whole days.
Vox hated how sick that thought made him feel, as if he could have anything for Alastor before he’d called him—well, he knew it was fall, maybe he should have called to check in? He could have kept a closer eye on his cameras to watch his behaviour recently. Hell, he could have zapped over to the hotel whenever he wanted and no one could have stopped him…hatred and bitter rivalry aside, he was being a bad alpha—Shit, he was overthinking again. One of his vents let out a puff of hot air, making his shirt sticky with humidity and cling to his body in a way that had him fidgeting where he stood, growing desperate to shed a few layers.
“And the pain…?”
“Both,” Alastor answered verbally, turning his face to press it deeper into his dishevelled bedding, as if hiding from him. “The wound is manageable. The…heat…is not.” A perfectly timed bead of sweat rolled down Alastor’s neck at that, dripping down and absorbing into the blanket beneath him.
The audio from the radio crackled, the volume raising sharply for a few grating, painful seconds, then gradually lowered again. Some of the tension released from Alastor’s body, and he relaxed a little, letting out a soft breath of relief. The heatwave or whatever it was called was over for the moment, but it would rear its ugly head again sooner rather than later.
“Alastor,” he started, slowly inching his way closer to the bed and keeping a careful eye on both the ailing deer and his aggressively protective shadow. It wasn’t easy watching two things at once, but Alastor was a difficult creature to read, so even with Vox (and maybe Rosie, but he preferred to keep the trophy title to himself) being the closest thing to an expert when it came to all things Radio Demon, it was still best to watch Sonm for his truest, most raw feelings. So far, Alastor was still and Sonm was calm. Good. “Can I touch you?”
Alastor’s eyes opened again, flashing red-on-black before settling back into his usual magenta-on-red, a slight glow to them in the darkness of the cabin. “You already have,” he said, keeping up with his usual teasing, patronizing tone despite the way his lips pulled back into a nightmarish smile that showed his gums as he spoke. Vox didn’t miss the way his eyes flicked down to where his trousers were touching the edge of the mattress—not quite breaching the invisible barrier between them but teasing it for sure—before snapping back up to meet his gaze. “A creep like you has no care for the autonomy of others, after all.”
“You know what I mean,” Vox all but sighed, deflating. He shouldn’t have come. He felt ẘ̸̝̏ḙ̴̔͆̍a̸̗̦͙͋͒͝k̸̢̃—well, he mostly felt fucking horny because the mere smell of Alastor sent almost all of his blood flooding south so fast that he got a headrush, but the effect Alastor had on him made him feel w̸̡̡̛̞͍̣̠̓͋̉e̶̗̳̐̒́͜á̵̲̖̬̣͔k̶̢̦͗̂̚ . Alastor made him w̶̧̝̗̤̅̾͂̃̊̆e̷̬̝͎̱̰̭͑́a̶̳͎͇͎̣͉̬͆̉̌͜͝k̴̺̥̰̅́̒͊̉͑͝ͅ . He wasn’t capable of this sort of care or softness with anyone else, but, god, it was difficult showing it to him and it was even harder getting him to accept it. “Look—fuck—I’m sorry, okay? I shouldn’t have done that, but you’re so fucking cagey and I can’t tell what you need—you called me here, then told me to go away as you’re practically writhing in pain and soaked in slick in a room flooded with your pheromones. Do you know what that does to me? What that does to my stupid fucking senses or whatever the fuck?”
“Always about you, I see. You’re the same as ever, Vox. Only thinking of your own needs and interests, though I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised.” Alastor’s words were sharper now, serrated at the edges like the teeth that made up his cruel, cheshire smile.
“You’re not listening to me, asshole!” Vox snapped, closing the distance between them by reaching out and taking Alastor’s face in his hands, forcing him to meet his eyes. The amalgamation of biology and machinery that lived behind his screen was already starting to heat up, making the glass that functioned as his face crackle with unshed static electricity. The added contact between them only made it worse, as the other’s heat combined with his own and doubled the electric energy that ran through Vox’s veins, sparking and popping off in small shocks where he and Alastor were connected. “I’m asking if I can touch you. If I can help you. This isn’t about me—this has never been about me! Fuck, I don’t even have to take off my goddamn clothes if you don’t want me to!”
An awkwardly long stretch of silence passed between them. Magenta glared into red. Red bore into magenta. Vox’s left eye was pulsating, humming as black waves lapped over and over in a cycle that was meant to hypnotize and subdue those weaker than himself. He knew it wouldn’t work on Alastor. It never had. He wasn’t even trying to, and he figured Alastor probably knew that, too, or else he’d have shredded Vox’s body and left his soul screaming over the radio waves by now.
They remained just as they were for an immeasurable amount of time; Vox holding Alastor’s face in his hands, their eyes locked in on each other’s personal brand of red, and their faces so close together that they were practically sharing the same breath, passing the air back and forth as if they’d suffocate otherwise. When had he lowered himself so close to Alastor? He couldn’t quite tell. Perhaps it had been gradual. Perhaps it had been all at once. He didn’t care, not when pomegranates and sandalwood and rain filled his lungs.
This was nice, Vox decided. Holding Alastor like this was nice. It was gentle in a way that could only be understood by them. It was intimate and felt almost like trust, like something so precious could be rebuilt after all (not). Nevertheless, there was no biting. No snarling. No radio dials or shadow tentacles or voodoo puppets. Alastor had not been like this with him in so painfully long, and the human part of him that he liked to pretend didn’t exist anymore missed it so desperately.
“Alastor,” Vox whispered, breaking the silence. He was always the first to speak, always the first to break and go crawling back to the other.
He pressed a knee up onto the mattress, breaching the barrier.
No reaction. No claws or screeching static or glowing green magic.
Finally, after what could have quite possibly been days, hours, minutes of silence (and hormone-riddled anticipation), Alastor made a decision (as if it hadn’t already been made since the moment he called out to Vox).
“Make yourself useful.”
.
.
.
Falling into Alastor was similar to falling from grace, Vox might’ve thought to himself if he had the capacity to think with any kind of complexity at the moment.
Though he’d never fallen from Heaven, he imagined it burned all the same.
Vox couldn’t be entirely sure of who kissed who first. His natural instinct was to say that he had made the first move; that was the most logical conclusion, supported by seventy-odd years of history (quite the case study, all things considered), but also, he was so painfully sure that if he had been the one to move in first, then Alastor had met him halfway with just as much desperation-fuelled force.
Despite their time apart, the tension and anger that neither of them had ever quelled, and the stifling heat of it all, Vox found himself on top of Alastor just as easily as he had every year before, their bodies slotting together like they’d never been separated at all. Just rolled from one heat to the next without a gap, without a break, without seven years of bitter longing. He couldn’t help but feel like they were made to fit that way—made to share breath, scent, and body as Alastor pulled him in closer, closer, closer, seemingly trying to force Vox’s body to melt into his own until they were one being. And he realized that, even after it all, all that had happened in the past and all that was bound to happen in the future, part of him still wanted that, too.
“Al,” Vox murmured against Alastor’s lips, barely able to hold back a pathetically breathy moan from escaping his throat when the other demon’s claws dug into and tore the fabric of the back of his blazer, sinking into his flesh without hesitation as he tried to drag Vox further into him. “Christ—”
“Ridiculous picture box.” Was Alastor’s growled response. He was nipping and biting at Vox’s lips in a way that toed the line between ‘sexy’ and ‘I’m about to fucking eat you,’ but he couldn’t bring himself to care, not when he opened his eyes and was greeted by those ruby reds. Those stupidly sultry, half-lidded ruby reds with pupils blown wide like he was coked out of his mind. “You made me wait for so long.”
“You didn’t call me,” Vox choked out. It was true, but he hated the words as they fell from his lips between sharp, biting kisses—he hated them because they were, in fact, the truth, but also because they were keeping his tongue from exploring Alastor’s mouth. Shit, why wasn’t his tongue in his mouth?
The claws in his back dug in deeper, blood beginning to pool in the hollows where Alastor’s fingers were pressing in.
He shifted his leg, daring to press a knee between Alastor’s legs. He didn’t miss the way the omega’s thighs were shaking with micro-tremors or how his hips flinched when the stiff fabric of Vox’s slacks made contact with his dripping cunt.
“I did. You tried to ignore me,” Alastor rebutted before Vox could mention his shaking. Or how wet he was. He shifted to tuck his face into the crook of Vox’s neck where his head connected to his body via an intricate puzzle of veins and wires and inhaled deeply over where his collar covered his scent glands. More slick flooded between his thighs, soaking into Vox’s pants and dampening his knee. Instinctively, Vox moved his leg in just a tad closer, aching to feel the impossible heat of Alastor’s body against him. Just a little bit more, a little closer. Whether his alpha hindbrain had fully taken over by now or if he was still acting within his own human (demon) desires, he couldn’t say; all he knew was that any ill feelings he had for Alastor before were now becoming fuzzy and distant in his mind, taking a backseat to pheromones belonging to the man beneath him, looking so, so similarly to the one he’d known all those years ago. The one he frequented bars with. The one he drank and danced and sang with. The one who invited him inside in more ways than one.
“Sorry,” Vox said dumbly, stupidly breathless despite their lack of activity. Between the slick on his leg and the way Alastor was hungrily huffing at his scent glands, he could feel some of the pixels on his screen beginning to glitch, threatening to go out completely. Not to mention the claws gripping desperately at his flesh, still trying to fuse their chests together. “Fuck, you’re, like, dripping, Al. So fuckin’ wet for me.”
“Don’t be so crass,” Alastor warned sharply, static bleeding into his speech over his filter. Vox inwardly rolled his eyes. Of course he was still acting like a frigid prude despite having essentially demanded for him to come over for a prolonged booty call.
“What, I’m not allowed to state facts now?” he asked, more sarcastic than serious, but judging by the way the look in Alastor’s eyes changed from half-blissed out and pheromone-drunk to Semi-Pissed Off Radio Demon, he knew the humour didn’t land. Tread lightly or risk disembowelment.
“Off,” Alastor said firmly, finally pulling his claws out from where they were hooked in Vox’s back to shove at his shoulders. There wasn’t any real force in the way he pushed him, but that singular word was enough to send him tumbling back, off of and away from Alastor’s body.
“Woah, shit, fuck—what? What’s wrong?” Vox sputtered, looking between Alastor and Sonm for any signs of distress that he missed. He hadn’t seen any—and his secondary instincts hadn’t picked up on any either! Alastor was being snappy and bratty, but what else was new? He winced and his screen glitched momentarily when the open wounds on his back accidentally touched the aged wood of the footboard, rainbow bars colouring his vision from the intense sting. “Did I do something?”
Alastor propped himself up onto an elbow and merely tilted his head in curiosity at his apparent overreaction, smile angling into a grin as he sucked Vox’s blood from around his fingers and under his claws, then alternated to do the same to the other hand. On the wall, Sonm was as content as could be. What the actual fuck.
“No, seriously, what the fuck was that?” he pressed, his tone more accusatory now. A current of electricity whipped and snapped between his antennas, mimicking the spike in his heartrate.
“Your shirt. I want it off. Your slacks can go, too. The cumbersome things are not comfortable against my skin.”
“You can’t be serious,” Vox scoffed, already moving to maneuver himself out of his torn blazer and shirt. “You can’t just shove me and say shit that makes me think something’s wrong, asshole.”
Alastor quirked a brow at that, mean, blood-coated grin still ever-present. “I did not shove you, Vox. I merely indicated to you that I wanted your shirt removed. Funny how things change with time, no? I recall you always being the one to encourage we strip down to our skivvies.”
The irony of Alastor, a creature so stubbornly stuck in the past, commenting on how their dynamic had changed…thinking things had changed…that hurt him a little, a throbbing hidden somewhere deep in his chest where he couldn’t reach. Couldn’t fix.
He saw Alastor as he was—as he had always been.
Alastor, on the other hand, did not see the person he knew; somewhere between drinks diluted by melted ice, technological advancements, and fights that tore entire districts apart…Vox got lost in his memory, forever preserved as something he could never be again.
He huffed, frustration mounting and combining with his rampaging hormones. Alastor had always been difficult. Tricky. He liked to play mind games and prided himself in being cunning enough to win every time. He always aimed to torture his victims, to leave them irreversibly damaged or mutilated beyond recognition once he was done with them, all in the name of entertainment. For someone like Vox, being Alastor’s favourite plaything was simultaneously the best and worst thing for his own twisted psyche.
He couldn’t tell if this was part of the game, though, or if Alastor was even playing a game with him at all.
“You’re impossible to read by design,” he stated simply, shucking off the ruined remains of his shirt and blazer and dropping them on the floor carelessly, watching as glowing magenta eyes followed his every movement, then settled back on his newly exposed torso. Heat-headed idiot. “You have to say what you mean, or this won’t work, okay?”
“Come now, Vox, have we ever had difficulties reading each other in the past?” Alastor asked, voice carrying a slight lilt to it, a vague singsong that edged too close to mockery for his liking.
The vents at his sides puffed again, no longer obstructed by his shirt.
“My dear, your face is blue.”
Another snap of electricity popped between his antennas.
“My face is always blue. That’s the colour of my screen.”
“No, dear, you’re sporting a, ah, rather vivid turquoise right now. Not usual at all for you,” Alastor hummed, stretching his legs out absentmindedly, adjusting them into a more comfortable position that just happened to flash his pussy to Vox, wet with arousal and all but begging for him to lay his claim.
He hated Alastor. He loved Alastor. He couldn’t tell which was the truth.
He swallowed the pain and put on a brave face, just as he’d done every year since they fell out. (Maybe one day, it wouldn’t feel like an act at all anymore).
“And you’re rosy all over,” he said, a wide smirk stretching across his screen when Alastor’s ears twitched. He could tell from the stiff movement that he had to actively stop them from pinning back, most likely from embarrassment, knowing Alastor. Good. “Running so hot that it shows on your skin. I bet you’re just aching with it, huh, Al? Acting unbothered, but hey, at the end of the day, you’re the one who begged and pleaded over the airwaves for me to come fuck you.”
“Yet you’re not fulfilling the one purpose you serve here.”
“Because you’re acting unwilling!” Vox snapped. His left eye was beginning to pulse, agitation bringing out his perfectly useless hypnotic ability. He squeezed his eyes shut and took a deep breath, not opening them again until the pulsing subsided. “I’m not going to do something you don’t want me to do, so I need you to talk to me through this, okay? And we need a safe word because I don’t want to get hurt because you decide to freak out randomly.”
Alastor hummed shortly, tilting his head from one side to the other as he seemingly rolled Vox’s words around in his mind, considering his next course of action. Then: “We haven’t had a need for a ‘safe word’ in the past. I do not think it will be necessary now.”
He thinks having a safe word equates to giving up. Admitting weakness.
Vox let out a sigh. It was times like this where he missed his human body; pinching the bridge of his nose would be a satisfying thing to do right about now, but alas, there was no satisfaction in touching the tips of his claws to his screen. He decided to be the mature one between the two of them (as usual) and conceded, “Fine, we won’t have a fucking safe word—not that you’d have used it, anyway—but you have to talk to me and not just go from zero to gigantic sinner-eating monster.”
“Fine.”
“Fine?” he echoed, raising a brow.
“Your terms are agreeable,” Alastor nodded.
“Oh…good.” Was he missing something? A catch or innuendo or some weird backdoor deal that Alastor had masterminded? “Okay, well, tell me what you want.”
“I would…” he began in slow, static-laced fragments. His ears twitched again, torn between flattening to his skull or staying upright in defiance. “Like for you to…remove your slacks.”
The radio across the room let out a low rumbling of distorted audio—static layered over songs and voices that belonged to long-gone sinners—but went quiet again when Vox stood from the bed. Stripping out of his uncomfortably tight and embarrassingly tented slacks was something he was more than happy to do, but before kicking them off entirely, he had the foresight to dig around in his pockets and grab his claw caps (custom-made silicone-like covers for demon claws, designed and manufactured in the Lust Ring by Asmodeus himself) and slipped them on. As much as he was all for getting rough in bed, the absolute gore that their claws were capable of producing…was not his thing. There had once been in incident back in 1977 where he had fingered Alastor without them, and he had quite literally torn him a new asshole. Alastor had been enthralled by the pain and viscera of it all, the fucking masochist, but it leaned a little too close to horror to be hot for him in any way, shape, or form.
“Slacks are off!” Vox announced proudly, standing much too confidently in his maroon shark-patterned briefs that Valentino made fun of more often than he’d like to admit—the blind asshole wouldn’t know style if it hit him in the face, anyway, especially judging by his gaudy fashion. He cocked a hip to one side and rested a closed fist on it, grinning as he said, “So, what next?”
Alastor’s eyes raked over the length of Vox’s body, pausing for longer than necessary on the tent in his briefs (or maybe he was just deciding whether or not to comment on the pattern), then dragged them back up to his face. When they made eye contact, he quickly turned his face away entirely, looking down at the rumpled blanket beneath him. Even from where he was standing, Vox could see that the part of the blanket directly under Alastor was a shade darker than the rest, dampened by the excess of slick his body was producing.
Suddenly, Vox’s mouth was very, very dry.
“Hey, Al?” he began, licking his lips. He should be more ashamed of the way he was absolutely locked in on the slight peek of his pussy that he could see with the way his legs were positioned, but fuck, he didn’t have a care in the world anymore, not when they were so close after being separated for so, so long. “Can I—can I eat you out?”
Alastor seemed to consider Vox’s question for a few seconds—like, actually thought about it, which Vox couldn’t really understand. If the roles were reversed and he was asked if he wanted his dick sucked, there wasn’t a chance in Hell he was turning that offer down, no thinking needed and no questions asked. But Alastor was, well, Alastor, and he thought too much about everything. If anything, he was probably trying to come up with a reason to turn him down and remain in complete concentrated control, as if he hadn’t been the one leading them from the very start.
With a thin, shaky-looking smile, Alastor nodded.
That was all Vox needed.
“Oh, fuck yeah,” he murmured under his breath, the warmth behind his screen intensifying as he moved to lay down on his stomach between Alastor’s long, slender legs, maneuvering and positioning both their bodies until they were settled in a way that was mostly comfortable. Unfortunately, there wasn’t really a way for both of them to be all that comfortable in Alastor’s double bed—seriously, what self-respecting Overlord didn’t have a king at the very least!? He, himself, was considering upgrading his Wyoming king bed up to an Alaskan king, but that was neither here nor there. All that being said, he was willing to endure a little additional back pain for the sake of taking Alastor apart piece by piece until his carefully maintained composure crumbled. Now, that was an enticing thought.
Vox hiked Alastor’s legs over his shoulders so he could actually get his face between his trembling thighs. The soft, light fur that lined his inner thighs was damp and matted with slick, seemingly neglected by even Alastor’s own touch. He knew that the other had always been…averse to touching himself beyond what was required for cleaning, but this was a new level of self-directed disgust that made Vox’s chest ache with regret for having not been there sooner. He pressed an open-mouthed kiss to the inside of his right thigh, dragging his tongue up the length of the limb, then did the same to the other.
Alastor’s breath hitched with every new touch and lap from his tongue, his hips twitching and spasming as Vox cleaned his mess and, once he was done, started teasing the sensitive skin with bites and kisses that left the skin beneath his fur accented with purple bruises, a colour that Vox now considered to be his new favourite.
“Good?” he asked into Alastor’s feverish flesh, dragging his tongue up, up, up until he was finally face-to-face with his wet, needy pussy.
Of course, Alastor would never dignify him with such approval.
“Don’t look at me,” he said simply. He held Vox’s gaze for an extended moment, staring at him with an intensity that almost seemed like hate, or a wish for it, anyway. If it were any other time, it very well could have been hatred, but not now. Not here.
He couldn’t imagine looking away. He didn’t want to look away.
He closed his eyes and moved forward, his heart stuttering in his chest at the gasp Alastor let slip when he finally—fucking finally—dragged his tongue along the length of his entrance.
Vox moved slowly at first, teasing with shallow licks that just barely dipped beyond the surface of his body but had Alastor’s hips chasing his mouth with every movement. A low, frustrated whine of radio feedback cut through the air, and Vox grinned at Alastor’s unspoken insistence, his own way of pleading for more. He really should make him use his words and beg for it, but fuck, he wasn’t strong enough to deny Alastor anything, not when he tasted so sweet.
He increased the pressure of his tongue and licked up until he pressed firmly against Alastor’s clit, letting his tongue go flat and rub in slow, agonizing circles before suctioning his lips around it completely and sucking. Alastor, of course, didn’t react much beyond a few stifled gasps and whisper-quiet moans that paired with firmer rolls of his hips because the fucker was determined not to give him the slightest compliment or indication that he was good at anything, but still, those desperate little movements helped Vox read what type of stimulation he wanted, and he matched it with vigor.
After a few minutes of this—Vox putting his all into pleasing the omega, and Alastor resisting his own pleasure—he decided that he couldn’t stand not seeing anything anymore. It was bad enough that there wasn’t much sound to go off of—he deserved to see the impact he was having! So, he got brave and cracked his eyes open, hoping not to immediately fall victim to Alastor’s ire.
Luckily, Alastor was distracted with himself and his pleasure, preoccupied enough to not notice.
On the wall, Sonm seemed to be having the time of his life, chirping and writhing in a way he assumed Alastor was resisting. He could only wonder how much of this the creature could really feel—how closely tied were he and Alastor? Enough for him to feel Vox’s tongue? Enough to share Alastor’s pleasure? When he came, could Sonm experience his own orgasm? Could shadow creatures even cum? He couldn’t remember a time before where Sonm had been allowed to stay in the room with them, but also, maybe he just hadn’t been paying enough attention to him…
“Want more?” he asked, almost taunting.
Alastor let out another staticky whine that simultaneously sounded like it was coming from the radio across the room and also from his own vocal cords. He gave his narrow hips another shallow thrust and Vox locked his arms around his thighs in response, keeping him firmly in place.
“You getting close, baby?”
A frustrated huff was his only reply.
“Don’t get shy on me now, Al. You’ve been so pent up and practically edged for three whole days, I can only imagine how bad you need it.” He was mocking him entirely, but he was sure Alastor was more than aware. To emphasize his point, Vox stretched an arm further around Alastor’s thigh until he could reach his clit, then pressed his thumb against it.
“Vox!” Alastor gasped, back bowing off the mattress like he’d been electrocuted. He let out a noise that almost sounded like a sob, and Vox nearly came on the spot. “Please—”
“‘Please’ what?”
“More.”
“I don’t know what you mean, Alastor? Man, for a radio host, you’re awfully bad at using your words. Context is important in media, you know?”
He circled his thumb around the small nub a few times, watching with, what even he could admit was, a perverted sort of delight as the other demon bit down on his lip hard enough to draw blood and squeezed his eyes shut. When he still didn’t speak, Vox increased the speed of his movements.
“Nnnnot enough—! Need ttto be f̴̫̀ȉ̴͜l̴͇̉l̷̮̿ĕ̶͔d̵͙̉…” Alastor finally relented, interference cutting through his speech as he forced the words out. He didn’t think Alastor recognized that his radio filter was wavering, too, giving him a rare opportunity to hear his real voice.
“Yeah?” Vox purred. “I can do that.”
He shuffled in closer to Alastor’s core, using the broadness of his shoulders to keep his legs far enough apart that he could get his face in as close as possible, then gave a few more light, teasing licks before plunging the thick length of his tongue in entirely.
And Alastor’s reaction was like nothing he’d ever seen before.
All at once, Alastor arched off the mattress again and he cried out in a way that was somehow both physical and signal at the same time, and somewhere in-between, a creature that was simultaneously too man to be deer and also too deer to be a man cried out with him, every sound reaching into Vox’s being and carving into his memory and hard drive and soul. It was terrifying, really, like witnessing the fit of a man possessed. It was also the hottest thing he’d ever experienced.
He worked his tongue in and out, effectively fucking Alastor through his orgasm as he greedily lapped up every ounce of tangy-sweet liquid his body had to offer until his body finally gave out and collapsed onto the bed, lax and heaving. Only then, did Vox pull away.
“Holy fuck,” he said in awe once he was sure that most of his hearing had survived (something in his system was ringing, but whatever).
“Shut up.”
“Jesus, Al, you’re so fucking hot.”
“Shut. Up.”
Well, he didn’t need to be told a third time.
As Alastor spent the next few minutes coming down from his long-awaited and much-needed orgasm, Vox busied himself with kissing his inner thighs and rubbing soothing circles into the sides of his hips, basking in all the contact Alastor would allow him to have before deciding their next move. It could go any way at this point; Alastor could tell him to go another round with his mouth, he could tell him that he wanted to go further and be knotted, or he could tell him to keep his distance. To watch him suffer for the next few days until he was back to normal and they were free to despise each other again, free from the pheromones that dulled their dislike and morphed it into something rivaling affection.
He hoped he didn’t pick the last option. He didn’t think he could ever breathe properly again if he was forced to watch Alastor return to the state he’d found him in. And to go back to pretending they didn’t spend each and every one of Alastor’s heats together? Oh, that sounded like misery, a worse punishment than damnation itself (or so sayeth their pheromones).
“Hey, Al?” he asked after a few minutes, voice much softer than he’d let it be in…he couldn’t really remember, actually. Maybe he’d left the softer part of himself behind in the bar alongside their unpaid tabs and filled whisky glasses. “Where were you for all those years?”
Alastor didn’t answer. On the wall, Sonm shook his head, frowning.
He pressed a kiss into his fur, right over a bite mark he’d left earlier. “You didn’t tell me you were leaving.” Another kiss, this time over a bruise down near his knee. “Or that there was anywhere to go, I guess.”
“Should I have?”
Vox frowned at that, a sudden coldness washing over him at Alastor’s question. They weren’t friends. They weren’t…more. They weren’t even company anymore. They weren’t anything, and he wasn’t owed that sort of information. Would he have told Alastor if their roles were reversed? He thought he would, but then again, how could he say that for sure?
“Did something happen to you?” he asked, hoping he didn’t sound too worried. He’d scare him off if he came off too concerned. Too caring. “While you were gone, I mean. You’re different now.”
“I haven’t any idea of what you’re talking about, my dear,” Alastor said, filter still crackling in and out of his voice as he stared up at the wooden ceiling. A feeling almost like grief was bleeding into their frequency, not quite loss but something close to it, a strange sort of anguish he couldn’t put his finger on. “Nothing of note occurred during my sabbatical.”
Yeah, right, Vox thought bitterly, placing another kiss somewhere he thought looked a tad neglected. Then why the hell do you look like you’re in shell shock?
He knew better than to press the matter.
Just as he was about to come up with some sort of nothing-question to fill the uncomfortable, tense silence growing between them, Alastor pulled his legs from his hold and extended one out to kick him in the chest, sending him tumbling back once again with a grunt. The kick was firm, but there wasn’t any harmful intention behind the action.
“What was that for?” Vox asked, lightly rubbing at the place where Alastor’s hoof made contact. Sharp little things, his hooves. He didn’t comment on it, though. Alastor’s animalistic, unguligrade legs were an insecurity of his, demeaning in a way that Vox really only understood from overhearing some of the conversations Velvette had with her models; having some animal-like features was one thing, completely normal and not much to take note of, but there were just some qualities that felt worse to have than others, some that brought on inherit insecurities that could never really be fixed. Even Angel Dust, the shameless whore, tried to keep his legs covered during most of his shoots. Note to self: talk to Val about setting up a foot fetish shoot with Angel.
He supposed that for someone like Alastor, being thought of as an animal, a mindless beast, was too much of a slight for him to make peace with. Too reminiscent of a life that was…ugly, to say the least. And to land in Hell and find himself transformed into prey of all things? Yeah, there was something cosmically cruel about that. Who or whatever made things the way they were in their realm sure had a way of making their eternal punishments unique and pointed.
“To get you off of me,” Alastor replied simply, turning himself around in the bed. “You get so terribly attached during my heats, one would think that you were the omega in heat and I was the formidable alpha.”
“Formidable?”
“Yes, dear.”
Vox scoffed and crossed his arms over his chest, watching Alastor as he continued to shuffle around. “I think I’m a pretty damn good alpha. I take good care of you, always have. Even when you’re being a prick.”
“Yes, yes,” Alastor hummed. He settled himself down on his front, face turned to the side to press his cheek into his folded arms and back arched dramatically to push his backside high in the air. Vox was already practically drooling at the visual, but then, because he was a manipulative fucking tease, Alastor flicked his tail up and gave it a flirtatious little wag, presenting himself to Vox. “Now, be a good alpha and take me.”
The electricity that charged through Vox’s body was strong enough to give himself a sharp shock, shorting out his display for a handful of seconds as bars of pink, purple, and blue took over between salt-and-pepper ‘No Signal’ screens.
“God, shit, fuck, fuck,” he cursed loudly, gripping onto his casing as he tried to stabilize himself. When he returned and could see clearly again (ignoring the fact that his internal fans were working in overdrive to keep himself cool), he saw Alastor was in the same position, magenta eyes glowing over his shoulder as he watched Vox break down and fall apart at the sight of him.
He was dripping wet again, as if Vox hadn’t just had his mouth suctioned to his cunt, licking up every ounce of slick he could.
“You want my knot, baby?” he asked, already pulling his briefs down his legs and too goddamned turned on and consumed by the addictive aroma of their mixed pheromones to care about how cringey he sounded—well, maybe he cared a little, because he immediately wished he could pull the words out of the air—but whatever! It was fine! Not nearly bad enough to have Alastor revoke his demand.
“Yes,” Alastor said, turning his face away to look at the headboard a few inches in front of him. Dead serious, all business. Okay, he could work with that.
After removing his briefs and abandoning them on the floor alongside his slacks and the remains of his shirt and blazer, Vox got onto his knees and settled himself behind Alastor, all but panting at the idea of burying himself inside of the other for the first time in a decade.
He ran the tips of his silicone-capped claws through Alastor’s growing wetness, just barely able to hold back a wanting groan at the shudder that ran through Alastor’s body. “Did you do this with anyone else while you were gone?” he asked, already knowing the answer but nauseous at the prospect of being wrong, of someone else having his mate, partner, friend Alastor in such a way.
“No.”
He was glad Alastor couldn’t see him. He’d have been disgusted with the way Vox’s cock twitched, already so painfully hard and horribly neglected.
“No?” he echoed, an arrogant edge in his voice. He slipped his index finger into Alastor’s core, and fuck, it really did just slip in. He wasn’t sure whether his tongue had stretched him out more than he thought it had or if he was just that wet, but Vox’s finger slipped in all the way up to the knuckle with hardly any resistance at all. He began pumping it slowly, watching the way Alastor’s body, subconsciously or not, rocked in rhythm with him. “No one else has ever seen you like this, huh?”
Sonm made a little chittering sound on the wall, covering his face to hide a non-existent blush.
“No,” Alastor muttered into his arms.
He added a second finger, slightly increasing the speed of his thrusts. There was a little resistance that time, but still enough wetness to do away with most of the friction, and his inner walls loosened with ease. “Why is that?”
The radio across the room crackled, flicking between stations rapidly until landing on one that was a mixture of a thunderous-sounding jazz band at the apex of their song and pure, uncoordinated screams. Somewhere underneath the cacophony, Alastor whispered something that Vox couldn’t fully catch.
“What was that?” he asked, pausing his thrusting just to hear the tortured whine the other let out.
The radio went quiet.
“Did not want anyone else.”
Well, that was damn near romantic. He wished it was, anyway, but that would be asking for a lot from the Radio Demon, a creature who proudly claimed to know nothing of friendship, let alone love.
“Oh? Just me then?”
He pushed a third finger in, purposefully not giving the other a moment to adjust before intensifying the pressure and speed of his movements, all so he could hear Alastor’s broken moan over the sloshing sounds of his pussy. He was finally at a point where he was having to put some effort into preparing Alastor’s body; no amount of slick was enough to work three of his fingers in without some stretching needed, and the way his inner walls constricted around his digits like a vice grip made him dizzy with desire.
“Just you,” Alastor confirmed, face still hidden in his arms. A quick glance showed that Sonm was essentially a puddle on the floor now, too full of his master’s embarrassment to remain upright and dignified on the wall.
“Why?” Vox twisted his wrist and curled his fingers into a hook shape, reaching deep and looking for the spot that always used to make Alastor lose his mind. “Tell me why you only want me. Come on, Al, use your words.”
Alastor’s hips stuttered and lost rhythm for a second, then he let out a frustrated sound at the loss. He buried his face deeper into his arms—if that was even possible, it was a wonder he could breathe at all—but didn’t speak.
“Al?” he asked, slowing his thrusts until his arm stopped moving completely, leaving his fingers awkwardly inside the other without much to do. It wasn’t hot at all when he wasn’t fucking him in some way, he realized. Cockwarming was cool, but finger…warming…? Firstly, that wasn’t a thing. Secondly, if it was something he was inventing right here and now, it sucked. Not VoxTek approved.
“Just do it, Vox.”
“Huh?” he breathed.
“Take me. Like I told you to.”
Oh. He made him uncomfortable. Pushed too far.
“Okay,” he said, nodding. “You’re almost ready, let me just get you stretched out a bit more so it won’t hurt so bad and—”
“Vox!” Alastor snapped, finally pulling his face away from his arms so he could look back at him. His glare was glossy, glazed over in a way that looked, if Vox tilted his head and squinted, almost like he was nearing tears. Huh. “Just do what you came here to do. Get on with it.”
He rolled his eyes and carefully pulled his fingers away from Alastor’s body, feeling too fucking awkward to sit there, almost fisting him, while he tried to figure out what the other demon actually wanted.
It felt like their frequencies had fallen out of sync. Not really, of course, but something was just…different. Before Alastor had disappeared, Vox rarely misstepped. Never caused anger or doubt or dissatisfaction. They knew each other so well that pleasure came as second nature, even if it was only something they indulged in one week out of every year. All Alastor had to say was how far he wanted to go, and they were off to the races! Vox prided himself in being a good fucking lay. Was he the best partner in the world? Probably not, but hey, being in Hell required one to lower their personal standards when dating. He knew he was good in bed, though. He was more attentive and generous between the sheets than he ever was in his day-to-day life, and, even when in the midst of his own brutal, shark-like rut, he always put the needs of his partner over his own. He didn’t understand why he was like that in bed, given that it went against his usual nature, but none of his ex-lays had any complaints, so as long as he got his release in the end, he didn’t care.
All that being said, Alastor was bringing out an ugly uncertainty in him that he did not like one bit.
“I really think you should let me finish prepping you,” he said, forcing out a short, dry laugh that didn’t hold any real humour. “I’ve made some upgrades since you left. My dick isn’t the same as you remember it being.”
“Charming.”
“I’m serious, Alastor,” Vox huffed. He dropped one hand down to his waist and took the heavy weight of his cock into his hand, giving it a few slow strokes to draw the other man’s eyes down to it. “It’s bigger and thicker. It’s going to hurt going in at first anyway, so let me make sure you’re ready for it.”
Alastor’s eyes followed the languid movements of his hand as he finally paid his own physicality some mind, his thoughts and inclinations hidden behind his perpetual smile. Unreadable asshole. Then, after watching Vox stroke himself with hungry, lidded eyes, he turned his face back toward the headboard and gave his hips an enticing little wiggle that always made Vox weak in the knees. Oh, how he’d missed that sight.
“I want it to hurt.”
“Okay, I’ll be rough then,” Vox said. Honestly, with how bratty Alastor was being through this whole thing, he could do with a little sadism to let off some steam. Someone had to put the fucker back in his place, it might as well be him. “But I don’t think internal tearing is what you’re looking for.”
“Vox, I am telling you this now: either you do as instructed or you can take your leave. Final offer,” Alastor stated, his agitation bleeding heavily into his tone. Judging by the over-emphasis he put on each word and the vague threat laced beneath it all, he figured that he’d pushed his patience to its absolute limit. At this point, his options were to fuck him or get eaten.
“Fine, but I don’t wanna hear you complaining about it hurting or whatever later.” He said it as if he had a choice. Complaining and passing judgement were some of Alastor’s favourite hobbies.
Alastor hummed in acknowledgement but made no effort to agree.
With that, Vox adjusted himself fully behind Alastor and dipped his hand between his legs once more, gathering some of Alastor’s sweet, tangy slick onto his fingers and spread it along the length of his erection, then wasted no time lining up with his entrance.
The first few inches were…slow. And didn’t feel very good for either of them, if he was being honest. He had been correct; despite the wetness and the preparation, Alastor’s body was still too tight for him to insert himself as smoothly as he would have liked to. It also didn’t help that the omega was tense, much more than he had ever been before. Just by having his hands on his narrow, bony hips, Vox could feel that Alastor’s muscles were flexed into pure strain, probably about to lock up completely if he didn’t get him to relax sooner rather than later.
“You’re doing so good,” Vox said before he could think to stop himself, one hand moving to press gently into the small of Alastor’s back, just above his tail, while the other remained planted on his hip, holding him in place. “We can stop if you need to.”
“No,” Alastor said through the radio, his tinny voice popping and crackling through the ancient speakers. He’d put his face back down into his folded arms at some point and was clenching his fists so hard that his knuckles were going white, but Vox pretended not to notice. “Keep going.”
“So good for me, baby,” he murmured again because Alastor didn’t tell him to stop the first time. Maybe he liked the praise. Maybe he didn’t care enough to comment on it. He’d been receptive to praise in the past, but by this point, he wasn’t sure what aspects of Alastor remained the same from before his disappearance and what had changed. It felt like this was their first time all over again, already so intrinsically attuned to the other that the lines between who they were as individuals was blurred completely—there was no telling where Vox ended and Alastor began, and vice versa—but also, everything was new and unknown and there was so much push and pull between them that Vox’s head spun. He was sure that, any minute now, that annoying pinwheel of colours would pop up on his display, showing the way his overloaded system was buffering in real time.
Alastor was impossibly quiet as Vox speared the rest of his way into his body, only letting out the odd whine of feedback or, if Vox listened close enough, the smallest of moans that sounded suspiciously like his name, though he couldn’t focus too heavily on those or he’d risk falling apart right then and there.
By the time he bottomed out, they were both sweaty and breathless. Alastor’s skin was on fire beneath his fur and the weight of Vox’s hands, and Vox was almost certain that there had to be lava flowing through his veins rather than blood, as that was the only thing that could explain the white-hot burn of the Radio Demon’s being.
“You’re so fucking tight,” Vox said quietly as he pet slow strokes down Alastor’s lower back, smoothing out the fur at the base of his spine where the taupe colour transitioned into the red of his tail. It was a cringey thing to say, a line straight out of a bad porno, but it was true all the same. Alastor was impossibly tight, the slick walls of his cunt gripping his cock so hard that he had to genuinely wonder what would happen to it if blood circulation was cut off between his body and the appendage. His body was weird—both meat and machine, but even his more biological aspects were changeable and upgradable under specific circumstances. He didn’t think necrosis was one of those circumstances.
“You can move.”
“You sure? You’re really tense.”
“Yes. Stop doubting me.”
Vox was…not entirely comfortable with proceeding, but against his better judgement, he did as he was told. Slowly, he pulled his length out until just the head remained in, then thrust back in all at once, unable to hold back a loud moan of his own as he was overwhelmed by the heat all over again. Then, he repeated the motion again. And again. And again, gradually building up his pace and strength until he established a rhythm that seemed to be good for the both of them. Alastor wasn’t complaining, anyway, and he, himself, hadn’t felt this good in a long time.
Not since the last time he tangled himself in Alastor’s long, gangly limbs.
Oh, shit, he’d forgotten about that. (Buried it, more like).
“Fuck, Alastor,” he said quietly as he fell forward and draped himself over Alastor’s back, pressing kisses to the notches of his spine and pretending that his words had come out more like a moan and less like the whimper they had been. Pathetics in exchange for grandeur.
It had been the year before Alastor disappeared and the exterminations began. He wasn’t sure whether it was just the passage of time that was the cause for Alastor’s behaviour or if he was just happier for one reason or another, but that year’s heat had been…good. Or, as good as it could be for someone as anguished by them as Alastor. They’d spent practically the entire week glued to each other, hardly separating long enough to eat or bathe, all but sharing the breath in their lungs. They were softer with each other, too. They’d traded scratches for caresses, bites for scent marking, brutal force for complete and utter worship. Then Alastor, blissed out of his mind and probably not even fully aware of what he was saying, had sighed the name Vincent like it was his favourite word in the world and, well, Vox had never fully been able to reconcile with the ache that was left behind in his chest, a type of affection he knew could—would—ruin him. It was horribly, terribly, dangerously close to lo—
“Harder,” Alastor gasped, claws beginning to rip into the fabric of the mattress beneath them.
Vox obliged, quickening his pace and force, fucking Alastor in a way that was not soft nor gentle. His hands were gripping his hips hard enough to bruise, he realized, but he couldn’t bring himself to relax his hold at all. If anything, he dug his fingers in harder, desperate to see something of himself left behind on Alastor after their time together was done—something that couldn’t be ignored, even if it was small and temporary.
Alastor’s breath hitched, his body quivering around his cock, and Vox thought he heard him say something that sounded like “bite” or “more”, but his voice was too broken for him to really understand. He sunk his teeth down into Alastor’s bony shoulder anyway, lapping up the blood that beaded out of the wound before it could absorb and mat into his fur, then he repeated the action on his protruding shoulder blade, and anywhere else he could reach as his thrusts gradually turned into a well-and-true pounding, spurred on with every gasped “harder” that fell from Alastor’s lips.
Wasn’t this worship in its own way?
He wasn’t sure how long they’d gone on that way. Alastor kept asking for more—for him to be rougher, fuck him harder, to bite him, squeeze him, and do everything he possibly could do brutalize him. And it was becoming brutality. Now, Vox was no stranger to rough sex (that was pretty much all he and Val did), but whatever Alastor was aiming for was completely different from what he was used to. Other than his demands for more and the odd gasp or hitch in his breath, the man beneath him was silent; no moans, no whimpers, no other sound that indicated pleasure. He’d also remained stiff and still, muscles still locked in tension and his body unmoving beyond the occasional adjustment of his knees as Vox’s punishing thrusts pushed them out of place. He looked around for Sonm for a status report, but the creature was nowhere to be seen, likely silently instructed by Alastor to make himself scarce.
“H-harder,” Alastor said yet again, the word sounding like it was being punched from his lungs.
“Fu-fuck, Al,” Vox heaved, beginning to feel lightheaded from trying to keep up his pace while also giving the other what he wanted. He didn’t know how many times he’d been asked for more, but he was at a point where the demands were more than a challenge, and he had nothing left to give. He only had so many inches on him! If he’d known Alastor was going to ask to be skewered, he’d have swapped out his everyday (slightly above average) attachment for the footlong one he had for special occasions. “I can’t—”
“Harder.”
This time, Vox stopped moving completely, heaving and nearly wheezing for breath. “I have nothing else to give!” he exclaimed. “Fuck, do you want me to take a running start or some shit?”
Alastor didn’t respond.
“You said you’d talk to me; you can’t shut down on me, asshole!” Anger flashed through Vox quickly, his rampaging hormones and frustration over the less-than-stellar evening making his annoyance at Alastor’s piss-poor communication skills worse. Another spike of agitated electricity whipped and snapped between his antennas, and something dark and vengeful inside him considered giving the deer an intentionally painful zap, but he resisted the urge. Cruelty wouldn’t be helpful, and, deep down, he knew he didn’t want to hurt Alastor. Not him, not ever.
When Alastor still didn’t dignify him with a response, Vox pushed himself a little further forward, intending on getting his face close to the other’s so he couldn’t be ignored. Alastor had to see him. Answer him. Respect him.
That was his intention, anyway.
But any words he had for him died on his tongue the moment his eyes landed on the blood soaking into the mattress beneath Alastor’s massacred, hemorrhaging arms, and the glowing yellow teeth that were shredding into his own flesh, clamping down hard enough to reach the bone.
What the fuck?
What the fuck!
What the fuck?!
In the grand scheme of things, Vox liked to think of himself as a pretty level-headed guy. His mind was sharp and ever-bursting with flashy ideas, he knew how to play and placate those around him, and he was a master at adapting to high-stress situations. He was, in short, a rock in the Vee Tower. Always the go-to for fixes and to keep things running smoothly.
That being said, he did not know what to do with Alastor attempting to cannibalize himself.
“Holy shit—what the fuck, Alastor!?” Vox, horrified and, honestly, a little terrified, pulled out of Alastor faster than he ought to have, earning a sharp, pained inhale and twin screeches of audio feedback from the both of them. He didn’t care about his own discomfort, though, and scrambled up the bed to get beside the other demon (something that was potentially foolish, depending on whether or not Alastor was in the mood to eat shark, but he’d cross that bridge when he came to it), and immediately thrust his fingers into his mouth between the gaps in his teeth, cutting the digits against the serrated edges of his teeth as he tried to pry his jaw open and away from his arm. “Let go! Jesus fucking Christ, stop!”
It felt like he was wrestling a tennis ball from a large, aggressive dog; every attempt to pull Alastor’s arm out of his mouth only resulted in him trying to bite down harder in defiance until, finally, Vox shifted the angle of his hold and was able to force Alastor’s jaws open and pulled arm out.
Then, having seemingly given up the fight, Alastor let his body fall limp onto the mattress, panting, exhausted, and teary-eyed.
“What the fuck was that?” Vox asked harshly as he cradled his hands to his chest. His fingers weren’t bleeding too badly, but they stung like he had hundreds of little papercuts all over, which was somehow a worse feeling.
Alastor’s ears pinned down as he glared angrily at the blood seeping into the mattress in front of him. He didn’t speak. Vox kept his eyes locked firmly on his face, trying to keep what was left of Alastor’s skinny, wrecked arms out of his peripheral vision. From what he’d seen while wrestling Alastor, little bits of bone were exposed beneath all the torn skin, mangled muscles, damaged tendons, and so, so much blood. His stomach turned, sick with the knowledge that he had done something to his the omega to make him hurt himself in such a way.
When a minute or so passed without anything being spoken between them, Vox let out a heavy sigh and decided to try again. As frustrated as he was—and he was getting pretty fucking frustrated—he knew that pushing his feelings onto Alastor would only result in the other demon getting angry in return, likely ending up in a bloody brawl that would destroy the pocket dimension as well as the hotel (an enticing thought, but bad PR). Normally, he would have no qualms with pissing Alastor off and goading him into a fight, but ruts and heats forced a certain sense of mercy into his system that otherwise did not exist. Only for him. Always for him.
“Alastor?” he asked finally, softening his voice. No more anger. No more fear. No more hurt.
“I wanted it harder,” he said simply, voice low and mumbled and just…small. So unlike Alastor that Vox wouldn’t have believed it was him if he wasn’t sitting right next to him. “You’ve been rough before. This should hardly be novel.”
“That wasn’t just being rough, and you know it.” Vox’s eyes scanned down Alastor’s body, taking note of every bruise and hickey that was visible through his fur. Every bleeding bite mark. The red marks on his ass and the backs of his thighs from the force of Vox’s hips slamming into them. He was right; at face value, none of this was unusual in the realm of BDSM or rough sex in general. But that wasn’t what they were doing, and something bad was happening. He didn’t know what it was that he was picking up on, but there had been a wrongness present since they’d gotten into the nitty gritty of the act, and he hadn’t stopped it. That was on him.
Alastor blinked a few times and the tears disappeared, willed away for the time being. His stare was still cast downward, somewhere between the mattress and his arms, Vox couldn’t be sure which his attention was on.
“Are you okay?”
“Do not ask me such an idiotic question, you know the answer.”
I don’t, Vox thought dejectedly. Maybe he would have in the past—before their fallout, before the slow crawl of time turned a new century, before seven years of silence. Now, though? He wasn’t so sure. He didn’t think Alastor was okay, and probably hadn’t been for a long time, but he also knew that no matter how he actually felt, Alastor would always assure that he was fine, that there were no holes in the walls he built around himself. No room for question or doubt or weakness.
“You agreed to talk to me,” he said.
“I…did,” Alastor let out between gritted teeth.
“So talk,” Vox said, making a flicking motion with his hand like he was offering Alastor the floor. “It’s all you’re good for, anyway.”
It was a good thing that they had an eternity on their hands, because Vox was half-convinced that his horoscope was going to change by the time Alastor pieced together what he wanted to say in his mind, let alone actually get the words out and into the open. The silly star sign things were something Velvette kept track of and shared with him and Val every day during their morning meeting. Todays had been some notion about obstacles getting in his way, so apparently even the cosmos were aware of how difficult Alastor was.
“I wanted…it to hurt.” He was clenching his fists again, which Vox wasn’t even sure how he was still able to do that considering how much damage he’d done. He dared a glance out of morbid curiosity and immediately regretted it, the sight of Alastor’s exposed palmaris longus tendons flexed and much too visible in the open air was now forever burned into his memory.
“You made that pretty fucking clear earlier.”
“No, I wanted it to be more. Real pain, not the fake kind fornicators indulge in.”
Vox had half a mind to remind him that he was a fornicator too—only for one week out of every year, same difference—but decided to keep that little quip to himself.
“Why?” he asked because, really, what else could he possibly say?
“I…don’t know,” Alastor said, meeting Vox’s eyes briefly before snapping his gaze back down to his arms. It looked like they were beginning to mend themselves slowly, bones no longer visible as the cords of his muscles gradually grew back into place. Still sickening to look at, but not quite so bad.
This time, Vox was the one who remained quiet for an uncomfortable stretch of time. This was…new. Alastor had always had a difficult time with sex, yes, but on years where he did want Vox to actually fuck him, he’d always had a good time and never tried to…eat himself? Hurt himself? Both? Could one even exist without the other?
He was right. Something in Alastor had changed while he was gone.
“Well, did it hurt?”
Alastor nodded.
“In the way you wanted?”
Another nod.
Vox’s heart felt like it was bruising against his ribs as it thudded harder. “Was it good?”
“I don’t understand what you mean,” Alastor replied, looking back up to meet Vox’s eyes. This time, he held his gaze, and all Vox could see was pure exhaustion in them, a tiredness from more than a lifetime’s worth of fighting his own biology rather than learning to work with it.
“Did you like what we were doing?” Vox asked plainly, fidgeting with his already-healed fingers. He suspected that he already knew the answer, but he wanted Alastor to say it. Needed him to say it.
A pause. A hesitance.
He shook his head.
Something in Vox splintered, the components of his much-too-biological heart breaking and fracturing into pieces that would likely never be put together the right way again.
He’d hurt Alastor. Not in the fun way, in the way he often wanted to hurt him—the way that made them both feel alive, with crumbling buildings under their feet, screams of terror all around them, and pure electricity in the air. That was intentional, with Alastor hurting him and him hurting Alastor right back. But this time—
He’d tried not to hurt him.
There was nothing fun about this type of violence.
“Please talk to me, Al,” Vox all but pleaded. He felt desperate and hopeless, yet so different from the desperation he felt when clambering up the media ladder while alive or the hopeless sort of agony he felt when Alastor had not only rejected him but outright mocked him, too. This was a hungry emotion, one that would eat away at him until he was a shell of himself, a husk of a man who lost too much to someone who d̷̰̐í̶̤d̶͓̗̉͘n̶̲̾̊'̴̤̫̑̊t̴̺̅ ̷̙̕w̴͔͑a̵̠̾̀ñ̴̙͓t̶͙̙́̂ ̷̹͐h̸̩̠͗͋i̷̱͛m̷̑̔͜. “I don’t understand.”
“There isn’t a way…” Alastor’s words trailed off, his wide, unblinking eyes flashing black quickly, then back to red. His hands went to his hair, knotting his fingers by the roots. “I don’t understand it myself.”
“Try,” he insisted, resisting the urge to yank Alastor’s arms down and make him face the situation in front of them for what it was. “Because we’ve done this before—I’ve spent almost every heat with you since the sixties and this has never happened. You’ve never reacted like this, no matter what we did, and I don’t know what’s changed or what to do.”
There was movement on the wall beside them, causing both men to turn their attention to the stressed, chittering shadow. Sonm had slinked out from his hiding place, Vox figured, or Alastor had forgotten to keep him shut away. Either way, he was frowning deeply and pulling at his silhouette hair, probably close to crying, too, if that was something he was capable of. He shared Alastor’s feelings, after all—especially the ones he kept hidden—but again, how much of them were his versus his master’s? How much could he feel on his own?
Vox took a deep breath, urging the impending pulsing in his eye to stop before Alastor or Sonm, in their stressed state, interpreted it as a threat. “I’m not going to make you do anything you don’t want to do, remember? So you need to calm down,” he said, half expecting a snide comment from Alastor about how he was not a child and didn’t need to be spoken to as if he was one.
But the comment never came. Instead, the Radio Demon took a deep breath of his own, closing his eyes as he released the hold he had on his hair and began to speak. “It felt…wrong. Like I am not supposed to feel that way. It makes me feel strange in my body. Out of control.”
Well, that was something. Still confusing, but something, nonetheless.
“You need to control everything,” Vox nodded. Neurotic fuck, he added mentally.
“It is not just the lack of control that’s upsetting,” Alastor snapped, his smile thinning out enough for Vox to clue in that he was, by his own standard, frowning. “It is the sensation that…everything, even things that are somewhat pleasurable or stimulating, is bad. Even though I,” he paused, huffing out a breath as if it physically pained him to get his next words out, “liked having your hands on me—having you touch me—it also felt as though there were phantom hands all over me, strangers grabbing and groping me in ways that made me want to leave my physical body. But I am stuck inside myself, and there is no one to rip apart or eat.”
“Do you feel like that a lot..?”
“Sometimes,” he shrugged. “That is why I do not permit touch some years.”
“But you wanted it this year?” Vox asked, a slight tilt to his head as he tried to follow along. Everything being said sounded near nonsensical to him, familiar words with unfamiliar meanings.
“I don’t know what I wanted this year, Vox.”
“You wanted to hurt, though, right?” he supplied. “Not just the sex, but in general?”
Alastor nodded. They both glanced down at his arms. The skin was stitching itself shut, back to its original state. The body could forget, but the mind was cursed to remember.
“Why?”
“I don’t—” Alastor began, but Vox interrupted before he could finish speaking, before he could finish repeating that stupid phrase again.
“Yes, you do!” he insisted, reaching out to take Alastor’s hands in his own, only to have the other demon snatch his hands away just as quickly, shrinking away from his reach. “Sorry, shit, I just—some part of you has to know. Deep down, you know.”
Alastor’s expression shifted, eyebrows drawing together as pain flashed through his eyes before he quickly caught himself and shoved the feeling down, straining his smile to look more relaxed and genuine. He seemed to think about his words for a long while, deliberating on whether or not he wanted to explain himself further, then finally relented, his filter all but fizzling out as he spoke. “I don’t—can’t, I suppose—wrap my mind around the sensations you—” Across the room, the radio screeched, a sharp, desperate cry for death from an ancient machine. “—make me feel. It is pleasurable but wrong, and the wrongness makes the pleasure intolerable. Worse than pain. Pain is easy, understood for what it is. No ambiguity. I prefer it. I would rather feel it.”
“You did that,” Vox began slowly, pointing to Alastor’s arms, “because you felt good? Because I made you feel good?”
He nodded.
“What the fuck, Alastor?” Vox asked, his tone harsher than he meant it to be, but unable to bring himself to feel the least bit sorry for it either. “I did everything I could to make sure that you felt safe—” he cut himself off, almost choking on his words. The splintering feeling in his chest intensified, overwhelming him with a grief that didn’t exist, sorrow over an act they hadn’t even finished. Harm he hadn’t meant to cause. The vents at his sides puffed harder, so hot that it felt like the vapors were beginning to burn him. “I wanted you to feel comfortable and good and—fuck, you used me to hurt yourself, is that it? Do you know how fucked up that is?”
“This is Hell, dear; everything is, as you put it, ‘fucked up’,” Alastor scoffed.
“No, you don’t get to do that shit,” Vox said firmly. “You don’t get to throw my words back in my face after you—do you know how violating that is? I made sure you were okay with everything we did because I cared about keeping you safe during your fucking heat, but because you can’t understand your own feelings or whatever is going on with you, you used my body to take that safety away. That was fucking shitty, even for you.”
In all honesty, he kind of wanted to go home. This entire evening had been an ordeal, and he was coming to the bitter conclusion that maybe…maybe their time together, sharing Alastor’s heats was now over. He could deal with petty arguments, bitter battles, and endless resentment, but the idea of intentionally hurting someone, let alone Alastor, in such an intimate way—and being violated himself, no less—was something he couldn’t imagine making peace with. That was Val’s game, not his.
“I apologize, old pal.”
“What?” Vox was pulled from his thoughts just as suddenly as he had gotten lost in them, his question falling from his lips before he could even fully take in what the other demon had said.
Alastor’s ears were low. Not flat to his skull like when he was angry or threatened, but lowered in a way that, at the very least, seemed to be remorseful. His eyes looked similarly remorseful, too. Sad in a way that Vox hadn’t seen before in their seventy years of non-friendship, and, well, maybe it was partially his hope for things to be different between them, too. As if he could project fake feelings onto Alastor’s face the way he could with his own.
“I apologize,” he repeated, a low rumble of static beneath his words. “I did not mean to hurt you. This time, at the very least. Not in that way.”
“I…uh, okay?” Vox breathed, more at a loss for words than anything else. He didn’t doubt Alastor’s words per se, but it was also strange hearing him apologize for his actions. Apologies weren’t his thing in general, honestly.
“Do you not believe me?”
“No, no, I do. It’s just not like you to apologize for anything, is all,” Vox said quickly, giving his hands a short wave in the air as if dismissing the thought. He was sure his face was glowing bright cyan by now, blushing in equal parts embarrassment and flattery.
“Yes, well,” Alastor hummed, keeping his eyes trained on Sonm. The creature was significantly calmer now too, still a little weepy looking, but more relaxed for sure. “It is rare that there is cause for an apology from me. When one is owed, I am not above offering it.”
Biggest fucking lie ever told, Vox thought, unable to help a small chuckle from escaping him. “Yeah, sure, Al.”
“Besides,” Alastor continued, hardly pausing to take in Vox’s words. He turned back to face Vox once more, eyes glowing in the dimming light of the cabin. Dusk was approaching. “I wouldn’t want to wound you badly enough for you to leave.”
“No?” he asked, an impish grin tugging at his lips.
“Of course not,” Alastor replied.
“And why is that?” Vox asked. Like Sonm, he was beginning to relax, too. Not quite better, but willing to put the issues of the day to rest for the time being. He was tired, and he didn’t want to hurt anymore.
“Because I still want you.”