Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

VoxTek has eyes everywhere. So Vox knows exactly who stands on the other side of his penthouse door before the rap of knuckles even sounds. With a gesture of his hand, electricity crackling at his fingertips, he enables a live backup of all local camera feeds to his data servers. A wide grin stretches across his screen as he quickly pushes away from the console to carefully lock up and conceal the door to his central observation center.

Vox only has a moment to react on instinct before answering, and laughably, he uses it to quickly check his appearance. His face is smudge free and the outfit will have to do— he’d already dressed down for the evening, barefoot, wearing slacks and an untucked button down that is open at the collar. He quickly tucks in the shirt and straightens the fabric as he practices his best devil-may-care smile.

The front door is wrenched open seconds later, and there he is, standing in the hallway, hands tucked neatly behind his back. Vox isn’t prepared for the stormy emotions that arise, seeing him in person after seven years. Footage and still frames can’t convey the commanding presence or the buzz of electromagnetic energy that permeates around him. The tailored suit hugs his broad shoulders and slender waist with precision, creating a silhouette that is frustratingly elegant. The smile he’s known for stretches across his face like a razor sharp crescent moon, promising politeness and peril in equal measure. Alastor.

“You really think it’s wise to waltz into Vee territory whenever you please?” Vox spits out the first thing that comes to mind, covering his uneasiness with a sneer. 

“Hm. Do I seem worried to you?” Alastor’s zizzing laugh fills the hallway, and Vox resents the pang of nostalgia that washes over him. It’s annoyingly clear the radio demon doesn’t pay him the same mind, as he gestures dismissively and isn’t quite looking at him. Instead his assessing gaze takes in the empty living room over Vox’s shoulder. Of course, Alastor knows he hates being ignored. 

Vox presses his palm to the doorframe, leaning forward into Alastor’s line of sight. “Let me guess. You want to gloat about your perceived victory?” 

“Perceived by all of hell, you mean?” The smirk is there, the cocky tilt of his head, but the expected bite in his tone is strangely absent. He looks tired, Vox realizes. But Alastor quickly recovers his mirthful energy with a toss of his cane to his other hand and a casual shrug. “But noo, not at all! While I’ll admit our verbal spars can be riveting, I’m not here to embarrass you~” Damn the inevitable draw of that arrogant, giddy smile, “again.” 

“Fuck you.” Vox seethes, the sting of humiliation from that mistake of a broadcast too fresh. 

“Already with the propositions?” Alastor cackles, having the audacity to try and brush past his arm into his home. Vox stops him with a solid hand against his chest and shoves him back into the hallway. It’s no surprise he meets staunch resistance— Alastor’s powerful body barely gives any ground. The most he manages is to hold him back, refusing to step aside. 

Yet, the expected retaliation doesn’t come. Vox put his hands on the radio demon and there is no cutting insult or warning hiss of static. His constant smile actually softens and that alone is unsettling.

“How delightful to see your hospitality hasn't lost its edge. I do appreciate the enthusiasm.” Alastor’s fingers slither around Vox’s tight grip on his collar, squeezing his wrist, but not painfully.

The uncharacteristic touch shocks Vox into stillness. He stares, transfixed, as the radio demon’s palm slowly trails up his bare forearm, his claws catching on the rolled sleeves of his white shirt, sharp enough to leave tiny pinpricks in the fabric. He holds his breath as Alastor brushes the back of his fingers against the smooth line of what would be Vox's jaw, the pad of his thumb pressing into the red bevel. He expects him to tear into his screen, instead, he can feel a tremor in the soft touch.

“Alastor?” Vox breathes, his traitor of a heart suddenly racing.

“Are you quite certain I’m unwelcome?” Alastor murmurs, his fingers exerting a subtle pressure, the hint of a sharp nail sending disruptive ripples through Vox's screen. Their separation is jarring as Vox abruptly steps back, watching the radio demon immediately breeze past him into his penthouse, casual as ever. 

"Oh, how quaint," Alastor comments with a sneer as he takes in the steel grays and bright whites of Vox’s lavish home, his gaze lingering on the wall length aquarium with a crinkle of his nose. “Very… you.”

“Save your critiques for someone who gives a shit." Vox is wrestling with disappointment at how expertly that fucker outplayed him for a way in. If Velvette knew she’d never let him hear the end of it, but Val knows him too well to expect anything less. Not that he planned to tell them. Ever.

Sighing, Vox lets the door close, tracking Alastor’s movements with a wariness befitting a midnight visit from the radio demon.

"You got rid of your piano!" Alastor’s tone is light but his shoulders tense up at the sound of the door clicking shut. By the time he strolls over, spinning his cane, he’s all relaxed smiles again. "I never thought you’d part with it. We had such grand times playing that old thing, didn’t we?" His voice carries a wistful note, tinged with nostalgia. 

A silence settles between them. Vox isn’t interested in reminiscing about the supposed ‘good old days’— back when they were two pieces of the same puzzle. Time stretched endlessly in hell, and the strong lived eternities. He met Alastor seventy years ago, an entire human lifetime that somehow feels short. Even if decades have passed, Alastor always knows how to twist that particular knife. 

Vox is acutely aware of Alastor standing close to him, unusually close, a purposeful act that in and of itself reminds him of what he’d rather forget. He pivots, heading straight for the sleek kitchen to grab the whiskey decanter and a crystal glass from the set displayed like art around it.

“So. Alastor.” He fails to sound casual as the name feels foreign and unwelcome on his tongue, so long since he’d spoken it regularly. Seven years, and yet they’d wasted no time taking pot shots at each other. When he speaks again, it’s drawn out, stilted. "To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?"

“Oh, you know, I was just in the neighborhood.” Alastor’s response is as chipper as it is meaningless. He absentmindedly tugs at his loose bowtie, glaring at the fresh tears Vox must’ve made earlier. 

Vox’s clawed fingers flex, truly wishing the man had stayed gone. Alastor idly flits about the room, a stark contrast to Vox's simmering tension. He isn’t used to that evasiveness anymore, these days his circles knew better than to disrespect him or waste his time. As he waits impatiently for Alastor to make his move, he notices the radio demon’s fingers pressing firmly against the cane, slowly rotating it in his grip— a rare display of an old nervous tic. His brow furrows. “C'mon. Tell me the game you’re playing.”

Alastor’s smile falters for only a second, until his hands and cane are once again secured behind his back. “Hm, it would be far more amusing to hear you guess.” His slender figure stands tall and assured as he waves a hand dismissively. “A whiskey would be delightful, if you could be so kind?”

Vox's glass is set down forcefully enough that it clanks loudly against the unforgiving granite countertop. The steely glare speaks volumes of his annoyance without uttering a single word.

“My, my, aren’t we touchy tonight? There’s no game, none at all.” Alastor reluctantly concedes with a long suffering sigh. At the suspicious narrowing of Vox’s eyes, he adds with forced cheer, “You have my word!”

Alastor always lies, as a rule. And that dishonesty wasn't confined to his words alone, it permeated every aspect of him— the false cheer, the facade he presented, even his accent— all of it, lies. Vox despised him for it, yearning to crack the radio demon’s meticulously guarded facade by any means necessary.

“After all this time, you actually think your word holds clout with anybody in Hell?” Vox cackles, and the singular twitch of Alastor’s fluffy left ear says it all. Vox has offended him. Good.

It’s an old dance. They wield their past like weapons, knowing precisely how to hurt each other.

“Well. You did always have a knack for underestimating me.” Alastor says flatly, unamused, a sharpness underlying every word. Leaning on his cane, he tilts his head condescendingly, “But tell me honestly, would you believe me if I said I’d missed my shiny, dearest little Samsung?”

“Fuck right off!” Vox’s voice echoes through the vaulted room, filling the space with palpable anger that would send most cowering. 

“Predictable.” His normally charming smile is replaced by a tight, menacing line. 

“Listen, you pathetic relic,” Vox’s metallic claws scrape loudly against the glass in his hand, evoking a clash of blades. “You better watch what’s spewing from that fucking mouth.” 

There was a humorless laugh as frequencies began to buzz dangerously around Alastor. “And yet, you still can’t puzzle out when it’s best to shut yours.” 

“Ha!” Vox slams his drink down, “Coming from the guy too in love with his own voice to make room for anybody else!” He slowly circles the counter and stalks toward Alastor, undeterred by the bone chilling wendigo shriek that echos eerily off the walls. The radio demon's ears press flat against his head, lips curling into a menacing snarl as he bares his teeth in warning. 

Vox gets in his face until his vision is consumed by Alastor’s furious ember eyes. It’s thrilling when he’s able to crowd Alastor towards the wall, with Alastor mirroring his movements backward in step, always just beyond the reach of his claws.

An unusual shudder seems to ripple through the radio demon's body, though Vox knows it can't possibly be fear. Could it? The Alastor he knew would have never given up ground either.

Could seven years have changed him that much?

The question left screaming on the tip of his tongue for days finally rips itself free from his throat. “Just where the fuck have you been, Alastor!” What happened to you?

But Alastor is ruthless when cornered, and the sharp rise of static is a prelude before his lips even part. The crackling noise is punctuated by ear splitting screams of unknown voices, his face distorted and fracturing. “How pitiful those years must’ve been for you, Vox, alone and desperate for the man y—" 

Vox seizes Alastor’s face in his fingers, forcing his jaw shut under the pressure of his powerful grip. Pinpricks of blood mark where his claws sink into skin as Vox surges forward and slams his head against the wall. Alastor lets him— at least there is no resistance— but he’s no less satisfied by the impact reverberating through the room. 

The static descends into an unsettling thrum popping like a living thing around them. 

Vox wrenches Alastor’s face to the side, so close his breath stirs crimson hair with each exhale. “Feel that, Alastor?” The air sizzles with his own raw demonic energy as it swells into the room like a tempest, the electricity crackling dangerously all around them. “Don’t you fucking insult me. I don’t waste away for anybody. I get even. I conquer.” 

Vox's display of power is siphoned from the grid, a mere flicker of lights across the block, something he couldn’t do all those years ago. He feels quite proud, and his words carry a warning that danger lies in revisiting old battles. “The last time you tried me, we nearly killed each other. Ask yourself if it's worth the risk.”

Vox can feel the rhythmic clench of Alastor’s teeth and the tremors of seething rage coiling his body taut. Yet he remains as docile as a lamb in his grasp, not even trying to get away when he so easily could. Alastor’s shadow flickers in the low light, ever watchful but subdued— permissive. Perhaps that’s his answer. 

A radiant, triumphant grin stretches across his screen. The mere thought of Alastor yielding to him makes every nerve in his body hum with exhilarating euphoria. It actually worked?! A menacing cackle of laughter rumbles out of him. It is just too fucking good! 

Despite the blood staining his skin, Alastor feels warm and alive beneath his touch. His breathing comes heavier than it should, whereas Vox feels calm and collected. His smile turns smug as he tilts that attractive face towards him with a subtle squeeze of his fingers, coaxing him to look at him. "Oh Alastor, you're trembling," Vox taunts, his voice dripping with mockery. 

Alastor's hand rises between them and instantly Vox's pulse kicks up, instinct tensing every muscle. The menacing presence of those deadly claws screams danger, their sharp edges catching in the fabric of his white shirt, tearing through the material with the slightest pull. A nervous shiver runs down his spine when Alastor's touch grazes the sensitive skin of his stomach.

Vox’s gaze locks with Alastor’s, an exchange of suspicion and uncertainty passing between them. His breath catches as he feels the powerful muscles in Alastor's hand flex, a silent reminder of the raw strength that lies beneath. The threat of violence hangs heavy in the air, but what truly unsettles him is the intensity of Alastor's smile, a piercing stare that seems to bore into his very soul, daring him to make a move. 

Gradually, Vox eases the grip on Alastor’s face, each movement deliberate as his fingers leave streaks of blood in their wake, a haunting and darkly beautiful sight. He watches each fingertip slip off the hard edge of Alastor’s jaw before wrapping them around the vulnerable expanse of his throat. His predatory instinct refuses to leave him exposed without evening the score. They both hold their breath, their equal capacity for brutality caught between the echoes of their past and the uncertainty of their future.

With calculating eyes, he carefully observes Alastor, a smirk playing on his lips. He’s fully aware of how Alastor despises a hand at his jugular, and a disturbed part of him is exhilarated to get such a privilege. Pressing his thumb against the curve of his adam's apple, he relishes the slow, involuntary swallow. Alastor’s eyelids flutter closed when his grip tightens, able to feel the pounding of his heart. The rhythm is synchronized with the silent but pulsating radio waves rippling through the air around Alastor. How has he never noticed that before?

They’re close, not quite touching, until Alastor’s lithe body arches towards him like a flower yearning for the sun’s warmth. It's a sudden and overtly sexual act that catches Vox off guard, ripping him out of his reverie. Of course the pull is there, the craving to meet Alastor halfway, to indulge in this aching attraction that could never be sated. 

But the desire is quickly eclipsed by the sear of betrayal, bitter and hateful. Vox resents him for the lie he knows it is. Alastor is toying with him, another hidden agenda that has poisoned their every interaction for decades. It hits like a knife to the heart, dredging up painful memories that refuse to fade.

Those long nights spent in smokey speakeasies, lost in Alastor's captivating presence. Their laughter danced like music notes in the air, mingling with the sweet scent of whiskey and the gentle hum of jazz. That was when Alastor’s attention had felt like a rare gift, each moment of warmth and intimacy one Vox cherished, no matter how fleeting. They had been doomed from the start by what Alastor could never give.  

As the bitterness of reality sets in, he realizes their roles have reversed, with Alastor’s touch making Vox want to lash out in suspicion.

Chapter Text

Vox’s chic penthouse exudes the opulence and sophistication the Vees offered hell. The grandeur of floor-to-ceiling windows frame Hell's fiery beauty and a lavish wall length aquarium bathes the space in a captivating blend of red and blue. As the lights flicker, shadows dance across sleek, polished surfaces, casting eerie silhouettes within the room. 

In the low light, the subtle glow from Vox’s monitor illuminates Alastor’s face, capturing the delicious moment Vox squeezes the breath from his throat. His shark toothed grin can't be helped. Violence is a demon’s common language after all, a means of survival in a realm where trust is a rare commodity. 

Years of pent up resentment and anger collide as Vox slams Alastor against the wall with the full force of his weight. “What are you up to?” He hisses so softly it’s dangerous. He presses their bodies close, not only to call Alastor's bluff, but so he can feel the tension in those muscles when he flexes his fingers. 

“Quite the nefarious scheme really…” Alastor hisses tightly, and were it not for the strain to speak, the smug bastard would’ve pulled off seeming completely unaffected. “I wanted to see y—” Vox’s powerful grip tightens until Alastor chokes, needing to watch him feel it.

Alastor’s palm pushes back on Vox’s shoulder, light but insistent. Was it a request or a warning? Vox hesitates, reluctant to let him go. He could escape him easily with his shadows, and it's been too long since they’ve been this close. He savors every squirm for precious seconds more, feeling a pang of loss when he finally releases him. 

Alastor straightens, long slender fingers pulling the collar of his shirt loose and dropping the remains of the tattered bowtie on the ground. Vox's eyes catch on the flushed triangle of exposed skin at the base of his throat and he hates how absurdly irresistible it looks.

“It's been a long time, is all. I couldn't resist gracing you with my presence.” The flourish is charming as ever, but Alastor's swallow looks painful. “I'd prefer a tad less strangling, but,” A hint of cruel mischief dances in his smile, “we both know how I make you emotional.” 

"Always keeping that blade sharp, aren’t you?" Vox retorts smoothly, but it’s lacking in his usual conviction. Even trying to play it off, his defenses are faltering— when Alastor doesn’t immediately hit back, he doesn’t know what to say. Why in the hell would Alastor want to see him? Why did he try to... Conflicting emotions lag his processors and his claws twitch with pent up energy, craving to touch the radio demon. 

Like a predator sensing weakness, Alastor leans closer, circling him with languid steps. “You of all people should realize, Vox,” it’s a taunt, but his smirk only hints at the depth of his emotions. It's the intense focus in his eyes that speaks volumes. “It’s not like I let most people lay hands on me and live.” 

“Special treatment, how flattering,” Vox’s narrowed eyes track Alastor’s every move, desperate to put that theory to another test. He halts his prowling with a firm grip around Alastor's waist, giving the experiment a moment before drawing his body closer. He can feel how tense he is, with that cagey look back in his eyes. Alastor had always been like this, even back when they first met. There were intricate rules to interacting with the radio demon, and while he initiated touch whenever he wanted, it didn’t mean answering or unexpected hands were welcome.

Yet tonight Alastor leans into him, the change almost imperceptible. He’s too fixated to miss it. Like he doesn’t miss the dark circles under his eyes, and the paler shade to his ashen skin, or the detectable ridges of his ribcage— proving he didn’t just look thinner. The change is so stark, he again wonders where he has been to come back so hollow. 

As if sensing the unspoken question and wanting to derail it, Alastor glides his hand across his chest, thumb teasing at one of the buttons. “Must I paint you a picture? Don't play coy, darling," He tilts his head back, lips close to the clean edge of Vox’s face, the whisper of his breath warming the glass. "I know you've always wanted to fuck me…" 

Never in a million years would Vox expect those words from Alastor’s mouth. It’s so surreal and dizzying it almost has the opposite effect. The man before him is achingly familiar, with his cupid’s nose and vicious smile, but he can’t be Alastor. And if he is, Vox can't shake the feeling he is being set up for a fall. 

“And you always pull my strings." Vox’s voice is low, sounding equally accusing and fond, a jagged underscore to the decades of twisted history between them. A never ending game he thought he’d been freed from when Alastor disappeared. 

After so long when Alastor hadn’t returned, Vox had thrown himself fully into his work. It felt like emerging from a haze, a fog dissipating to reveal a clearer reality. The Vees gained more power and influence than even he anticipated, with Hell’s people like puppets to his whims. But seeing Alastor again had brought that intensity screaming back to the forefront, and he'd immediately embarrassed himself live on the air. Losing control again, and so quickly, rattled the foundations of everything he'd built for himself. 

Alastor is the cruelest of gifts, arriving years too late.

“Why would you do this now?” A bitter, angry part of Vox can't prevent the question from escaping his lips. It's absolutely a mistake, yet the words keep coming. “I… I nee— wanted you then. And y-you-yzzzt—” His frustration spikes so quickly his voice descends into unrecognizable static. The frame rate stutters in his vision told him his face was glitching too. 

The burn of humiliation has Vox turning away from Alastor with a shake of his head, putting some much needed distance between them. He takes a steadying breath, stopping in front of the large windows, his wrists crossed behind his back. Vee territory is full of bright colors and ostentatious displays but none of it could mask the fact they were all still in hell, surrounded by a perpetual haze of smog and flames. “You were the only person I cared about in this cesspit. And you threw me out on extermination day, my screen was cracked, I could barely see, they almost… fuck! I lost you—lost everything—just like that. All because of that one time, even though I’d been wanting to… I held back for so fucking long.” 

Vox couldn’t remember all of it. A few too many drinks. They’d had the most incredible night in Cannibal town, and they’d sung their hearts out in the streets on the way home.

It was the eve of extermination day, a night to live like your last. 

Like every year, they’d planned to bunker down to avoid the chaos, and emerge together in the aftermath to claim souls ripe for the taking. He remembered the jovial, meaningless debate about who’d lived in the better era for fashion, the genuine joy in their drunken dancing, the laughter on Alastor’s cozy old couch. He could still feel it, how heartachingly beautiful Alastor had looked that night, irresistible in every way. 

A few too many drinks to end it all. 

“And you’ve made me suffer for it ever since.” Vox's expression twists, anger conflicting with the weight of regret. Each passing extermination was a morbid anniversary, a painful reminder of that single mistake. He turns back, seeing Alastor hadn’t moved, a dark shadow across the room. “I tried to earn your forgiveness. For years! I would’ve done anything. Now that I’ve moved on, suddenly you change your fucking mind?!”

Vox knows the lingering silence after his outburst is a calculated response on Alastor’s part, a deliberate choice to let the tension fester. And it works perfectly, the bastard.

Alastor stares hard at Vox, the warning lurking in the taut lines of his back and shoulders. “Ah, how skillfully you twist reality to your benefit.”

With a click of his tongue, Alastor appears directly in front of Vox who jerks back in surprise, crashing into the window. The Vees tower is the tallest building in Pentagram City, and luckily, the glass doesn’t give. But that terrifying sound of his impact begins to echo, twisted by Alastor into a long stretching screech that intensifies every passing moment.

“Vox,” His eyes darken into deep pools of ink, “Have you  forgotten  what you did to me?” 

Vox's stomach churns, a knot tightening with each word Alastor speaks. Alastor loved his cryptic, pointed allusions, but they’d never spoken about it directly, not since... His mind skitters away from those memories, his throat tightening in discomfort as Alastor pins him with a dangerous look. Wisely, he stays silent.

“Oh, so you do remember. Lovely.” Alastor's grin twists into a malevolent display of those sharp, razor like teeth, stretching unnaturally across his face. “To be clear,” The crackling air reflects his disdain with sharp, erratic pitches, as if the very atmosphere roils from his fury. “I owe you nothing, least of all my sympathies. You received precisely what you deserved.”

As Alastor presses a finger into Vox's chest, the glass window behind him groans, bending under his strength, threatening to shatter at any moment. “I didn’t want to talk about this,” Alastor hisses, his claw breaking Vox’s skin, a sharp sting followed by the bloom of blood on his shirt. His teeth clench, but he meets Alastor's gaze with steely resolve, refusing to show weakness in the face of his ferocity. 

With a flicker of lights, the radio demon reappears in his kitchen. His neck cracks as he snaps it unnaturally to the side, pressing a hand against his cheek. “Well, what’s a reunion without dredging up ancient history when it suits you~?” His laugh carries a synthetic buzz, full of false cheer. “Of course you can’t ever keep things simple, but no matter. What’s important is I’m here now, feeling rather magnanimous, but if it’s a bad time, I’ll happily take my leave.” 

It had all the makings of a trap poised to backfire on him. 

Yet, even after all this time, he still ached for Alastor. Tonight could bring reconciliation or retribution, but it didn’t matter, his decision remained the same. 

"Stay," Vox murmurs, his voice carrying the weight of years. Despite all the blood they’ve spilled together, he surrenders his reservations to the irresistible pull. Each step forward is calculated, as if he's navigating a minefield. Tension radiates from Alastor’s posture as he draws near, betrayed by a crack in the facade. 

This constant dance, each twist etching new scars into each other. 

“Alastor, I…” Vox leans his palm against the counter, his other hand hovering between them, wavering with uncertainty until it drops to his side. “I'm truly sorry. I need you to understand that.” He glimpses an annoyed flicker in Alastor’s eyes. There was something dark about that look, as if whatever he was thinking brought him hatred and sorrow in equal measure. 

Silence stretches between them, a heavy weight that Vox fears won’t ever be lifted. Alastor says nothing, and the apology hangs in the air, unacknowledged but not entirely rejected. As soon as Vox’s lips part, Alastor cuts him off.

“Just what are you sorry for, my dear?” Alastor’s dangerous glare bores into him, sharp with challenge. It isn’t an accusation, but a demand that would unearth everything. The realities buried deep in the back of Vox’s mind, painful memories that would reopen old wounds- but Alastor is very much a product of hell, just as he is. They didn’t flinch from the sight of blood. “Tell me exactly.” 

Vox takes a shuddering breath, as their dance leaves him teetering on the edge of a precipice. 

The words finally manage to claw their way out of him, “I’d give anything to take it back. You have to realize that. The last person I wanted to hurt was you…” He trails off when he can’t say it, the truth fighting up his throat only to die on the tip of his tongue. With eyes shut tight, he turns away, reliving decades old visuals as if they were yesterday. The need, the shame, the powerlessness and self hatred spread inside him like a sealed door had been cracked open.

Vox did remember. Perfectly. 

“I won’t lie to you.” Vox promises, forcing himself to continue. “I meant every apology back then, but when you wouldn’t forgive me… yeah, I came up with excuses. I tried to blame you. I tried to bury it. Bury you.” As he speaks, a cold shiver slithers up his spine, a whisper of warning in the spreading shadows that darken the room.

He turns back to face Alastor, finding him directly behind him, his dangerous shadow looming over them like a dark cloud. “But I swear, Alastor, I swear there was never a time I wasn’t ashamed of the foolish mistake I made that night. I am sorry for what I did to you, for breaking your trust." He hates how his voice trembles, "That it... destroyed us.”

The unspoken dissatisfaction written in Alastor's expression tears Vox apart, knowing he would be forced to confront it all. 

The weight of the past bears down on him, an anchor dragging him through thirty years of denial until he reaches the bottom. “I… I did not plan it. We were already so drunk, but you got so wasted you could barely stand. You trusted me, and I was too stupid to realize how precious that was.” His voice falters, choked by the bitter cocktail of alcohol and desperation that plagued this memory. “And when you passed out, you looked so…” 

That vivid image of Alastor is etched into Vox's memory with painful clarity— vulnerable and unsuspecting, his lips parted in slumber, a strange innocence gracing his relaxed features. The gentle rise and fall of his chest, the softened curve of his jawline, that blissed out little smile. 

All that exquisite skin he’d slowly and carefully uncovered, inch by inch. 

Now, he stands staring down at his hands as if they don't belong to him. These hands spill the blood of countless, ruthlessly cutting down anyone in the way of his progress. Never Alastor, though. Alastor could never be a pawn; even after all this time, he still considers him an equal. The indomitable queen unmatched on the chessboard, an indispensable force to be respected. Revered.

That night Vox was so blinded by what he wanted, so consumed by his selfishness. He failed to see the cost, the shattering of something precious to him, something irreparable. He failed to recognize his actions for what they truly were. 

“I was drunk, I'm not…” Vox presses his lips together, stopping his excuse. He feels engulfed in the oppressive weight of their closeness, suffocating him with the intensity of the radio demon’s frequencies. He can’t look anywhere but at Alastor, and so his gaze is drawn to those striking red eyes. He forces himself to peer into the depths of Alastor's soul, where magnificence and terror intertwine in a volatile balance. 

Vox’s heart feels like a bird, throwing itself madly against the cage of his chest. “I shouldn’t have taken advantage, I…” His deep voice is hushed, rough with shame. "I'm sorry I tried to fuck you."

Chapter Text

It was a truth they’d both already known. Still, Vox’s apology hurts when it hits the air, this unspoken thing hanging between them for so long, finally freed. Alastor tries to keep his expression neutral, while his shadow darkens the ceiling above them, its crooked grin twisting into an angry sneer. 

Vox's heart aches as Alastor's powerful arms envelop him, the fabric of his shirt twisted by tightly clenched fists. Every part of his being screams for escape, of distrust and uncertainty, to fight against the tide of conflicting emotions, to push Alastor away. But Alastor refuses to let go.

He'd never admit to anyone that his ability to fight at all is owed to Alastor, in some ways. Vox had arrived in Hell already consumed by soul sucking apathy lingering from his past life, made worse by the curse of a hideous, inhuman head. The one thing he’d still had, his natural charm and good looks, was gone. 

He’d felt disconnected from everything through the flickering screen of that first TV. The world had been monochrome and dull, its details blurred and oversaturated. He’d faded away, surviving each day by a tenacious force of habit alone.  

And then, Alastor... with his unique brand of cheer despite it all, a vibrant burst of magnetism against a dreary backdrop. Intentional or not, his every smile and teasing remark reminded him of the small joys that could still exist in Hell. He’d shown Vox where to find decent clothes, the best places to dance and drink, where life could mean something again.

For those first few years, Alastor had been everything to him, the one constant amidst Hell's chaos. Slowly, he’d rediscovered who he once was, before war, heartbreak and miserable failure. Ambitious, charismatic, a relentless go-getter ready to carve out a place for himself in this new life. 

Alastor had breathed life back into him. Vox had repaid him with betrayal, he had taken from him…

The first stone thrown, the catalyst for everything that followed. A lifetime's worth of mistakes led them to this moment. 

Vox stands in the middle of his kitchen, ensnared in vice like arms. Alastor’s cheek rests on his shoulder, his face turned away. A sweet embrace, if not for the razor sharp claws at his back, sunk like fishhooks into his skin. 

“I am sorry,” Vox insists softly, wishing he hadn’t wasted so many years blaming Alastor for how pitiful and needy he made him feel.

When Alastor finally speaks, his voice is free of any static, carrying a sense of finality, of acceptance. “I believe you.” Vox feels the warmth of his breath through his sleeve, sees a flicker of his ears. “Let it rest.”

Stunned into stillness, Vox wishes he could see his face, to discern sincerity from deceit. His hands twitch, but remain at his sides. "Do you..." When his voice falters he clears his throat, trying to remain composed, "actually forgive me?"

“As much as I ever can,” Alastor's reply is measured, tinged with both resolve and restraint. “Yes.” 

Forgiveness from the mouth of a dead man Vox thought he’d never see again. It washes over him like a tidal wave, sweeping away the remnants of any resistance. When he moves, the nails dig a little deeper until he's gathering him up in his arms, and Alastor relents. He holds him tightly against his chest as if to shield them and their delicate reconciliation, maybe even from themselves.

Vox doesn’t want to let go, lest Alastor fade away to become a ghost for another seven years. The embrace doesn’t protect him though, not for long, as guilt and uncertainty push against the surface of his relief, doubt worsening with each heartbeat. “How…” Finally, it bubbles over, “How could you though?”

Alastor gives a soft, dismissive laugh that isn’t at all convincing. "Oh, I just had too much time to think on my sabbatical." Vox pulls away slightly, his hands coming to rest on Alastor’s upper arms as he glances over his face, trying to read answers in his expression. 

There’s a glimmer of resignation maybe, a weary acceptance hidden behind his smile. “In Hell, friends are just niceties before knives. None of mine would hesitate given the right opportunity.” Alastor idly brushes against a spot on Vox’s white shirt, a speck of blood from earlier. "In fact, quite a few have tried to kill or enslave me. So, I never show my back when we have coffee and that’s that. It's the best one can hope for down here."

Alastor shrugs, but there’s a wistfulness in his ruby eyes when he looks at him. “True, the two of us, we were different...” He feels the lightest graze of Alastor’s fingertips along the edge of his face before the warmth falls away. Alastor's expression becomes more of a baring of teeth than a smile. “But I shouldn’t have expected better from you.”

It’s such a profound pit of regret, and Vox can’t blame Alastor for any of it. They’d taught each other the same hard lessons, just in different ways. I’m sorry, he wants to keep saying, but the words lodge in his throat, utterly meaningless in the face of all they’ve done to each other.

“Vox,” Alastor’s ruby eyes are dark and unreadable. “None of this means we'll return to what was.” It’s a warning that cautions directly to Vox’s greedy heart, one that Alastor knows all too well. “Some doors never reopen.”

“I know,” Vox frowns, recognizing too much had changed since it’d been the two of them against Hell. He’d built up VoxTek into an empire with lucrative partnerships with Val and Velvette. Alastor had the hotel, and they’d taken their ideologies on technology and ran away from each other in opposite directions. Maybe they could never go back, but the truth of it burns nonetheless. 

With Alastor so close, Vox can't help but cling to a sliver of hope— a hope that maybe they can find a path forward to something new. He wonders how many nights Alastor lost to reverie, dreaming of what their lives could’ve been if things had turned out differently. After thirty two years, the answer for him was countless. He didn't want to be the only one.

The shadows have receded, and in the silence, static thrums around them. Vox can always feel it. The two demons hum with their own rhythms, a constant backdrop that stands out mostly when it changes. And he senses a shift, like the beginnings of a slow heartbeat that pulls his gaze to Alastor. The radio demon leans against the counter, his hands gripping its edge, watching him with a suggestive arch of his brow.

Vox moves in close enough to feel Alastor’s body heat, his metallic claws chiming like distant bells as his hand finds its place on the counter beside Alastor’s hip. “Alastor,” Vox holds his gaze steady, searching for sincerity. “Did you mean what you said earlier?” 

A small smile curves those devious lips. There is a smugness to Alastor— as if Vox is such a playable toy. “Vox, my dear,” He draws out the words with each flick of his silver tongue, “I certainly did not saunter in here for a sentimental jaunt down memory lane.”

An exhilarating thrill runs through Vox as his fingers pull through Alastor’s hair, instinctively clenching into a tight fist at the nap of his neck. It forces his head back, bringing those lips closer, but Alastor rears up, pushing at the wrist of Vox’s hand still resting on the counter. 

With a shudder, Vox reins in his rush of excitement, easing the tension in his grip with gentle rubs of his fingers. Alastor eyes him, lips parted, breathing through his teeth already. Their faces are close. He wants to kiss him so badly. He knows he shouldn’t push it. 

Most people shied away from his kisses, even after they found out he could— his digital face a trigger for uncanny valley effects. It's a bitter truth that he's come to accept, even if it gnaws at him, a reminder of the barriers that separate him from other, more organic demons. Val likes to kiss him, and while he sates the intimacy he craves in his arms, it is never enough.

Vox knows he has a real problem fixating on what he can’t have. It’s a trait that stretches all the way back to his roots, to the poor farm boy who dreamed of a bigger, better life. Why settle for the mud when you can have the castle?

And Alastor has always been like a fortress on the horizon, forever out of reach. 

Vox’s palm soothes across Alastor’s neck, drawn to his handsome face. Ruby eyes close tightly as his sharp fingertips carefully trace the contours of his cheekbones, brushing away dried blood to reveal fully healed, smooth skin underneath. Then he trails the sharp line of his jaw to caress down the bare expanse of his throat, until his fingers catch on the first intact button of his torn collar. 

Alastor’s eyes flutter open when a claw touches his chin, tipping his face up to look at him. “Come to bed with me?” Vox’s tone is a smooth, velvety murmur.

Alastor nods, but the hesitation is clear in his uncharacteristic silence. Vox wants him, so bad, so fucking badly, but he needs to take things slow. “C’mere,” He smiles softly, his hands sliding down Alastor’s shoulders and forearms, skimming lightly until their fingers catch. He steps backward confidently, leading him into his bedroom, decorated with sleek, minimalist design. A grid of rope lights inlaid into the far wall creates a soft glowing ambiance. He guides him towards the large, low slung bed with silver sheets. 

“Let me take your jacket.” He draws himself tantalizingly close to Alastor, their bodies nearly touching, and he can feel the subtle movements of Alastor’s hands as they unclasp each button. Vox eases the jacket off Alastor’s broad shoulders, the fabric gliding smoothly as he draws his palms down his arms, tracing the contours of the toned muscles beneath his thin dress shirt. He braces a hand at the small of Alastor’s back, their chests bumping as he pulls the jacket free, quickly tossing it over his nightstand.

Alastor takes a seat on the edge of the bed and his gaze raises to Vox with a raw uncertainty that steals his breath away. Alastor, stripped of his usual veneer of confidence and brassy charm, looks utterly lost. Like he is adrift in a sea and Vox is the lone piece of wreckage left to cling to. There’s an anxious need, a hunger betrayed in his ruby eyes.

Vox feels a sense of ruin wash over him, and even if he knew without a doubt it was a trap, he’d be falling into it regardless.

Chapter Text

Alastor’s hands are clenched tight at the edge of the mattress, claws curling into the fabric as if trying to ground himself. His breathing is harsher in the silence of the room, his chest rising and falling shallowly. The air shifts with their silent frequencies, an unspoken knowledge hanging heavy… their next move will change everything.

Vox looms over him, closing the distance as Alastor leans back, reclining on his elbows with Vox’s hands coming to rest on the bed, framing his hips. As Vox's eyes trail up his legs, he lingers on the fabric of his trousers, bunched tightly around a provocative silhouette, a glimpse of what lies beneath. He licks his lips, the anticipation mounting with each passing second. 

Vox brings a knee on the mattress to press between his legs, and Alastor immediately retreats, shifting toward the center of the bed. Vox smirks, stalking slowly after him, mirroring his movements until they stop, with Alastor below him, bracketed between his hands and knees. 

Alastor’s shoulders are stiff and hitched, but Vox isn’t surprised— he vows to let him unwind in his own time. The torn collar of his shirt gives Alastor an unusually tousled appearance, and Vox’s fingers gravitate toward that top button. It feels like some momentous thing to be allowed to tug it free. Alastor's silent gaze is a palpable presence, watching his every move. Perhaps it's Vox's vanity that convinces him Alastor is sharing a precious gift… that maybe no one else has ever seen. 

Each button, released with reverence, is a slow unraveling. He can feel the heat emanating from Alastor's body, his senses drowning in the intoxicating scent of him. Heart pounding, Vox finally parts the fabric, allowing the soft glow of the room to bathe Alastor’s skin. A thin, yet powerful body of sharp angles and lean muscles, that barely hint at his immense strength. There are a few smooth scars whitened with age sliced across his otherwise flawless form, but his eyes catch on one that still has ridged, splotchy tissue, shades darker by comparison. He’d seen Alastor heal flawlessly from countless injuries. What could possibly scar him? And recently? 

“Don’t.” Spotting his focus, Alastor stops the question before he’s even considered asking. As if he didn't know not to pry?

“Relax… don’t worry,” It’s a deep, sultry murmur, quiet but rich and rumbling, “Nothings gonna happen you don’t want.” After a featherlight touch to ensure his face remains maul free, Vox runs his fingertips along Alastor’s side. Each rib is accentuated by the interplay of light and shadow, soft skin stretched over bone. His tongue craves the dip of Alastor's trim waist, its contrast against the breadth of his broad shoulders so incredibly alluring. 

Vox’s hands are drawn to those shoulders as he brushes the shirt back, revealing collar bones so deep they cast elegant shadows. His hungry gaze travels the path of his hands, brushing across his nipples and circling them with the pads of his thumbs. Alastor's quivering stomach dips gracefully, inviting Vox’s touch as his palms follow the slope to his slender hips. His fingers stroke the trail of black hair leading to his navel, and when Alastor trembles, Vox glances up at him.

“You okay, doll?” Vox breathes out, noticing how tense Alastor still is. As his sharp red claws twitch against the sheets, Vox reaches out to rub his thumb soothingly across his dark knuckles. No matter how hard he tries, he can’t wipe the dumb sappy expression from his screen.

Alastor’s gaze darts to their hands before snapping back up and narrowing. He has the look of a cornered animal once more. Alastor, out of his element and vulnerable, is a volatile beast. His hand flexes under Vox's touch, the tear of silk audible. “Why do you care?” He asks, his tone guarded.

Frowning, but not willing to let go, Vox squeezes Alastor's hand. “Because, I don’t want to fuck this up.” 

A low, derisive laugh escapes Alastor's lips, and Vox's frustration bubbles— that laugh always strikes a nerve faster than anything else. “Why, what could it matter now? You’ve already fucked up plenty.” Alastor emphasizes the curse, just as Vox would, with a hmph of a smile.

The meaning behind it bites into Vox’s skin like teeth. When he pulls his hand away, it curls into a tight fist. “Look— I just want to make sure you’re comfortable.”

"With you?" Alastor’s mocking chuckle grates, and with each cut, Vox feels the precarious balance of power shift. “Funny. Given our mutual lack of well… trust, count yourself fortunate for any scrap thrown your way.”

"I hate," Simmering anger punctuates every word, full of deliberate force, “your smart fucking mouth.” 

Alastor's laughter tapers off into a smirk. “Oh, but you don’t~” The sinking truth of it pulls Vox's gaze to Alastor's lips. A desire ignites to shut that disrespectful mouth with a kiss, so intense not even the fires of Hell could compare.

Having regained some twisted measure of control, Alastor looks smug as he shifts, settling back on the sheets when Vox prowls closer. Unexpectedly, his hands rise, fingertips skimming along the edges of his screen, sending a spark down his spine. "Can you feel this?" Alastor whispers, likely unaware of how sexy he sounds. 

"Yes," the tremor in Vox’s breath betrays the thrill coursing through him, a sensation made all the more rare and unfamiliar by other people’s uneasiness with his unconventional face. Yet Alastor, knowing him too well, loves to show off being ahead of the next move.

Slender fingers dance along the flat surface, curiously tracing his eyebrows. Vox feels the touch like its skin under clothing, each muted caress leaving a lingering trail of sensation in its wake. When their eyes meet again, Vox can sense the sly sneer veiled behind Alastor’s smile. "Do you still hate it, this face of yours?”

Vox’s response is a tight lipped stare, a telling reaction he instantly regrets letting slip. He loathes that Alastor knows— knows just how to needle at the softest parts of him. He reminds himself to tread carefully, because every secret shared with Alastor is ammunition for another day. 

Unfazed by Vox’s silence, Alastor hums knowingly, his fingertip drawing along Vox's lips with a tantalizing slowness. Though it always looks two dimensional, the glass shifts naturally, perfectly flat when his mouth is closed, but parting smoothly with his lips. Vox senses the moment Alastor realizes this, when his nail clinks against his teeth, a couple centimeters past where the glass should be. 

With a curious look, Alastor dips two long fingers into Vox’s mouth, and the unexpected action jolts Vox’s senses. A shudder ripples through him, a deep groan muffled by the caress of Alastor's claws over his tongue. As Alastor presses deeper into his throat, he sucks on those sharp, dangerous fingers, moaning at the intrigued raise of Alastor's eyebrow.

With one last lingering lick that draws a taste of salt and simmering desire, Vox wrenches Alastor’s hand aside. He pulls their bodies together, a hard press of skin and long suppressed need. Their gazes lock, breaths mingling, only inches apart. With both yearning and a hint of dread, he claims his very first taste. 

In the kiss, he pours all his animosity, devotion, and pent up lust, as if trying to convey all the words he's never spoken. An emotional, muffled groan tears out of him when Alastor responds, hesitatingly, slowly, and it’s maddeningly sublime. The relief is overwhelming, so intense it whites out his world. 

Dragging his fingers through Alastor’s thick hair, his grip tightens, steering him to a better angle. His tongue slips into Alastor's mouth, tasting him with a hunger that borders on desperation— a hunger that can't be satiated. Lost in the sensation, the heat between them rises as Alastor builds to match his challenge until searching talons are tugging restlessly at his shirt. 

With a snap of his hips, Vox grinds against him, startled by Alastor’s sharp little hiss. As they break apart, he searches Alastor's eyes for any sign of regret. He looks tense, maybe overwhelmed, but also needy, panting through his open mouth. It leaves him feeling both elated and uneasy.

Not breaking eye contact, Vox shifts onto his knees above Alastor's thighs. His white shirt, already in tatters, leaves no reason to bother with buttons. He tears it open and shrugs out of it. When Alastor's hooded eyes roam over Vox's dark navy skin, he feels a sense of pride at how hard he works to keep lean, well toned muscles. 

Truthfully, on some level, he always hopes his fit body can compensate for his face. 

Vox leans close to trail fervent kisses down Alastor’s chest. With a long, slow lick, his cyan tongue glides over Alastor's nipple, teasing and sucking, groaning at how sexy it was. Feeling the clench of Alastor’s muscles, his fingertips tentatively trace a path to the other demon's hip. 

When he tugs open Alastor’s belt buckle, a rush of possessive need and poisonous uncertainty overwhelms him. “Don’t make me regret this,” He whispers, nipping the line of his ribcage. Tension rips through Alastor as Vox strokes him through his slacks, his hot breath warming Alastor’s taut stomach. "Please, Alastor," a tinge of desperation creeps into his tone, stirring a sense of shame within him. "Promise me?"

A bark of laughter shatters the moment, the shock of it drawing Vox’s gaze up, his face burning with humiliation. The radio demon’s teeth glint in the dim light as his shoulders curl into a defensive posture. “Why would I ever make promises to you?” 

Vox's chest tightens, his hands falling away from Alastor as frustration erupts to the surface. "You can't even give me that?" he snaps, the edges of his anger sharpening with each word. "You expect me to set myself up to be knocked down?"

Alastor’s joyful laugh effortlessly slices through the fragile peace they’d built. “Oh, Vox, desperate for my word alone?” His smile sharpens coldly, “Truly fitting, isn't it?”

Vox's fury surges, burning with fierce resentment as Alastor's taunts echo in the hollow spaces between them. His restraint shatters like glass as he backhands Alastor hard across the face. “Don’t you laugh at me, you manipulative prick!” 

The blow is still reverberating through the room when Alastor slams into his chest with staggering force, his claws clamping around Vox’s throat to twist and redirect the momentum to send him hurtling into the mattress. The bone jarring impact steals his breath away with a crack as the metal reinforced frame threatens to buckle beneath them.

Gasping for air, Vox finds himself pinned beneath Alastor, their positions reversed in the blink of an eye. 

Vox despises the way they always collide, the way they entwine: an unending performance. So well rehearsed that each step, each touch, feels destined, inevitable, as they twist themselves to fill their roles.

"You really ought to learn how to behave," Alastor purrs, his lithe form casting a shadow over Vox, the contours of his ribs sharply defined by the stretch to hold his wrists tightly above their heads. His eyes gleam with a dangerous light. "Appears that fragile ego of yours requires a little refresher on who’s really in charge here."

“You miserable piece of…” Vox grits his teeth, muscles straining as he struggles against Alastor's iron grip. He bucks, twists, and turns to try and break free, but Alastor’s strength is effortless by comparison, his bloody, devilish grin never faltering. 

"You're out of your depth, darling." Alastor has amusement flickering in his eyes as he watches Vox's unraveling composure. He feels Alastor’s fingers tap a rhythm along his wrists, realizing he is holding him down with his thumbs alone. It pisses him off so much he wants to scream. 

“Frankly, I’m baffled by all the fuss. A promise is utterly meaningless in this hellhole.” Alastor licks the blood off his teeth, the metallic tang of breath ghosting over Vox's lips as he leans in. “And don’t pretend you're the only one with chips on the table. You’ve failed to mention you’re recording our little tête-à-tête.” His lips curl back into a sneer, “Best of luck viewing that footage, by the way.”

Shock freezes Vox in place, a cold dread washing over him as the implications of Alastor's words fully register. The obsessive twist inside him already dreads the hours, possibly days, he’ll spend scouring the damaged data, grappling with the hope of salvaging anything usable, literally anything. He snarls at the thought of Alastor tampering with his server equipment, with his surveillance system, with his work!

That lost footage was his sole leverage to prevent tonight from blowing up in his face. The realization he’s been completely outmaneuvered is bitter in his mouth.

“We’re done here.” Vox’s menacing growl mingles with the crackling electricity dancing along his fingertips, casting a vivid cyan glow on the walls and across Alastor’s face. “Get the fuck off me, Alastor.” 

Everything leading to this moment had been mere bickering, two beasts playfully nipping instead of tearing out each other’s throats. The flicker of the lights overhead signals an end to pulling punches, a warning.

Alastor actually looks surprised, and that’s so satisfying. He casts a quick, guarded glance to Vox’s hypnotic eye, still inactive, as if gauging the seriousness of Vox’s threat. It’s an unintended compliment— an acknowledgment that the radio demon recognizes how dangerous he is. He’d be a fool not to— Alastor had the brute strength but they are closely matched in power.

Though Alastor doesn’t retreat. Cautiously, he shifts his weight, settling back on Vox's lap with his knees bracketing his hips. Vox can feel the heat radiating from Alastor's body, the pressure of his arousal against his own. Vox’s moan is muted through his clenched teeth. They’re both achingly hard.

“Why— why are you doing this?” Vox’s tone is thick with anger and a raw, scraping anguish. The room fades, replaced by flashes of past laughter, painful memories of what they'd once had— sharply cut by all he'd lost. His frustration boils over, and words claw their way out, rough and accusing. “You don’t like to be touched, Alastor! Not like this! Not by me.”

Alastor’s gaze softens, a glimpse of fondness that might have seemed genuine to anyone else. But Vox knows it’s hollow. Alastor would find a way to ruin it. He always did.

“I never get it right...” A shadow falls over Vox’s features as he searches Alastor's eyes, misery sinking deep into his bones. “Al, how could you do this to me again?” 

It’s then that Vox witnesses the fade of Alastor’s ever present smile, like the dimming of daylight into dusk, the sadness stretching across his eyes like storm clouds on the horizon. Those lips part but he falters, a rare hesitation marking his struggle for words.

It was only the briefest of moments before the slate is wiped clean again with one of Alastor’s impeccably fixed smiles. He slowly rubs Vox’s wrists before trailing down the defined muscles of his arms, ending with his claws delicately splayed across his dark navy chest. Vox tries not to react, but Alastor so rarely touches him it drags a sharp exhale from his throat. 

When Alastor speaks, his words are so hushed they dissolve into the thick static delivering them, muffled and unclear. Vox twists with discomfort, the impossible need to loop the clip on repeat overwhelming him, if only he could edit the audio and remove the interference. Frustration blooms, and an unmistakable whimper escapes his lips. He’d give anything to know why.

Long, slender fingers caress lightly down the side of his screen and Vox stills, his breath catching, waiting. He struggles to read that expression as Alastor leans over him. He’s so close now, all he can see is his infuriatingly beautiful face.  

Alastor's voice, suddenly so clear: “Let’s make a deal.” 

Those four deceptively simple words.

“So you actually think I’m stupid?” Vox snaps, disappointed, incredulous… exhausted. He can't fall into another one of Alastor’s games, he can’t. Not when every genuine emotion will be twisted into something the radio demon can understand and control. 

"Indulge me?” Alastor’s smile softens, his gaze steady. “I propose a 12-hour blackout period, starting with my arrival at your door. Nothing between us can be discussed or alluded to with anyone else. No recordings, recreated content, via audio, visual, broadcast, written, or any other communication medium are allowed."

For a heartbeat, Vox feels the world slow down, each second stretching as he searches Alastor’s face. In the usual facade of charm and guile, he finds instead an unexpected openness, a vulnerability that Alastor seldom shows. “A muzzle agreement?” The words slip out, tinged with disbelief yet underscored by a professional's scrutiny. The terms are precise, sharply defined, yet the offer itself is something more profound. “Al, you’re serious? For… how long?”

A green hue of magic swirls through Alastor’s ruby eyes, like acid rain clouds overtaking Hell’s red sky. “This contract is indefinite, binding as long as either soul remains intact, regardless of ownership.” Alastor watches Vox, his eyes never leaving his face. In the silence that follows, Vox tries to control his expression, but Alastor reads his hesitation anyway. “Promises here are as ephemeral as shadows, but a binding pact? That we both can respect, don't you agree?”

Under the steady pressure of Alastor's palm, Vox's heartbeat quickens, but its the reluctant hope that is worse than the fear. "Trust isn't something we can afford," Alastor murmurs, and Vox feels the weight of every word. “This accord is rooted in certainty, ensuring we need not rely on something so fragile as a demon's word.”

"So," Still perched in his lap, the radio demon holds out his glowing hand, palm up. “Do we have a deal?”

It begins with a tingling aura enveloping their clasped hands, a rush of green and cyan magic signaling the start of something profound. Any deal forged between two formidable demons roars with raw power, but this is no minor agreement. They were binding each other to eternities of secrecy.

The room bursts to life with hot, crackling energy, as if the very air has awakened. Whirlwinds of their colors whip around them, the onslaught trashing his room, yet swirling together until they become a bright teal glow.

Within this ethereal halo, Alastor's presence magnifies. His black antlers spiral upward from the crown of his head, towering like the sprawling canopy of an ancient oak. With a monstrous smile, he looks both malevolent and devastatingly beautiful. 

In every passing heartbeat Vox senses the exchange. The force of Alastor’s sorcery rushing through him, while the surge of Vox’s own currents cause Alastor’s body to arch, his head thrown back in silent invocation. A primal response to a touch so deep, it feels as if their souls themselves are intertwining. Vox’s claws dig into his hips as they writhe together, reveling in a moment of raw, intoxicating connection. 

As their combined energy begins to wane, eerie glowing fissures radiate outward from the epicenter of their union, spidering across the room before they ebb away into the shadows, leaving a charged silence in their wake. Alastor's smile, though subdued, looks satisfied as he gazes down at Vox, his eyes alight with a quiet intensity. 

Alastor’s antlers haven’t receded, and Vox realizes he’s being allowed to see. They frame Alastor like a regal crown of shadows, the colossal horns a burden he carries with the grace of a titan perched on his dais. 

Vox is captivated by the sight. 

He is breathtaking.

Look at this gorgeous art from the talented Mango 😍😍😍 Please give them love on Twitter!

Chapter Text

In the hushed aftermath of their pact, the magic lingers, a galvanic hum of intertwined energies. Vox and Alastor remain locked in the moment, each breath they take infused with the weight of the deal just made.

The sheets are cool against Vox’s back, contrasting sharply with the heat simmering in his veins. With antlers like jagged spires nearly scraping the ceiling, Alastor is still perched on him, like a monument to Hell’s eternal night. He is a delicious pressure that anchors him, a harbinger of pleasure and foreboding. 

A moment's hesitation— the weight of decades, the gravity of their newly bound fates— hangs between them. Vox goes over the verbiage of the deal again and again, even though it is too late. His heart races not just with need but with an undercurrent of fear; the pact they had sealed is binding, intertwining them in ways he may not fully comprehend. In every smile from Alastor he sees fragments of what he'd gained and what he stood to lose.

Putting on a front of his usual bravado, Vox breaks the silence. "Soo, 12 hours… planning on staying awhile?" The tease has an undercurrent of genuine curiosity, as his attempt at lightness doesn’t quite mask the way he searches Alastor for any sign of intent.

With a casual flick of his wrist, Alastor dismisses the question as trivial. "Merely a precaution." He tips forward, his gaze following his tracing fingers along the subtle dips and arcs of Vox’s tense abs. "One must always be ready for any... contingencies."

"Contingencies?" The normally steady glow of Vox's screen begins to flicker, a visual echo of anxiety brewing beneath the surface. 

Alastor’s head ticks to the side as he trails a menacing nail along the straight edge of Vox’s face, his smile tainted by a darker thought. "Every pleasure has its poison, Vox. Do keep that in mind."

The room seems to hold its breath. Vox wrestles with the tendrils of doubt creeping over him like Alastor’s own shadows, chased by a thousand what ifs. Could he truly trust him? What choice did he have now? 

His mind wanders to when their laughter had been genuine and betrayal was just a word in someone else’s tragedy. How naïve he had been, thinking they were untouchable, unburnable amidst the hellfires they danced around. 

"The fact you’d make a contract just to fuck me is so unbelievably sexy." The playful little jab continues to pry at the radio demon's reasons. 

Alastor ignores the unspoken question with deliberate silence. Sharp claws begin their descent, tracing a slow, tantalizing path down his throat. Vox forces himself not to swallow, keeping tight control over his reactions— he can't let Alastor see how much he desperately needs this. The demon's warm palm finally comes to rest against Vox’s chest and he curses the eager thump of his heart.

Alastor’s gaze flicks upward, locking onto Vox with an intense curiosity. Gradually, he arches against him, an experimental roll of his hips. "Ah-aah…" The sound escaping his lips is so raw and revealing, it seems to surprise Alastor himself. A moment of naked truth.

That sudden glimpse of authentic pleasure compels Vox’s entire being to respond with a force that makes him shudder. "Oh you want it bad, don’t you?" His voice deepens, rich with intent, his eager hands skillfully soothing away the knots of tension in Alastor’s thighs. "You tryin’ to distract me?" 

The radio demon offers a fleeting smile, a glimmer that doesn't quite light his eyes. "Would such a thought ever cross my mind?" The playful lilt has a whisper of defensiveness, veiled by his smirk and the lightest tingling brush of Vox’s nipple. 

Vox hums, low and knowing, "It’s an art form you’ve mastered." He watches him for a long moment, recognizing the continued deflections as an uncrossable river. Begrudgingly, he decides not to push further. 

There is one datum he has to know, though. "Al, level with me," Vox's fingers glide up Alastor's thighs to circle his slender hips. "What's off limits for you?" His voice is a controlled purr, trying to mask the flicker of trepidation dancing across his digital eyes.

Alastor fixes him with a steely gaze, his warm hands tracking light lines of glowing cyan circuitry just below his skin. "Your every action, I allow." Vox shifts slightly beneath him, recognizing the predatory look as Alastor leans closer. "And should you dare try and hypnotize me, I will hang your entrails on your cherished tower like Christmas garlands." The snap of his chipper little smile is an Alastor staple. 

"Noted." Vox replies quickly, his laughter a mask of levity over a well of past mistakes. He’d already learned that lesson in a fight long ago. The hard way. "Wouldn’t even dream of it, doll." 

Vox is too aware of the fragility of the moment. He can’t risk snapping the thread of pleasantry, never knowing when the radio demon’s unpredictable nature would turn. Memories, sharp as shards of glass, jab at him. With a breath that feels like the first after a dive, his fingers dig firmly into Alastor’s hips, hoping this time the pieces might fall differently.

Vox grip anchors Alastor down as he presses up against him, aligning himself perfectly with the inviting vee between his thighs. He watches closely as each reaction plays over his face, every flutter of those strikingly lush lashes. Two indeed could play the distraction card. 

The game is on. No matter the lies they tell themselves or each other, this give and take, this push and pull between them must be strategic for Alastor. But he has fantasized about this, imagining it through countless scenarios— and fantasy falls short against the intoxicating warmth of Alastor’s body, perfect as if designed to be his alone. Whatever the play, he is determined to indulge in every second. 

Vox sits up, guiding the shift in their positions with a gentle hand. As Alastor scoots off to kneel on the mattress, he rises to join him, tugging their bodies together. The touch of their bare chests sends a cascade of excitement through him. A press of his thigh between Alastor’s legs closes any gaps, anchoring them together where they kneel entwined at the center of the bed. 

Drawing a hand along Alastor’s sides with featherlight touches, Vox eases up the elegant line of his neck and into his tousled red hair. A subtle pull guides Alastor to his shoulder, so those majestic antlers arc into view. Enthralled, Vox grazes them with the backs of his fingers, met by a potent thrum of energy. Alastor’s face presses into his throat, hands tightening on his back as Vox’s hands wrap around the thick base of the horns, gliding upward over textured patterns in the bone. The sensation from them resonates deep, rattling the joints down his arm with only a hint of the depths of the deer demon’s power.  

"No one’s ever…" Alastor’s voice is lost to a breathy sigh, but his intent is unmistakable. Vox is the first, and tonight, he plans to be the first of many things for Alastor. The thought ignites a possessive heat in his veins, a drive to leave an intimate claim on the demon in all the ways he could. 

As his fingertips caress every reachable inch of the dark antlers, tracing their curves and sharp edges, he feels a shift. A softening of Alastor’s rigid posture, until he is bowing against him as if a taut string had been cut. The vigilance Vox’s presence always seemed to rise melts away, soothed by his touch, and it makes his stomach flutter like a schoolboy. 

Vox threads his fingers through Alastor's soft hair to gently massage the base of those fluffy, triangular ears. A hushed gasp from Alastor curls a knowing smirk onto Vox’s lips. This is yet another first, but one he had claimed so long ago…

Alastor had been looking trim and masculine in a fitted black vest Rosie made, the sleeves of his white dress shirt folded up to his elbows. Back then, Vox had been in such denial about appreciating the view. Their script work strewn over the coffee table wasn’t going well, because Alastor had a headache that made him pouty and irritable. Naturally, Vox delivered some unmemorable line, offering his help with a half joking quip. It had been a secret thrill when Alastor silently leaned back against him in invitation. 

His fingers had moved with gentle precision, massaging Alastor’s temples for a respectable amount of time before slowly carding through his hair. It was natural he’d bump into those large ears, and Vox found out quickly how exquisitely sensitive Alastor was to every caress. They'd remained in that serenity for nearly twenty minutes, Alastor like putty in his care. He remembers Alastor’s breathing, slow, steady, but so loud under the hum of the radio. At that point, it had been the most he’d ever touched him. 

It was a treasured memory, perfect until Alastor suddenly pushed away. The moment he left, Vox had been so overwhelmed he’d pulled his cock out, desperate, ashamed, and absolutely pulsing with need. He’d heaped blame on himself after, faced with the harsh reality of his desire— desires condemned and shameful in the era he had lived. Back then, he’d walked a tightrope of self hatred simply for the attraction to his friend.

He’d been so tortured by human societal norms, and looking back, it all seems pitifully trivial. There is no point in an ascetic life when already damned. He once thought Alastor was shackled by the same problem, a relic of their early 20th-century upbringings, but no… Whatever haunts the radio demon pierces much deeper.

If there’s a shadow in Vox, then the dark is a tidal wave inside Alastor.

Vox guides him back from his shoulder, cradling his face with both hands. Alastor’s ruby eyes flutter half closed, a subtle shimmer of need reflecting in their depths, his lips slightly parted. He brushes his red hair back from his forehead, overcome by such a look directed at him, instead of one of hatred, annoyance or detached apathy. There’s a murmur from Alastor, a wordless plea before their lips meet. The kiss is a careful test of their defenses, an exploratory tenderness that neither of them has allowed themselves to express before. 

As their tongues curl around each other, the tang of Alastor’s blood lingers, a sweet taste to any demon. His hands roam, feeling the subtle ridges of more scars on his back. The brush of sharp teeth against his tongue sends a shiver through Vox, all of this a reminder of who they are. 

His fingers slip past the waistband of Alastor’s slacks, pushing down just enough to free his tail. It’s a tuft of dense, smooth fur much like his ears. The longer strands roll easily between his fingers as Vox pulls like he is rubbing a cock. Alastor arches, a shudder coursing through him. Vox pauses, his mouth hovering over Alastor’s neck, then slowly, he begins to explore with gentle nips and strokes of his tongue in time with his hand. Alastor’s moans vibrate against Vox's lips, each one a quivering note of vibrato so sweet he wishes he could bottle and drink it.  

Vox leans back to watch, the change drawing Alastor's attention as he shifts his thigh, pushing up between his legs. The hollow in his jaw flexes and his hands scramble for purchase on Vox’s shoulders, as if anchoring himself to the moment. Vox squeezes the curve of his ass and kisses him again, meeting unexpected longing that he tastes like a revelation.

Wrapping his arms around him, Vox lifts Alastor so he can lay them down, amused at how quickly the antlers shrink away at the demon’s whim. Their bodies align flawlessly as Vox presses down against him, but he freezes when Alastor rears up just enough. His gaze locks on the transformations in the radio demon’s expression, meeting a wild, startled look. 

Vox sucks a sharp breath through his teeth as he struggles to temper himself with the caution their situation demands. Alastor’s hands sneak between them, palms laying flat against his own slender chest, not pushing away, but creating a subtle distance. Vox pulls back, kneeling between Alastor’s legs with every muscle tensed in restraint. His trembling hands graze down Alastor's thighs, his eyes catching on the pronounced outline of Alastor’s arousal visible through his slacks. Vox’s mouth waters before he consciously shifts his focus to the radio demon’s face.

Alastor isn’t looking at him as his claws twitch against his ribs, each pull leaving faint, jagged lines on his ashen skin. "My dear, no need to stop on my account, I assure you I’m quite well." He insists with an easy laugh, hiding hints of agitation by leaning heavily into his accent and the static… the facade.

Hoping to soothe him, Vox reaches out, but as his hand nears, the radio demon bares every point of his sharp teeth, ears pinning backwards. He can tell it’s less about anger, or even him maybe, it’s something he’s seen in Alastor before, something ancient and distant that has always haunted him. His ruby eyes squeeze shut, shuttered as if barricading against reality. 

Uncertainty knots in Vox’s gut and it’s like he’s stepping back onto an all too familiar tightrope. "Alastor, you came to me for something." He murmurs, changing tactics as he lightly draws his palm down, fingers splaying across his hip. He holds on, watching him— Alastor’s breaths are coming short but he isn’t pushing him away. "Tell me what you need." He presses for an answer, squeezing his hip gently. "Tell me."

"I need…" Alastor trails off, breathy, each word a reluctant fight against himself. His face turns away, fingers curling into his hair, gripping as if to anchor or soothe himself somehow. Shadows flit across the room, hints of deeper, restless currents that tug at the edges of his composure. "I need to feel real." 

Caught off guard by the raw plea in Alastor's tone, Vox catches his breath. "Like this?" He whispers, circling his thumb around the button of Alastor's slacks, gauging his reaction. A soft, answering sound pushes him to pull the button free, and it’s just enough to drag his thumb along the underside of Alastor’s hardness through the thin fabric of his underwear. The contact sparks Alastor into an arch, his body reacting with a beautiful display of nerves and sinew. It’s a glimpse of a demon caught between warring, primal instincts.

"Yes," Alastor whispers, whose every inhale seems painfully restricted, as if his lungs are trapped by constricting wires. "I need you to.. just touch me like I’m…" His voice falters, eyes fluttering open, clouded over with discomfort. He flexes his fingers into a fist in his hair, breathing shallowly. "I… want to matter." 

Overwhelming protectiveness tightens in Vox’s chest, a drive to shield Alastor from whatever happened to him. The constant fight for leverage fades into the background, replaced by a clarity that cuts through the machinations of Hell itself. Here, with his oldest friend, Vox finds a truth worth fighting for— more piercing, more real than the flickering illusions of power they both chase.

Vox bridges the space between them, stretching over him to stare down into an expression that seems unfocused. "Alastor," He runs his hand up his wrist, encouraging his fist to loosen so he can lace their fingers together against the mattress. "You matter when everything is meaningless." 

Alastor squeezes his hand, but when he looks at Vox it’s with a hazy intensity that glimmers and then dims like the last notes of a song. "Touch me," His whisper fades away, the plea so faint it's almost lost, only a breath against his lips— touch me. He draws Vox closer with his other arm, the sharp sting of his nails somehow comforting as he holds on tightly. 

"Look at me," Vox urges softly, his voice a tender command drawing him back from his spiraling thoughts. His fingers trace light, teasing paths along Alastor’s arousal, whose lips part in a soft pant.

Alastor's hooded eyes remain locked with his. He breathes deeply, watching as Vox toys with the waistband of his briefs before slipping beneath. The contact is direct and electrifying, his body responding with an instinctual press upwards, craving more than fleeting touches. 

"I’m taking you to the fucking sky." Vox breathes out, his words painting promises in the charged air. He pulls Alastor’s cock free, a big stupid grin overtaking half his screen as he feels the weight and silky texture, that flush of red urgency at the head. He strokes the length of him, attentively watching each reaction— the twitch of a muscle, the shudder of need that ripples through him. Stretched out on his bed, lithe body taut… Alastor looks nothing short of sultry.

Vox moans his name, and it spills out like a melody. And Alastor loves it; his body arches beautifully, clenching his shoulders, pulling him closer, breath fogging his glass. "I’m dying to suck your dick, baby," He whispers, squeezing him tightly. Alastor's head lulls to the side, but Vox grabs his chin, drawing him back to his gaze. His ruby eyes are heavy lidded, glinting with desire, pupils totally blown. Fuck yeah.

Vox squeezes his jaw pointedly. "Watch me do it." He shifts lower, muscling his broad shoulders between Alastor’s thighs. His unwavering gaze locks on Alastor's with a grin as his tongue flicks out, tracing the tip slowly, each lick drawing a sharp gasp from above. The taste— damn, Alastor’s precum— ignites his senses.

The room echoes with soft, wet sounds as Vox groans around Alastor’s length in his mouth. The limitations of his angular, digital head do little to dampen his enthusiasm. He doesn't touch himself; he doesn't need to. Alastor's heady scent and the taste of his skin, salty and real under his tongue is intoxicating. He revels in the rhythmic clench of those sexy stomach muscles with each pull of his lips. 

Vox tunes into every gasp and shudder from Alastor— his moans, strained and needy, fill the air, and there’s a tremble in his legs against his sides. Alastor finally bucks his hips, seeking more of his mouth, and Vox deliberately slows the rhythm to cherish the tension. Impatient talons dig into his shoulders, silently pleading for more, and Vox knows he can feel his deep, muted chuckle.

"It feels incredible, doesn’t it?” Vox slides his tongue over the sensitive head, the tight grip of his fingers pulling from base to tip. "I’d suck you off every day if you’d let me..."

The confession just slips out, raw and unguarded, too much. Alastor tenses, his reaction shadowed by a fleeting, panicked expression. Vox’s heart sinks at the sight, and he buries his humiliation in the act, choking slightly as he takes Alastor deep into his throat, pretending that was the reason for the watery pixels at the creases of his eyes. 

He lets himself be lost in the feel of it— each subtle throb and pulse under his tongue urges him on. As he draws Alastor closer to the edge, a chill of dread undercuts the heat of his desire. Would satisfying him be the end of this? The thought of Alastor leaving him wanting is unbearable. More than anything, it's the void Alastor would leave behind. He yearns for every second to stretch indefinitely, to stave off the inevitable. Clinging to the promise of 12 hours like a lifeline, he reassures himself Alastor, ever the dealmaker, wouldn't let a second of their pact go unexploited.

Vox eases back, allowing the tip of to slip from his mouth and fall heavily against Alastor’s quivering stomach. The radio demon peers down, the skin of his chest flushed in delicious pinks, panting, ears pinned back— actually, he looks irritated at the interruption. Vox might’ve laughed at the odd charm of it, if not so consumed by his own need.

"Fuck my mouth, Alastor," Vox tells him, breathless with anticipation, "I want to taste you when you cum."

"Why?" Alastor’s confusion is obvious, even breathless from pleasure. Vox struggles to contain a laugh, finding it almost quaint— an echo of innocence in Hell, of all places, from Alastor, of all demons. It's fucking comical, really. 

"You wouldn’t understand," Vox doesn’t give Alastor a chance to pull away or overthink. He yanks Alastor's trousers down and pulls them off so he can grab the soft curve of his ass when he draws his length in as deep as possible. Each intense pull urges him to drive upward, and Vox rises to his knees, creating a gap that forces Alastor to arch beautifully, straining just to maintain the connection. 

Alastor's reaction is visceral; a low keen breaks from his tightly pressed lips. His hooves scramble for traction on the slick sheets, desperately seeking purchase as he surrenders to the overwhelming sensations. Finding his leverage, Alastor’s thrusts stutter before gaining momentum, and Vox’s muffled groan resonates through the tight constriction of his throat, spurring the radio demon into a wild, desperate pace.

Vox tilts his head back just enough to watch, and it’s exhilarating to see such a dangerous man unravel at his touch, obliterating Alastor’s carefully crafted composure. Each arch of his body as he pumps into his mouth, the unrestrained sounds he makes— the sight of him losing himself is a heady feeling. There’s a sense of power in reducing Alastor to raw, primal need. 

Vox shudders as Alastor slings a leg over his shoulder, using him as a brace to drive into his mouth faster. He feels his claws scraping the back panel of his screen, leaving marks that would be obvious to everyone— a thought that sends a thrill through him.

When Alastor's climax finally rips free, Vox savors the pulse and flow of him, feeling every spasm and throb as if it were his own victory. Alastor's delicious spend carries the richness of his diet— meats, strong alcohol, and coffee— a flavor that Vox enjoys like a shot of fine whiskey warming his throat. He swallows and sucks every greedy drop, loving the strong grip holding his head flush against rocking hips and the choking tightness it brings. 

As the tremors subside and Alastor crumbles back onto the bed, Vox is gasping with need, still painfully hard. He crawls up his body, driven to witness the aftermath, as if memorizing him, consuming every detail of the moment Alastor is entirely his, laid bare and breathless. A desperate, wanton mess… the beauty in making Alastor appear just as wrecked as he feels.

Vox’s palm trails a line of fire along Alastor's side, fingers splayed wide across his ribs. The air is thick with the scent of Alastor, sweat, and sex so overpowering he can't think anymore. He wants to bask in it. He waits, trying to give him time, but he needs to see those eyes. “Alastor,” His name rumbles out of him, his voice low and heavy with want. “Look at me.”

Each breath they share is ragged, echoing in the silence that wraps around them. When Alastor turns his face away, Vox feels a door slam within his heart. His fingers tighten reflexively around Alastor's waist— grasping for a connection that's slipping away. It isn’t enough, could never be. He aches for everything, the hidden pieces and protected secrets, for his heart, for his blood, for his body, to have every part of him until Alastor is undeniably, irrevocably his. 

The soft hitch in Alastor's breath, a shuddering like he’s fighting back a sob, slices through the silence with the force of a scream.

——

Though this art wasn’t made for the story, it fits so well! 😆 Alastor's expression is too funny.

Please give love to the artist! 

Chapter Text

Warning signs flash like headlines on a news ticker: The ambient noise becomes a static buzz as discordant wavelengths intensify around Alastor. His body, once a breathtaking arch of open surrender, now closes off, his claws poised on the brink of an emotion far less tender. The shadows stretch and draw closer, like dark tendrils creeping across the room as a chill settles into Vox’s bones.

With a sense of loss, Vox gently tugs Alastor’s boxer briefs up his slender hips, fingers caught between the fabric and his soft skin. The fragile hope the barrier might help hold back the storm fades as Alastor's breathing escalates, quick and uneven. Even with the fight response written into every taut muscle, his back still arches subtly towards the touch, a contradiction… pushing away while yearning all the same.

Caught between channels, Vox hangs suspended in desire and caution, each flicker a leap through uncertain outcomes. His longing for Alastor hums like feedback, a persistent noise that overrides everything else. In the fleeting time they have— a mere blink against decades— Vox cannot bear wasting it on another scorched battleground. 

Slowly, Vox lowers onto Alastor, one hand cradling the back of his neck, drawing him into his embrace. He can feel his racing heartbeat where their chests meet, and he rests the cool glass of his screen against Alastor’s temple, bathing his face in a faint, luminescent glow. "It’s okay, I’ve got you." He tempers his tone into a lullaby that flows smoothly over Alastor’s jagged edges.

The sheets rustle quietly beneath them as Alastor shifts, a slow twisting that knots the fabric around their feet. His warm palm brushes Vox’s side, and Vox can feel the tremor that slowly draws his claws in, not quite breaking skin, but not pushing away either. 

Alastor squirms restlessly, words catching in his throat as he tries to speak several times. “Please,” He finally gasps, and Vox’s moan short circuits, stunned by the word he never imagined would escape those smiling lips. But Alastor’s tone is all wrong, desperate in a way that is thin and strained as if he can’t breathe. “You’re making it worse.” 

Startled, Vox quickly pulls back. “I didn’t mean—” Regret jumps in his heart as he retreats to a respectful distance. Guilt swells with each of Alastor’s labored breaths, their harsh, staccato rhythm filling the room. He sinks into the bed, watching Alastor shiver, his sweat slicked skin catching the light in a way that makes him look ethereal. Vox shifts uncomfortably, so unbearably hard, struggling for control with his fists clenched into a pillow. 

"This was a mistake." Each word strikes like a blow, stinging more deeply than Vox cares to admit. The lingering richness of Alastor’s come on his tongue makes it that much worse. 

“You asked for real, not easy.” Vox tries to salvage the situation by weaving calm into the tense atmosphere. 

"You’re missing the point," Alastor bares his teeth, raw emotion bleeding through, “I tried, but I can’t, I can’t—"

"It’s okay… we don’t have to." Vox's whisper barely carries across the small space between them, each word weighed down by a tangle of disappointment he fails to conceal. He can’t help that selfish, gnawing ache, even as Alastor’s every flinch resurrects ghosts of his past mistakes. A crushing tightness settles in his chest, his flexing claws tearing holes in the pillow beneath him. “Fuck, Al… is this my fault?”

Alastor curls into himself, eyes tightly closed, ears pinned back like a wounded animal. “It isn’t you.” His voice is muffled against the cool linen as he draws his knees closer to his chest.

“I think it is.” Sad resignation colors Vox’s expression. Alastor shakes his head vehemently, pressing his face deeper into the mattress, as if trying to escape the conversation.

“What then, Alastor?” Vox knows not to touch, not to break the fragile boundary Alastor has drawn around himself. So he attempts to bridge the chasm of pain and confusion separating them with cautious words. 

Time passes in sync with the heartbeat of electricity flowing through their unsleeping city. Vox watches as Alastor rubs at his chest, scraping as if to peel away layers of discomfort. There is a strain to the contours of Alastor’s back as he struggles to regain composure, the tight hunch of his muscles loosening as he gradually unwinds. 

Slowly, the rise and fall of Alastor’s shoulders finds a new, steadier rhythm as the quiet lingers. Then Vox speaks again, gentle but persistent. “Will you at least tell me where you’ve been?” 

“We all have our hells.” Alastor sounds distant, miserable. “I don't decorate mine with company." 

“And yet, here you are.”

Alastor’s one visible eye snaps open, leveling an exasperated glare at him. Vox offers a practiced, sugary smile in response, aiming to soften both their defenses. For at least a few hours, they lived in the isolated seal of their pact, a world where maybe Alastor didn’t have to wield his words like weapons.

“I scanned for your frequency every day, you know. Sending signals into the void, hoping for a response. If anybody could have found you, it was me." Vox frowns, dragging the steel tipped points of his claws over the textured surface of the sheets, back and forth. “Seven years, Alastor… Honestly, I thought you were dead.”

“You all keep prattling on about seven years— seven years!” Alastor’s sudden laugh is cold, empty. “It was an eternity.” 

“So just tell me.” The room grows colder as silence settles, thick like the pause before a storm.

Finally, Alastor relents. His response is subdued, wafting like a whisper of smoke between them. “It was a… a nightmare. A punishment.” His hands rub his arms to ward off the lingering cold. “She… made me nothingness. A shadow. Alone for so long, I...” 

The wavering cadence of his voice nestles like a splinter in Vox’s heart.

Alastor’s eyes flutter shut against the memories, lips parting as if to speak, yet only a breathlessness fills the air. Then a familiar, tingling whisper begins to resonate, his transmission gradually intensifying as it seeks out Vox on their private channel. The signal hits like a speaker set to eleven; Alastor holds nothing back, his unfiltered electromagnetic chorus howling through Vox with a fervency he’s never felt.

The meanings press into his mind, loud and wordless. It’s a profound emptiness, a vacuum where time stretches and folds upon itself, a reel of film stuck on an endless loop. The erosion of self in analog, the slow unspooling of awareness where memories and reality blur, tethered loosely to the fragments of a soul paused in time. 

The relentless echo of confined thoughts. A void where the warmth of touch and the light of companionship are unreachable. Desperation intertwines with a raw, hollow loneliness, a hunger for presence, for a body and a voice. 

In this moment, the absence of sound does not quiet the intensity of the message; instead, it amplifies it. Alastor's unvoiced scream roars. 

Vox can feel Alastor’s need so tormentingly clear and yet he can’t touch him, afraid it will only burn. His fingers trace the air inches away from Alastor’s shadow, following the rise and fall of a chest he dare not comfort. It’s a dance of near touches, of almost and never, a duel between shared cravings and the harsh boundary of a panic Alastor can’t control.

“Can’t say I’m the man I once was,” Alastor’s muted smile and neutral tone conceals the depth of isolation he endured— so dark and fathomless to shake even him. “When it’s still and quiet, it’s… easy to get lost.” 

The shadow beneath Alastor deepens, spilling like a chasm over the bed's edge, elongating into dark corners to form twisted shapes that seem to leer at them. Alastor doesn’t notice, gaze faraway. “I’ll wake half in shadow... like slipping underwater, where sounds are swallowed, and the light is only a speck from above.”

A crawling unease begins to heighten around them. The darkness swells suddenly, and Vox sits up as the confines of their world begin to blur and fade. Not even the windows escape, succumbing to a blackness so impenetrable it casts them adrift in a void. 

In the abyss, a faint disturbance catches Vox's eye— a paler shadow, formless and indistinct like the glow of a moon veiled by storm clouds. Swiftly, it shoots skyward, higher and higher, as if challenging the heavens themselves. It looms like a leviathan wave, threatening to crash down on them. The void ripples as a myriad of sinister eyes manifest, their stares casting a chill so deep it pierces to the marrow. Each eye blinks open with a malevolent intelligence, focusing on Vox with a predatory intensity. For a heart stopping moment, Vox is gripped by the terrifying thought they’re not alone— that a powerful entity is truly revealing itself.

The usual buzz of Alastor’s signal falters, flickering like a failing light. His presence diminishes, body wavering until he looks no more substantial than smoke. “Alastor!” Vox rushes to clamp his fingers around his thin wrist, reassured by the tangible feel of cool skin against his palm.

Ignoring the darkness pressing in, Vox focuses solely on Alastor, who appears almost spectral— a wraith caught between worlds. He draws Alastor up against him, cradling his head in the curve of his palm. “Stay with me, Al,” He pleads, tightening his grip, a lifeline cast in turbulent waters. “Don’t go!” 

His ruby eyes, those amazing eyes, are veiled, as though staring into a realm beyond perception. But with the slithering retreat of the encroaching shadows, the fog begins to lift, and Vox searches his face for the demon he knows, catching flickers of something far more fragmented. 

"You’re with me, doll, I’ve got you." Vox whispers, and Alastor finally sees him, his expression filling with the light of recognition and relief. “I’m right here,” The tension drains from Vox’s body as he brushes his red hair back, holding him. “Let me anchor you.”  

Alastor’s unguligrade legs are tangled in the sheets, his body partially resting against Vox, leaning between his thighs. He looks up, his fingers gently encircling Vox’s wrist, his smile warming with rare affection. “Poetry.”

Vox touches his face, careful, almost reverent, as if rediscovering a lost treasure. “Alastor, what was that?”

The radio demon takes slow, deep breathes as he leans heavily into the heat of Vox's large palm. “It’s quite clear she won’t tolerate further discussion.” 

“Fuck that, who is she?” At Vox’s demand, Alastor sighs, a flick of his wrist revealing the glow of viridescent stitches cutting into his lips. The eerie cords hum beneath Vox’s touch, an intangible barrier guarding the truths hidden behind them. Alastor is bound by magic, silenced.

Vox reels from the revelation, his mind spinning with possibilities. Who had the power, the right, to bind Alastor away for years? He tries to control the surge of electric fury at the mere thought of someone else owning Alastor’s soul. The urge to protect what is his thrums through him like a living beast. His fingers brush Alastor’s skin, feeling the warmth, the realness of him, as if to remind them both that he is here, with him, and not lost to some unseen tormentor. 

The weight of questions that will remain forever unanswered frustrates Vox. He is nothing if not a bastion of information. “What can you tell me?” He forces himself to remain calm, though the underlying vehemence is undeniable.

Alastor's gaze shifts away as the emerald glow of the stitches binding him fades into the dim light. “My patron knows full well that my forgiveness is off the table. Nothing she offers can outweigh the price she’s made me pay.” 

Even without looking directly at him, Vox still spots it— the glint of calculation tightening Alastor’s smile, a brief crease between his brows that sends a shiver of warning down his spine. Then, as quickly as it appears, the tell is gone. “Every pact chain has its flaws…” Vox goes cold, and he can practically read Alastor’s mind before he even opens his mouth. “If it ever comes to it, would you help me break it?” 

Vox feels the weight of Alastor’s plea pressing down on him. Trying to break a soul bind was ludicrous, what could he even do? He wants to believe him though, wants to trust that beneath the layers of manipulation, there lies a genuine cry for help. That Alastor needs him. But the deceit in Alastor’s eyes is clear— he’s a dealmaker, looking to seize an opportunity.  

“Huh. Asking for my word, are you? A promise, even?” Vox clicks his tongue disapprovingly, throwing the demon’s words from earlier right back in his face. Alastor’s ears twitch downward, shock jolting him back slightly, separating them. He seems oblivious to the fact he’s already tipped his hand, underestimating how well Vox can read him.

“Baby, don’t think for a second I’ll be played for a fool.” Vox’s tone is like a closed door, refusing to be swayed by sentiment. He’s far too savvy to agree to a vague devil’s favor. He knows Alastor too well; the next step is always the handshake. “My involvement, if any, hinges on how it serves my business interests at the time.”

Alastor’s chuckle is a fleeting shadow, there and gone in an instant. “Touché, Vox. You can hardly fault a demon for trying. Besides, I told you I couldn't speak of it.” He waves his hand dismissively, his tone light, playful, devoid of any real bite, “Why, you looked so earnest; I almost believed you cared.”  

At the very least, he’s grateful Alastor doesn’t insult him by trying to deny his clumsy attempt. He knows he must tread carefully, but for now, he allows himself to sink back into the present, the warmth of Alastor’s body near his, the faint thrum of their shared frequencies a reminder of the fragile hours they have left. 

“You really do have a way of complicating everything,” Vox’s sigh carries a reluctant fondness.

There’s a wistful quality to Alastor’s smile as his gaze lingers on Vox's face, such focused attention as if he’s studying each pixel and committing it to memory. “You know what I’ve noticed? Despite the years and all the vile things we’ve done to each other…” His elegant hand hovers just shy of Vox's screen, as if to trace the crisp lines of his digital expression. “The way you look at me hasn’t changed.”

Alastor’s light fingertips make contact, sparking a faint sensation across the surface that tingles all the way through his body. “When I was severed, I came to realize there’s one soul who’s seen the absolute worst of me…” A smoldering fire burns in Alastor’s eyes that holds him captivated. “And loved me despite it all.” 

“I— I never said-” His voice stumbles, the words struggling to form as his system reacts, sending a flurry of static across his display. 

“Oh, Vox,” Alastor’s smile breaks through the glitch, radiant like the first dawn after Hell’s eternal night. “You didn’t need to.” 

Vox’s gaze drops to the space between them, seeing his hands draped loosely at Alastor’s waist, fingers trembling with emotion he struggles to suppress. It isn’t true. He’d nearly convinced himself. That it isn't this aching bond he’d buried so deeply when it refused to fade, no matter how desperately he wanted to let it go. 

The most he’d ever felt was for Alastor. Vox had promised himself never to surrender that kind of power to anyone again. Yet he’d never fully broken away— forever ensnared by the man who defined his greatest desires and deepest resentments.

Alastor's tentative touch to his collarbone carries concern, yet Vox can’t bear to meet his eyes. His hands flex involuntarily, his claws grazing Alastor’s skin as he battles the urge to pull him closer and push him away. How he wishes he could master his emotions, to erase any feeling as effortlessly as clearing a hard drive.

Vox never speaks, and eventually, Alastor's hands fall away, breaking the physical connection but leaving an emotional imprint. “Well! It’s of little consequence now, isn’t it?” Alastor tries to sound nonchalant, but the waver in his tone betrays him. “Not when all we do is ruin each other.” 

A deep, shuddering breath escapes Vox as he tries to steady himself. “You didn’t ruin anything, Alastor.” It’s a lie they both recognize, but a kind one. Compared to everything Vox did, it feels true. 

“Yes. I did.” Alastor tips back, adjusting his position on the bed to create more space between them as Vox’s hands fall away. “You think I didn’t notice? I knew what you wanted.” Vox’s eyes tick up, brows furrowed, seeing Alastor’s shoulders slump with regret. “I tried back then, too. I thought drinking would do the trick, but…” 

“I remember.” Vox replies thinly, the old bitterness sharp and metallic in his mouth. 

“The fearless radio demon~” Alastor laughs, mocking himself, mouth twisted with frustration. He drops his gaze to his hands, resting awkwardly in his lap. His black antlers cast shadows across his hair, mirroring the unease settling over them. 

Vox's expression remains carefully impassive, but a hidden ache lurks beneath layers of resentment. “So. It was on purpose. All those times you hung all over me… you were trying to...”

“Yes.” Alastor admits, shame coloring the word. 

“Then why,” Vox’s disbelieving laugh only highlights the unmistakable flash of anger. “Why did you tear me down for responding to you?” 

“Pride, panic, disgust— pick any reason.” Alastor waves a hand dismissively, the heightened effect of radio distortion underlining his defensiveness. He leans forward to snatch the edge of the sheet, jerking it closer to cover his bare legs.

“No. It was about control.” There’s a pop as Vox’s screen pulses, his hands twitching into fists. “You were manipulating me.”

“I was working up to it,” Alastor snaps, his fingers twisting the sheets in his lap.

“You were— what!” Vox’s audio warps with loud, dense static that echoes off the walls of the dimly lit room. “For thirty years, Alastor! Thirty years, and you couldn’t condescend to kiss me?”

“Don’t be so dramatic. It wasn’t the whole time~” Alastor laughs, unable to meet Vox’s eyes. The tendons on the back of his hands work with each nervous motion.

“Oh, fuck you, Alastor!” Vox wrestles with the compulsion to defend himself, to strike back, simmering just below the surface, threatening to boil. “Do you know how much y-ou— zz-zztx— t-he times we grew up in, wanting another man was the worst thing... I was so repressed, and you? You were always handsy with me, pressing against me, sitting in my goddamn fucking lap, then you’d treat me like a degenerate for having blood running through my veins!” 

“I didn’t intend…” The last of Alastor’s anger drains away as he clutches the sheet to his chest. He folds in on himself, the delicate curve of his neck tracing a graceful line to his shoulders. “I couldn’t admit there was something wrong with me,” He’s quiet, ears drooping low like wilted flowers, “Something defective from the start.” 

Well there is, but Vox bites back the retort, barely managing to hold it in. “I knew it was on purpose.” He hisses, expanding his consciousness to feel the cabling in the walls, the pulse of the grid. A strange comfort. “You only gave me just enough attention to keep me around. You never wanted anything to change… Not when you had me right where you wanted— following behind you like a lost puppy.”

“No, listen to me.” Alastor reaches out, his fingers brushing against Vox's wrist. “I didn’t want to lose you.”

“Bullshit.” Vox jerks his hand away, the warmth of Alastor's touch lingering like a ghost. “You didn't care enough to keep me… not really.” He despises how pathetic he sounds. Alastor has always torn down everything he’s built to the foundations— stripped him to his base humanity, revealing a man who’s irrational and needy. It made Vox hate himself.

“I do care,” Alastor insists, an edge of sorrow dulling his smile. “In my way.”

“Your way is a lonely one.” Vox scrubs at his wrist as he turns from that sad expression. He focuses on the window, where the faint glow of neon signs casts eerie patterns across the curtains.

“Maybe,” Alastor concedes after a quiet moment, leaning forward to try and catch Vox’s eyes. “But I know what I feel with you. And it's not hatred.”

“Well, there’s that, at least,” Vox aims for sarcastic, though a hint of something softer hides beneath the words.

There’s a quiet, strained laugh from Alastor, and Vox can feel his hand hovering near his shoulder. The warmth of his skin is a contrast to the cool air between them. “I’m terrible at this...”

“The understatement of the century.” Vox mutters, but when Alastor’s palm settles against his back, he leans into it. Despite himself, he can't walk away.

“I’m sorry.” The words are so abrupt Vox can hear the click of Alastor’s teeth snapping shut on the last syllable. Vox never would’ve bet on an apology. Even if they spent an eternity together as Hell’s most dysfunctional gays, Alastor may never utter those words again. 

Vox turns to him, stunned into silence, searching for any hint of a lie, but all he finds is sincerity. Alastor stares wide eyed at him, his hand flexing against his skin, as if the discomfort of the apology is almost too much to bear.

“C’mere,” Vox encourages softly, a gentle tug on his wrist pulling him close. Alastor stretches over his lap and nestles into his arms, tucked up against his chest. As the tips of his soft ears flick the frame of his display, Vox smiles, “Thank you.” 

For a long time, they simply hold each other, with Vox’s fingers slowly threading through his hair, their shared breaths the only sound in the room. Seeing Alastor this unguarded, his long dark lashes resting delicately against his high cheekbones, makes the embrace feel like a lifeline, a fragile thread holding them against the forces of their own pride and stubbornness. 

Searching for some levity to break the silence, a hint of amusement lightens his tone. “Honestly Al, it’s good we never hooked up back then. I was clueless… it would’ve been terrible.” He flashes Alastor a playful grin, “You’d really have sworn off sex forever.”

Alastor’s chuckle follows, quiet but genuine. That soft, real sound is like music, and the steady rhythm of Alastor’s heartbeat against him is soothing. Vox’s fingers trace gentle patterns on Alastor’s back, drawing idle shapes as he absorbs the warmth of the moment. 

“It would be much better now.” Vox murmurs, a hopeful, tentative question hidden within the statement.

“Oh, so you say,” The radio demon snickers with a roll of his eyes, just a glimpse of ruby beneath those lashes. 

“Just tell me if something’s not workin’ for you, and I’ll avoid it.” Vox clears his throat, nerves thrumming under his skin. Alastor remains nestled against him, arms wrapped tightly around his middle, but the silence stretches. Vox’s voice drops to a whisper, fragile and exposed. “Do you still want to?”

Alastor tilts his head up, his bright eyes standing out sharply against Vox's dark navy chest. A hint of mischief dances in his gaze. “Hm, I am craving something...” Vox waggles his eyebrows, and Alastor draws up in front of him to playfully tap his screen where a nose should be. “Don’t be ridiculous. Not that.” His smile is sly as he slips off the bed and rises with a dancer’s grace.

Vox cackles nervously, trying to keep the sound good natured rather than teetering on the edge of hysterical. “Um, hah hah, I think I’d just really appreciate a straight answer for once?”

Alastor stands there in his black boxer briefs, looking effortlessly sexy with his lean, angular frame and confident posture. “I’m hungry, Sherlock… And here I thought nothing could go over that head?” 

Vox bristles, but Alastor distracts him when he tugs the sheet off the bed. He wraps himself up in it, the fabric draping around his shoulders and cocooning his slender frame. His smile brightens into a playful, almost boyish grin that makes Vox’s heart ache with bittersweet nostalgia.

“What are you doing?” Vox can’t help but laugh, a rumbling sound that shakes off his nerves. Later, they’d talk about it later. 

“Just ensuring you don’t get too distracted by my undeniable charms.” Alastor actually winks at him, “Breakfast first, hmm?”

Vox feels the heat on his face as he plays along for the melodrama. “Well, if breakfast is what the esteemed gentleman desires, breakfast he shall have.” 

As Alastor leaves, the sheet's ridiculous train drags behind him like a bridal gown, his hooves clicking against the hardwood like high heels. Alastor would skin him alive if he knew his mind drew such a comparison, but he smiles nonetheless. There was a time when Alastor’s antics were aimed to lighten the mood, making even the darkest days feel a little brighter. 

As he watches Alastor disappear down the hall, Vox feels the weight of time slipping away too quickly. The days they spent together in the past had stretched on like eternity, when they had all the time in the world to play their games and dance around each other. How often had he watched Alastor, mesmerized by his charisma and wit, only to deny what he wanted? He feels a pang of regret for the time they wasted.

Decades of animosity, seven years of searching and hoping. Countless nights spent fiddling with his equipment, wishing he could find the familiar frequency. The slowest seven years of his lifetime, and now, with Alastor back, each second is unbearably fleeting.

Vox’s thoughts drift to the entity that had threatened to pull Alastor under. The unknowns gnaw at his mind, dark echoes of the writhing, unnatural shadows clinging to Alastor’s soul. On his way out, he pauses in the doorway, eyes flickering to every dark corner. Electricity sparks up his arm, a visceral reaction as his instincts flare. He growls under his breath at the empty room, wondering if she’s listening. 

“Bitch, he’s mine.”

Chapter Text

Vox leans his shoulder against the frame of the hallway, arms loosely crossed over his bare chest as he watches Alastor flitting about his kitchen. He looks out of place, but not unwelcome, like a piece of the past pulled into the present. His crimson fingers trail along the cool countertop as he starts the coffee maker with the ease of one who belongs. A smile tugs at Vox’s lips. Despite the years and all that had come between them, spending a morning together feels like stepping into an old, comforting habit. 

A soft buzz fills the room, soon replaced by the warm, nostalgic notes of an old song. Vox’s heart skips a beat, the tune tugging at buried memories. It's one only Alastor would remember— never a hit, but recognized nonetheless by the radio demon’s impeccable taste. The musicians were long forgotten by the world of Hell, and so lived on solely through Alastor. Many of the records were impossible to find, old tech lost to time. 

Vox eases into the room as the coffee maker gurgles, filling the kitchen with its rich aroma. “You know, I’d love to digitize these old tunes. It would make them more accessible for everyone.” 

“And easier for you to profit from, no doubt,” Alastor hums from where he leans against the counter, eyebrow raised. “You never change, Vox.” 

That’s flirting with the dangerous edge of a familiar argument, so Vox aborts immediately. He shrugs a shoulder, his smile all charm. “Honestly, after all this time, I can't picture listening to them without you anyway.”

“Ah, still a smooth talker, I see…” Alastor’s gaze sweeps down Vox’s body with a smirk.

Vox doesn’t miss the appreciative glint in that look. He traces his palms over his sides and black slacks, an invitation, to see if he’d bite. But Alastor disappoints when he glances away, adjusting the sheet around his chest, the contrast of his red claws stark against the shimmering fabric. He looks cozy, his disheveled hair adding a sexy, billboard worthy charm, proving he doesn’t need tailored suits to shine. 

The shapeless linen flows around Alastor as his body is drawn in the direction of the whiskey decanter on the counter. He picks it up, and his fingers twitch, inching toward a crystal glass. 

A large hand envelops Alastor’s, stopping him. He leans in, feeling the warmth of Alastor’s back against his body. "You shouldn’t drink."

A defiant spark ignites in the radio demon’s eyes. "I will drink if I please."

Vox's grip tightens, his thumb brushing the back of Alastor's hand. "I know, just..." His voice drops to a plea. "Don’t." 

He doesn’t want to think about why.

The music drifts through the room, weaving past and present into a seamless, haunting melody. As the tension thickens, Alastor scowls, edging them closer to disaster. But then he sighs, setting the whiskey down with a soft clink of glass. “Well! This coffee of yours better be nothing short of spectacular."

“You’ll like it. I… I know you, Al.” It’s a deeper statement for him, this isn’t about fucking coffee, though he’s not sure Alastor catches the full meaning. He can almost see the bristling ghost of the arrogant demon who could command a room with a single smile. Neither of them were fond of not getting their way. 

“You used to play this song after your Overlord broadcasts," Vox breaks the tense silence, touch lingering before reluctantly releasing the radio demon’s hand. "You’d celebrate with rye and this on repeat." He swings open the refrigerator, a wave of cold air billowing out to kiss his bare chest as he searches through its contents.

Vox can hear the affection returning to Alastor’s tone. "Surprised you recall my dear, why, it's been ages~" His laughter bubbles up, "No wonder I craved a drink! You know what they say— old habits are like old shoes."

“‘Comforting but worn out?’ Not that I’ve ever heard anyone say that but you.” Vox grins over his shoulder, noticing Alastor’s curious look as he peeks into his fridge, stocked full with fresh ingredients. He doesn’t know they’re for the personal chef who prepares his dinners and Vox will keep it that way. The radio demon always scoffs at such extravagance. He never valued money; power is his currency— what he couldn’t conjure with his own magic, he always bartered with favors or fear. 

As Vox considers the ingredients, his thoughts drift. He always figured Alastor’s disdain for money was rooted in growing up before the Great Depression, while Vox’s family of farmers had been decimated by it and the dust bowl. The memory of losing everything as a child, of fighting for scraps to survive, shaped his every move in both lives.

Here in Hell, the struggle continued, a cruelly familiar narrative of starting over from desolation. Unlike Alastor, Vox hadn’t arrived blessed with innate power, and the glaring vulnerability of his glass face apparently begged for violence. His biomechanical nature made him a spectacle, something to be dehumanized and destroyed. Every milestone was marred by demons gleefully shattering his screen, trying to grind him back into the dirt where they believed he belonged. Not that Vox didn’t pay every one of them back, and then some.

So, yeah. He’d earned his personal chef, fuck you very much.

Vox glances back at Alastor, a living contradiction of his hatred and desires— another of his relentless drives for success is, in fact, showing him up.

The radio demon leans casually against the counter, watching him with a curious, playful expression. “Apples must be growing on orange trees, the picture box truly is a chef now?”

“C'mon, you can’t blame me for being a product of my time. Mom cooked, and then Joan took over until I died.” Vox waves the words away with a flick of his hand, as if the resurfacing memories were tangible shadows he could simply brush aside. “Credit where it’s due— you taught me first. But I’ve picked up some tricks since those early lessons. My cooking show is totally legit!” It actually wasn’t, but who was he to split hairs?

Alastor doesn’t bite on the banter, though. “Your wife… did she ever end up down here?”

The question surprises him. There were details around his death hidden even from Alastor— truths better left buried. “No, no… Joan… she was a good woman, she wouldn’t deserve this place.” His steel claws tap on the open fridge door like raindrops hitting a tin roof, before he silently closes it. “Victoria… she might still be alive. She was only nine when I…” A shadow of something unreadable crosses his face. “If she ends up here, who knows, maybe she’ll find it in her heart to forgive me for blowing my head off.”

Vox begins grabbing what he needs around the kitchen, trying not to think of the abysmal failure that tainted his old life. The bitter taste of it is a burnt residue clinging to him like a second skin. It never quite goes away, even as the years erase once treasured details. Joan… there is a blank space where her face should be, a shadow around smiling red lips. Even Victoria, he can’t quite picture her within one portrait. It is only snippets— the bounce of her dark curls as she ran into his arms, the way she’d grin when he lifted her high, her laughter bright and unrestrained, filling their home with a warmth that no amount of money could buy. He’d give anything to hear it again. 

That innocent joy sears through him, reminding him of the grim reality he left her behind in…

The room feels stifling, the walls pressing in as desperation tears at Vox’s mind. He instinctively taps into his notifications, seeking an escape in the digital noise. It’s a jolt to realize how many hours it’s been since he last checked his data feeds. Hundreds of notifications flood his backend processes, and he’s able to compartmentalize the majority of it in nanoseconds— contract reviews, scripts, rating reports, plans for new developments, commercial approvals, program pitches, it never ends. Outwardly he looks no different, simply going through the motions of his morning routine.

Valentino sent a text late last night— u watching Voxxy 🫦 any requests? — and Vox feels a sudden itch, gnawed by the thought of what he might have missed. It is a relief Val hadn’t shown up after his shoot, that would have been a fucking disaster. He responds with a vague excuse, and quickly messages his assistant to reschedule his day. 

He gets caught up in an amateur mistake marketing made and fires off a response in seconds before noticing Alastor staring at him. He’s holding out a mug of coffee, and it’s clear Vox has missed whatever he said.

Vox immediately silences all notifications and offers an apologetic smile as he takes the warm mug. Their fingers brush in the exchange, the touch lingering just enough to command his full attention before Alastor inevitably pulls away. 

The radio demon sips his coffee, savoring the taste with a lick of his lips. When he speaks, it is a merciful change of subject, with a smile. “So, what’s on the menu, cordon bleu?”

Vox is positive he can salvage the moment with a little charm and culinary magic, determined to make something perfect for Alastor. A quick search over the wireless won’t hurt, and he finds a fitting recipe, too. 

Alastor’s eyebrows arch in surprise at what Vox pulls from the fridge with a cocky grin and a bit of theatrical flare. “Fresh pineapple? In Hell?”

“It’s all about the right price for the prize, baby!” Pride practically inflates Vox’s chest, his broad shoulders squared confidently. 

“Of course it is,” Alastor mumbles, the flash of irritation lost on Vox who excitedly skins the fruit to offer a thin slice. He pierces the round cut on a red nail and slips the pineapple past his smiling teeth. 

“Oh,” Alastor gasps breathily, ears perking up. 

There’s a rush of affection in Vox, a feeling he’s certain no one else in Hell can evoke. The radio demon had no right to be so goddamn adorable. 

“You like that?” Vox pitches his voice low, he just can’t help himself. “Let me take it up a notch, cutes.” He leaves some slices with Alastor but separates the rest, tossing a bit of butter on each piece and seasons them with garlic, red pepper, paprika, and a pinch of salt.

“Cajun spices?” Alastor is peeking over, intrigued. He leans heavily on the counter, face propped in his hand, sheet slowly slipping off one shoulder.

Vox grins, pausing for effect with his hand held out before snapping his fingers. A spark of blue electricity arcs over the plate, searing the fruit with a sizzle. The butter melts instantly, bubbling with a rich, savory aroma that mingles with the tang of sharp ozone. His control over the current is precise as always, and as the last of the sparks fade, the pineapple slices are left with a beautifully caramelized surface, glistening with melted butter and spices.  

“Ever the showman~” Alastor breathes in the scent with an approving little hum. 

“I never do anything half-assed.” Vox slides the plate over, watching as the radio demon sinks his sharp fangs into the warm, spiced fruit. A soft sound escapes those lips and he closes his eyes, his expression sensual and stunning all at once. 

The wave of affection strikes again, along with that insatiable need for more. Vox circles the counter, grabbing Alastor’s chin to tug him into a kiss. Their tongues entwine, the flavors bursting— a harmonious blend of sweet and spicy, with the butter adding a rich creaminess that unites it all. 

Alastor breaks away to pop a claw through another piece, their eyes locked as he dips his finger into Vox’s mouth, pressing the fruit against his tongue. 

Then Alastor fucking kisses him, and moans. The sound vibrates through him like a sultry melody in a smoky lounge. 

He grips Alastor’s hair, holding him close as he takes his time, indulging in every moment, every taste they savor together. He feels talons at his waist as Alastor pulls until there’s no space left between them. The taste of the pineapple, the heat of their mouths, Alastor’s fingers digging into his hips— it all combines to create a heady rush that leaves Vox dizzy with want. 

Juices dribble down Alastor’s chin that Vox catches with his thumb, eyes intense with desire. He pushes his thumb past Alastor’s lips, loving the way his lips close around his finger, the subtle suction making his circuits buzz. 

Vox groans when Alastor’s tongue laps at the pad of his finger. “Well, well… L-look who’s getting distracted now?” 

Like clockwork, Alastor pulls away. Vox prefers to edge on purpose, but the rejection doesn’t feel as devastating when he notices the deer demon’s tail, swishing endearingly from side to side under the sheet. His claws flex, resisting the urge to yank on it. 

Alastor smirks over his shoulder as he picks up the plate. “Hands off! This masterpiece deserves my full attention.”

Vox sees his face light up at ‘masterpiece,’ the sudden brightness reflected in Alastor’s eyes. Stupid fucking thing. He abruptly turns away with a dismissive gesture. “Sit back and enjoy, then. Round two’s coming up.” 

Alastor settles by the tall windows in a tufted leather chair with an elegantly curved backrest. His face is bathed in the ambient glow from the cityscape of the Vee district, a chaotic blend of neon signs and shadowy alleys. It makes his ruby eyes shine and casts intricate, shifting patterns across the sheet that’s slipped completely off one shoulder. His side and a glimpse of his chest is revealed, the light cutting shadows into the contours of his ribs. 

His fluffy ears flick with each new flavor as he pops pieces into his mouth. Even eating with his hands, his movements still look graceful and proper, though his expressions range from thoughtful to euphoric as he savors each bite.

Vox stares for a long moment, eventually setting Alastor’s coffee mug on the small table next to the plate before dragging himself back to the kitchen. He barely remembers what he is supposed to be doing. He turns the stove on, deciding he’ll season and lightly sear a steak. He knows what Alastor likes, and plans to deliver.   

The sizzle of the pan mingles with the soft music. Vox’s attention drifts, finding it difficult to focus with Alastor’s long, appreciative sighs and hums filling the room. He imagines fucking him against that window, swallowing those breathy moans.  

Even when turned away, Vox is hyper aware of Alastor’s gaze, following his every move. He relies on his tech, seeing the weight of Alastor’s stare through the screens in the room— mostly via the currently useless cameras and the small TV mounted in the kitchen. He takes in the way Alastor’s eyes skim over his shoulders, down the muscles of his back, watching him work with his hands. Every glance from the radio demon feels like a reward, memories to be hoarded with the rest.

He turns around, catching Alastor’s eyes quickly flicking away, feigning interest in Hell’s landscapes outside the window. “Enjoying the view?” 

“Oh, without a doubt,” Alastor’s expression has a glimmer of mischief as he closes his lips around the last piece of pineapple, his tongue drawing it in slowly, teasingly. 

Vox’s throat tightens as he forces himself to look away. Absently, he runs his palm over the back of his head, feeling the textured lines of scratches from Alastor’s claws. He smiles, tracing one all the way to the edge. Then his internal timer beeps, and he turns off the stove and quickly cubes the steak. It’s a deliberate choice, imagining Alastor eating more with his hands— and places the plate on the coffee table in front of the couch. This, too, is intentional; he wants Alastor as close as possible.

The smoky scent of meat draws the radio demon like a starved man to a feast. Vox sits with one hand resting on his thigh, the other stretching out along the back of the couch. It takes conscious effort not to immediately crowd Alastor when he sits down, the sheet still acting as a protective barrier. Even under the loose fall of it, Vox can tell he’s crossed his legs elegantly. One hoof is visible, suspended in the air, red and striking against the silvers of the sheet.

“My ankles, Vox? Really?” Alastor sounds amused as he pulls the plate into his lap, leaning comfortably against the couch cushions. “What is this, a Victorian novel?”

Vox chuckles, watching the way Alastor's ears twitch in delight at the taste of the rare, bloody meat. “In my defense, they are delicate looking ankles.”

Alastor wrinkles his nose adorably at the word ‘delicate,’ as if it chafes. He sighs, yet the sound is sweet, as he pops another bite in his mouth. “Of all the eras, you chose the most tedious for roleplay.”

Vox blinks at Alastor’s words, the surprise quickly overridden by his trademark cackle of a laugh. "Ohhoho! If you don’t like that, we can play the fantasy angle. I’m told I’d make a handsome prince."

“Oh, darling~” A gleeful smile as the demon’s eyes snap to radio dials, like vertical pupils. "Only if I’m the dragon."

“And the prince,” A snicker wheezes from Vox’s throat, “gets to plunder the dragon's cave?"

Alastor snorts, throwing his arm out to whack Vox’s screen playfully, laughing so hard he almost chokes. "Ah! A saucy tale, then, is it?" 

“The trashiest of romances,” Vox leans closer, feeling a contented warmth spreading through his belly. “They’ll have me on the cover, shirtless, all rippling muscles."

"Such vivid imagery." The claw of his pinky is trapped between his grinning teeth. The sharp glint of them streaked with blood makes Vox’s pulse jump.

"And of course, I’ll be riding you as a salacious double entendre." Vox hooks a piece of steak on a claw and teases it against Alastor’s giggling lips. Ruby eyes dance with mischievous joy as he opens his mouth, allowing himself to be fed. 

Vox feeds him another bite, captivated by the sight of Alastor’s sharp teeth sinking into the meat. He imagines them on his skin, the delicious danger of it. He inhales a sharp breath as a warm, slick tongue grazes his finger when he draws the steak into his mouth.

As Alastor licks his lips, a pleased hum vibrates from his throat, and Vox feels privileged to witness the primal satisfaction in his expression. It stirs something territorial in him. He tries to focus. “And what, might I ask, would your dragon name be?”

Alastor dabs at his mouth with the edge of the sheet like it’s a napkin, the laughter barely restrained. "Ralph."

"Such a noble name, how could I resist?" Vox purrs, lifting Alastor’s hand to his lips to pepper his dark knuckles with kisses. 

The radio demon’s grin is radiant, a burst of sunlight that makes his eyes shine. "Charmed." 

Vox is eager when Alastor holds out some steak, his expression playful yet intense as he watches Vox take it in. The taste floods his senses, tender and juicy, and he sucks Alastor's lingering fingers clean. Jesus Lucifer Christ, Alastor doesn’t look away. 

"Now I’m, uh, invested," Vox tries to keep the joke going, basking in the moment. This connection, it’s everything he’s ever wanted. If only he could keep Alastor forever, just like this. 

"What fate awaits our flat-faced hero?" A wicked smile plays on Alastor’s blood stained lips.

The banter tapers off, because Vox is barely able to pay attention anymore. The way Alastor devours his meal, the carnal pleasure in his expression, holds him spellbound. It reminds him of other times he’s seen Alastor feed— blood dripping down his chin, those smiling teeth and talons caked in the viscera of unlucky demons. The way Alastor licks his lips, each flex of his jaw, the tilt of his head to expose his throat when he swallows— it’s a performance, a siren’s call.

Alastor sucks the tips of his fingers, his ruby eyes catching the light, glowing like smoldering embers. The sight of his tongue tracing the curve of the plate, his lips glistening… it all drives Vox wild. 

"You really are something else," Vox murmurs, his voice low and thick with desire.

How many times had he fantasized about the two of them together? The number is impossible to know, but it had been as recent as yesterday. Sitting alone in the Panopticon, surrounded by monitors, he’d desperately searched out any glimpse of Alastor’s commanding presence on the recorded feeds. 

It had been so long since he’d seen him. 

And Vox had touched himself. The thought of Alastor’s warm breath against his skin, the imagined weight of his body, teased him until he was trembling with need. The taste of Alastor's name, whispered into the empty room, felt forbidden when he let it purr across old frequencies…

"Did you hear me, yesterday?" Vox asks suddenly as the realization strikes him. Alastor glances at him, but he doesn’t look perplexed. He doesn’t have to ask what he means. 

The truth of it makes Vox’s tongue press hungrily against the back of his teeth. 

Vox shifts closer, pressing flush against Alastor's side, feeling the heat of him seep through the thin fabric. Stretching his arm along the back of the couch, he lightly grazes the nape of Alastor’s neck, watching him shiver in response.

Vox can feel the promise of what could be if he’s brave enough to reach for it. “I wanna know how it felt…” he murmurs, his fingers sliding into his hair, silky and cool against his fingers. “Tell me, Alastor.” 

Alastor’s chest rises and falls more noticeably as Vox’s grip tightens, the pull of it forcing his head back. “A vibration, intensifying with every second,” He breathes, fangs bared in a pant. “Like you were whispering in my ear.”

Alastor had felt him come, his name coded all over the airwaves like a swoon. Vox’s heart races at the thought, blood and electricity pulsing through his veins. Fuck. 

“Is that why you came to me?” Vox’s claws hover at the edge of the sheet, grazing the fabric before he slowly pulls it down, revealing Alastor's skin inch by delicious inch. 

“Could be,” Alastor’s lips curl into a sharper smile, but the flush on his cheeks betrays any nonchalance. The sheet pools at his hips as Vox traces small circles down his chest, feeling the way his muscles tighten under his touch. “I thought, perhaps, you’d finally mustered the courage to confess your pathetic little feelings.”

The bite in Alastor’s words is a thin veneer over telltale apprehension, a familiar, protective shield. “Heh. Nice try.” Vox tries to push past the spike of irritation, running his large hand over the defined lines of his rib cage, his cool, metallic fingers contrasting with the warmth of Alastor’s skin.

“Anyway. What use are words to us?” Vox whispers, and it feels like a confession, a gamble. He needs it to be enough… wishing, wishing. “It’s more than I could ever say.” 

The moment Alastor begins to crumble, he arches into the cradle of Vox’s palm with a sneer. “Then prove it, you coward.”

With a sudden, forceful grip, Vox yanks Alastor’s head back by an antler, creating enough space for him in the enticing curve of his neck. He holds him there, tracing claw tips down the line of his throat, feeling the tremors as he follows with his tongue. His expression turns wicked as he nips at his neck, his grazing fangs suddenly laced with arcs of bright blue current. 

“A-ah—” Alastor rasps through static, trembling from the short crackle of electricity that sweeps between them. 

Vox’s lips seal over the tender spot, sucking hard. Then he lets it build again, sparks dancing through his tongue and teeth to pop and snap against his skin. Alastor clings to his broad shoulders, his beautiful body shuddering with each jolt. Vox can feel the jump of his pulse on his tongue as he does it again and again, forcing the volts to flash through the same paths every time. It spiderwebs out from his kiss, a lichtenberg figure cutting across the skin of one collarbone. Licking the light electrical burn on Alastor’s neck, he savors the scent of ozone and the taste of copper with a groan. He knows he’s marked the radio demon in a way that will last. 

When Alastor leaves him, it will linger for days. A brand, undeniably his. 

“I wanna fuck you.” Vox’s tone is dark, hungry.

A low, anxious sound escapes from Alastor that his clenched teeth are unable to suppress.

“Never been fucked before, baby?” Vox nips his jaw, eyes gleaming as he watches the flicker of nervous uncertainty dance across Alastor's features. His shark tooth grin widens, “Who’s the coward now?” 

He can hear the grind of those deadly teeth, feel the swell of the antler’s growth in his fist. Alastor tries to jerk free, his long, razor fingernails biting deep into his forearm, releasing streams of blood and neon coolant like rivulets bursting from a hidden reservoir.

But that’s where it ends. The struggle is a weak attempt, a push for power over submission, an embrace of rage over old fears. 

A front for his ego. 

A battle for control Alastor doesn’t want to win. 

Vox shoves him back into the cushions, too easily, wincing as those talons rake down his arm. “Ow, fu— fuck, calm down.” He growls, shaking off the grip. He braces his weight on Alastor’s shoulders from where he leans above, holding him down with both hands. His eyes, glowing with a red and electric cyan, linger over Alastor's body, heavy with promise. “Look, doll, there’s nothing to worry about. I’ll treat you right.”

The air around Alastor grows darker, more dense. “Remember what I said about knowing when to shut your mouth?” 

“You started it.” Vox huffs, lifting Alastor’s chin with a knuckle to capture his lips in a surprisingly tender kiss. 

Alastor jerks his face away, expression burning like a dare, but the defiance is cracked at the edges, in the clench of his trembling fingers on the armrest. Vox smirks with knowing hooded eyes, holding his face still when he kisses him again. They groan and hiss into each other’s mouths as Alastor’s sharp nails hook into the muscles of his shoulders, digging deep. A wordless bid for control, trying to piss him off, to drive him away, to see how far he can push.

Searching for another way to hurt each other.

Vox ignores the pain, fingers rubbing gentle patterns into Alastor’s neck and shoulder, teasing the inside of his mouth with slow, passionate licks that savor the metallic tang on their tongues.

“Fuck, I need this, need you,” Vox can’t hide the truth of it. He pushes, each touch a silent plea for a deeper connection, something real, to prove to this stubborn bastard it didn’t need to be a fight.

The tension between them is a taut wire, and slowly, Alastor begins to vibrate. When their lips break apart, Vox watches him drag that tongue along his aching forearm, licking up his blood. Oh yes. Another clash of teeth as he draws out every soft sigh, and with every hint of a moan, Vox chases the man he’s always wanted to be for Alastor. 

Maybe he’s still old fashioned. With Valentino and Velvette— dysfunctional, but his— he's the anchor, the provider, the one who keeps everything perfect. There is an undeniable part of him that likes that, that craves to be the one Alastor relies on. But Alastor resents needing others and lashes out against even the most fleeting surrender. He’ll never fully let Vox in, and it only makes the endless, desperate gnawing worse. 

“Please, just… tell me, Al, tell me if it’s too much, alright?" Vox whispers, their breaths hot against each other’s lips. When he tries to pull away, Alastor’s grip tightens, claws digging in with desperate reluctance. It isn’t until Vox’s fingers brush across Alastor’s slender wrists that he releases him, as if he hadn’t been fully aware of holding on.

Vox lets his body slide down the length of Alastor’s, to kneel on the floor between his legs. Alastor’s heated gaze pins him, and he arches so beautifully into the touch when his hands travel up his thighs. The neon lights from outside paint Alastor’s skin in a vivid, dreamlike palette, making the moment feel even more surreal. 

He’s going to give Alastor everything. A taste of the life they could have.

Chapter Text

“You look incredible,” Vox’s hands glide up Alastor’s chest, tracing the defined lines of muscle and bone, teasing a nipple with a flick of his claws. Alastor’s body stretches out on the couch before him, seated low so his hips are perched at the edge of the cushion. Light shifts and plays across his skin, accentuating every breath, every quiver, and etching high contrast lines into the taut fabric across his narrow hips.

His boxer briefs cling to his thighs, framing the inviting gap between them. Vox shifts closer where he kneels on the floor, eagerly filling that space, his breath coming heavy at how good it feels to press against him. He’s irresistibly drawn to the outline of Alastor’s cock. He palms that delicious curve through the tight fabric, feeling the heat of him seeping through. Alastor’s hips cant upward with a soft, tapering growl as he swells and stiffens under his touch. 

A claw, appearing neon in the dim light, hooks into his waistband and tugs down, exposing the sharp angles of Alastor’s hollow hip bones. He pulls a little more, creating a deep V that frames Alastor’s dick as it springs free. His long legs instinctively press together and raise up, just enough to obscure the view.

“You won’t let me see?” Vox teases, a playful smirk dancing on his lips at Alastor’s sudden bashfulness. 

“And spoil the mystery?” Alastor tries to play off a joke despite the nervous trill in his tone. 

“Hate to break it to you doll, but you’ve already cum in my mouth.” His chuckle is deep and rumbling, but when Alastor still doesn’t move, he scoops his legs up impatiently, propping them both on one shoulder. 

There is a literal squeak that sounds. Alastor grumbles at Vox’s peal of laughter. “Do try not to look so pleased with yourself, darling. It’s unbecoming."

“Ha! I plan on being very pleased tonight.” Vox flashes that charming showman’s smile at Alastor’s half hearted glare, his strong hands stroking along the curves of Alastor’s thighs.

The radio demon is a canvas of contrasts— his forearms and the skin below his knees look like twilight swallowing daylight, trailing darkness with every gesture. Vox traces those velvety transitions from human flesh to demonic traits, down to his elegant cloven hooves. They are as mesmerizing and menacing as his claws, embodying the duality that defines Alastor. 

With the care of a man wary of spooking a wild creature, he slowly eases the last of Alastor’s clothing off his legs. He honestly can’t remember the last time he touched someone so carefully. Val didn’t need careful and neither did he. Most demons weren’t concerned with gentle touches. There was something precious about Alastor, in his discomfort, in being so strong and confident yet utterly lost in this one thing.

Vox brings his teasing smile to his calf, pressing kisses there. “You know, there’s plenty to see back here, Al.” With both of his knees held in one hand, Vox pushes those legs forward, hitching them up closer to Alastor's chest. The position creates that exquisite view he loves so much— the swishing tail and the curve of his ass are a sight to behold. His balls are fuzzy, full and round, a perfect compliment to the taut lines of his body. His perineum is a soft, darker hue, contrasting with his pale thighs pressed close around it. 

“Helluva view,” Vox slaps his palm against that ass and squeezes, smirking when Alastor arches away with a gasp. 

Honestly, he expected to get a hoof to the face. But then the radio demon, who wears his suits and layers like armor, slowly parts his legs, baring everything for him. He looks away, ears lowered, and it’s profound— for the trust it implies, for the risk Alastor is taking. This isn't just physical; it can’t be, not for Alastor. It's an emotional unveiling, another layer of the walls between them coming down. 

He feels the weight of this trust. The gravity of Alastor spread out beneath him. A vision Vox wants to guard jealously.

Vox can’t resist pressing his hips to Alastor’s bare skin, though he’s still confined in his slacks, so hard he aches. He groans his approval at that welcome pressure, drinking in every detail in the stretch of Alastor’s long limbs, reveling in the trembling softness of his thighs. Reflections ripple from the wall length aquarium, contrasting with the urban neon lights and caressing Alastor’s body like a lover. 

Vox leans in, placing a soft kiss to the inside of Alastor’s knee. His eyes never leave his face as he licks a path along his thigh, savoring the way the radio demon shivers beneath his touch. Every flick of his tongue, every gentle nip, elicits a small, involuntary reaction that spurs Vox on.

“You’re fucking gorgeous Al, absolutely sinful.” Vox murmurs against Alastor’s skin, his voice low and reverent. 

“And you, ah— you’re insufferable.” The sass is pierced by a soft, almost inaudible moan, his head tipping back against the couch. Vox can see the struggle in his expression, the battle between desire and the ingrained instinct to maintain control. He wants to break through that barrier, to show Alastor that surrender can be sweet.

Spreading his legs with firm hands behind his knees, Vox sucks a bruise onto the soft skin of Alastor's upper thigh. He licks the tender juncture where leg meets groin, sending another gentle tingle of electricity through his tongue to test the waters. The way Alastor rears up to clutch at his shoulders is tight and desperate, and Vox steadies him, his hands a deep blue against Alastor’s creamy skin, feeling the tremors shake out of his muscles. “You like it when I do that, doll?” 

“Quite the… the surprise,” Alastor moans, falling back against the couch, “I… never imagined it could feel like this...”  

An ecstatic, giddy excitement arcs through Vox. The current is an inseparable part of him, as integral as the grid that powers the city, and Alastor’s response to it fills him with a strange sense of acceptance. The sound he makes against Alastor’s hot skin is heartfelt, humming like a cello’s deepest strings. 

“There’s more I wanna show you.” Vox whispers greedily, tugging Alastor closer to the edge of the couch to swipe his smooth, long tongue from his balls to the tip of his pretty dick. He groans at how good his skin tastes, peppering eager wet kisses along the length of him. His searching hands dip low, squeezing his ass, his thumb caressing his perineum with firm circles. He continues when Alastor tenses, but carefully gauges the uncertainty in the lines of his body.

One hand slides up to take Alastor in hand, fist tight but pumping nice and slow, just enough to keep the pleasure constant and distracting. Licking his lips, Vox slips the tip of his tongue from the fluff of that precious little deer tail to his entrance. Alastor immediately tries to close his legs with a skittish, shivery jerk, but Vox holds him steady, drawing soothing circles on his thigh. “Trust me, Alastor… trust me.”

Vox squeezes the base of Alastor’s cock as he licks him, feeling him shake, sucking in breaths that shudder back out. He sounds so fucking sexy. When his tongue slips just inside, Vox’s hips stutter with anticipation, thrusting against the air, craving that tight heat squeezing all around him. 

Thank you God, for this. Fuck, he’s already on his knees, he might as well pray. 

Lewd moans vibrate out of Vox as he indulges, his spit slicking the way. Alastor whimpers, the soft sound fraught with conflicting emotions, so fragile, like he can’t believe the pleasure he feels. With each slow, languid stroke, he pushes a little deeper, allowing Alastor the time he needs to adjust. The muscle of his tongue is long and thick, and he’ll make sure Alastor is ready for every inch, teasing the promise of something far more filling. 

If only he had pressed his fingers inside Alastor while blowing him earlier. Hit him with the electric pulse only Vox could provide. He wants Alastor to crave it all, to feel empty without him, unable to satisfy himself alone. He needs him to come back for more.

With a growl, he jerks him off faster, gripping his hip to hold him still as his tongue dances little twists and circles inside him, a rhythm exactly where Alastor needs it. He feels his cock twitch and pulse in his hand. Oh, he likes that. 

He revels in how Alastor bucks beneath him, tearing at the armrest, failing to stifle every needy sound that spills from his mouth. 

Alastor’s hands jump to Vox’s screen, instinctively tugging him forward, encouraging him, unabashed, desperate. Static pulses from Vox’s tongue, a delicate buzz inside that makes Alastor jerk, with a tiny, involuntary yip. Vox sees him bite his lip, trying to hold it in, but he cries so sweetly as his head tosses back against the cushions. He’d made men come untouched this way before and it’s so tempting to give him that. Alastor already can’t stop moving, twisting, gyrating, and so he gives just a little more.

Lost in pleasure so great, Alastor’s body locks up as if struck by lightning. He cries out with a long, high pitched moan like it was straight out of a porno. 

That’s when Vox pulls out, easing off his cock with a few more loose, leisurely strokes, his palm wet with his precum. 

“Ahh, ah, Vox, no~” Alastor whines, frustrated, angry. He looks dazed, wild eyed, a faint, rosy hue dusting his skin from his high cheekbones to his chest. His breaths come in ragged gasps, cut by each kiss and nip Vox delivers to his shuddering thighs. 

Rising from between Alastor's legs like a shark breaking the water’s surface, Vox's eyes are ravenous, burning with insatiable hunger. His sharp teeth, lethal and glistening, catch the light with his wicked grin, every inch of him radiating want. 

Alastor’s talons flex convulsively on the shredded armrest, kneading the soft filling absently, like a cat. His panting lips are parted, the tip of his red tongue visible as he watches Vox with a focused stare. 

The upholstery tears as Alastor pulls his hand free, hiding his smile almost shyly under his trembling fingers. “Show it to me.” He demands breathlessly, trying to mask his nerves with boldness. His eyes linger down Vox’s body, then back up to his face pointedly, mustering that old, brassy charm. “Tit for tat, darling.” 

The metallic clink of Vox’s claws resonates through the room as he works open his belt buckle. He catches the twitch of Alastor’s arm, almost reaching out as Vox undoes the button of his pants, the drag of the zipper tantalizingly audible. Alastor stays put, panting, his curious ruby eyes, half lidded and dark with anticipation, following Vox's every movement.

His hand slips underneath the waistband, stomach muscles tensing at the brush of his fingers. As he shoves the fabric down, his grip tightens around his thick, dark blue cock, sliding over the cerulean tip and textured veins. A deep moan rumbles out of him as he strokes himself with one long, indulgent pull. His steel claws ring against two frenum piercings, drawing Alastor’s wide eyed gaze to the sleek metal studs glinting in the dim light, aligned in a row along the underside.

Alastor's breath catches at the sight. 

“It’ll feel great, don’t be nervous,” Vox murmurs softly, but that wicked glint still reflects in his sharp toothed smile as he clinks his claws against the piercings purposefully. 

“When…” Alastor’s voice is quiet, nearly lost in static, “…when did you get those?”

Vox’s eyes narrow with curiosity, searching the radio demon’s face. “What do you mean, when?” 

It clicks with Vox when Alastor reacts with wide eyes and a soft, nervous laugh. He slides back between Alastor’s legs and stretches over him, hands braced on either side of his slender hips. “Al. When did you ever see my dick?”

The scent of Alastor’s nervousness is intoxicating. 

“Don’t be preposterous! I-I… never did,” Alastor insists, still panting out his need. When Vox only smiles knowingly, his ruby eyes skip around the living room, as if searching for an acceptable excuse. “If I did, it’s because we must have— at some point— changed in front of each other, or—?”

“Nope.” Vox pops the ‘p’ for emphasis, his fingers trailing up Alastor’s side, leaving goosebumps in their wake.

“What exactly are you implying?” Alastor laughs in disbelief, but he’s crumbling, shivering. Vox hums smugly, anchoring Alastor’s thighs and tugging him to the teetering edge of the couch, balanced against the flush press of his hips.

It’s the first touch of their bodies with nothing between them. “It’s hardly my fault~” Alastor gasps, his legs trembling and kicking weakly. “When I visited from the shadows, you were…”

Vox’s need is rubbing against the tender, soft crease of the radio demon’s upper thigh. “Hmmhm.” He strokes his hand down Alastor’s chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart. “Was I jerking off, Alastor?” 

“It was purely accidental—” Alastor insists desperately, squirming under Vox’s touch, his red face betraying his embarrassment while his body communicated something else entirely.

“Did you stay though, see me finish?” The shark like smirk is all confidence as he watches Alastor’s eyes fret to both sides, never quite looking at him.

With a low, husky timbre, Vox leans in close, forcing their eyes to lock. “Guess I’m not the only one who likes to watch.”

Alastor's lips part, but his defense dissolves into a moan as Vox rolls his hips, their cocks trapped between the delicious heat of their bodies. Alastor’s hands fly to grasp at his sides, nails curling around to his lower back, fingers trembling.

Alastor’s blush deepens, reaching all the way to his collarbones, but his expression, he looks… absolutely mortified.

Vox reels himself in, the muscles in his arms flexing as he supports his weight just above him, his cock still resting heavy against Alastor’s flat stomach, but he doesn’t push, he doesn’t grind. The tension in his muscles betrays his struggle to hold back, but his voice is gentle. “Alastor… I think it’s hot, don’t be embarrassed.” 

He is, though. Vox can read the shame cooling the heat in his ruby eyes. “It was only… that one time.” He can tell it cost Alastor something to admit it was true, his ears dropping to the sides as he looks away. “You’ve always made me… incredibly curious. I did… want to see.”

Vox's breath catches, and it’s as if the ground shifts beneath his knees, unbalancing him. The truth crashes over him, the admission throwing the conversation earlier into stark relief— I was working up to it. I do care. I didn’t want to lose you.

“You actually… liked me, didn’t you?” Vox swallows hard, his voice trembling, a barely there whisper. “Back then, Al, you…”

Alastor's lips part again, but quickly press into a thin, subdued smile. His narrowed eyes flick away, and he huffs out a sigh. “You never listen.” 

Vox's mind races back to every interaction, every sarcastic quip, every lingering glance. His circuits buzz with a dizzying array of emotions, the foundations of his convictions quake. He watched me. He wanted me— an unbearable implication, too much to process. Alastor never outright said anything; a master of ambiguity, dancing around truths with that infuriating smile. It’s always been impossible to pin him down— so how could Vox had known what he felt? 

But back then, if… if Alastor had truly been ‘working up to it,’ then Vox… he’d rained ruin down on everything. He had destroyed something precious, something he’d desperately wanted that could’ve been real, shattering it all to pieces. 

Suffocating guilt crowds his mind with reminders of that terrible night. The dark bedroom, the look on Alastor’s face when he realized…

A whine escapes, a sound so raw and pitiful Vox wishes he could swallow it back down. He tries to forget he heard it, any of it, tries to push the thoughts away to focus on the beautiful distraction in front of him. He can’t lose himself in this. He can’t ruin it again. Yet the dread of the inevitable hangs over him. The obsessive ruminations that he knew would come twisting inside him like a blade in his belly.

Vox tries to smile, but it wavers, strained at the edges. Reaching up, he holds the back of Alastor's neck and rests his screen gently against his forehead. It is the closest to a nuzzle he can get. 

“I…” The pressure builds until Vox can’t contain it, his voice cracking under the weight. “I’m listening now.”

It’s too late.  

Three decades of ruin crushes him.

The soft pad of Alastor’s thumb touches a watery droplet forming near the corner of Vox's digital eye. He brushes away real wetness on the glass.

Vox recoils sharply, “Don’t! I-I’m not— fucking stop it!” He snaps, voice shaky, too ashamed to look Alastor in the eye. Frantically, he presses the heel of his palm against his screen, wiping away the tears, along with all thoughts and pain and everything else.  

Desperation floods him, and he grabs onto the one thing that feels real and grounding— Alastor. He kisses him fiercely, rubbing on him, losing his confusion in the warmth of Alastor’s body, until every inch of his skin hums. 

It's not enough.

Vox can’t focus. He wants, oh, how much he wants. But it all feels wrong. He gets hung up on every tremble, every micro expression, every uncomfortable twist of Alastor’s ears sends his mind spiraling. Did Alastor hate this? Was it too much like back then?

Vox’s breath comes in short, sharp gasps, desperate for air that never seems to deliver. His chest heaves, his lungs burn, and the room feels like it’s closing in. He blinks rapidly against the threat of tears, but it’s a losing battle. He feels like the most unsexy thing in all of Hell. If Val were here, he'd laugh him out of his bed.

“Vox,” Alastor’s voice cuts through the haze, even and sure. His hands circle Vox’s neck and he pulls him closer, not strangling, but strangely gentle— caressing, cradling. Vox’s breaths are shallow, rapid, but he can’t breathe— 

“Vox, look at me.”

Alastor’s voice is a lifeline. Vox clings to it, locking his gaze onto the radio demon’s face. He’s smiling, always fucking smiling. It’s maddening, that constant grin. How is he supposed to tell how he feels— how is he supposed to know, when he never stops smiling? When he never says what he means? What if— what if-  

Alastor could always read him. "Do you truly believe I’d waste my time, if I didn’t want to be here? I’m well aware of what to expect." His thumb strokes his throat tenderly, right below his Adam’s Apple, and he swallows. There’s far too many memories of them trying to kill each other for his instincts to reconcile.

“I wanted it to be you.” Alastor confesses, his tone uncharacteristically soft, almost shy. He looks away, ears low, as if admitting this pains him.

“Why?” Vox's breath hitches, and his chest still burns. It can’t be true. Alastor never says what he means. The radio demon always lies, as a rule.

“It seemed only fair.” Alastor's fingers trail along the edge of Vox’s face with a hesitant tenderness. “That it be you.” 

“There’s nothing fair, after I— what I did.” Vox's voice breaks like the words tear painfully from his throat. “Alastor. I meant it when I said, I—”

“I’ve already told you, I believe you.” Alastor holds Vox’s face gently as his long legs wrap tightly around him, drawing their bodies close. 

Vox hisses out a breath at the hot press of their skin, his hips snapping forward despite himself— and it feels so good. He hates himself for it.

“You forgive me?” Vox's eyes shine with uncertainty. His plea is fragile, selfish. He needs to hear it again. 

“I want you.” Alastor doesn’t give him the answer he needs. 

Vox whimpers, pushing past the pain to capture that smiling mouth in a demanding kiss. The corded muscles of his arms and shoulders flex as he bares down, grinding against Alastor, the rub of their bodies slow but intense. Slender, powerful arms wrap around Vox, clinging to his broad shoulders like ivy. It would have to be enough. His hands roam urgently, trying to replace tainted memories with new ones. Please just let it be enough. 

It’s not. 

“Y-you mean that?”

“I do.” Alastor’s static vibrates against Vox’s lips. But there’s something hidden in Alastor’s eyes, in his smile, isn’t there? There always is. That’s another rule. 

Vox’s mind churns with doubt, fear gnawing at the edges of his desire. “Touch me,” he whispers, his voice choked with desperation. “You haven’t, and if— if you actually— please Alastor, just touch me.”

And Alastor does.

His warm hands trace the lines of Vox’s chest and down his quivering stomach, the sharp tips of his claws grazing that vulnerable skin like a whispered threat. Alastor’s touch is a paradox, his hands crafted for inflicting pain, yet now they explore with an unexpected tenderness, a rejection of their true nature. 

By the time Alastor’s slender fingers brush against his cock, Vox is shaking, moans shuddering from his lips. Alastor traces down one of the raised veins to touch the piercings, circling them with mindful claw tips. Hesitantly, Alastor’s hand closes around the thick base, squeezing lightly, before dragging agonizingly slow upward. 

“This… isn't exactly my area of expertise.” Alastor admits, his voice an embarrassed whisper, tinged with uncertainty.

“It’s okay. It’s good. It’s good.” Vox breathes, eyes fluttering shut, his body responding in ways he can't control. Alastor's touch, even tentative, is intoxicating. “It's you, that’s all that matters. Just… mmm— yeah, like that.”

The stroke of Alastor’s hand is measured, each movement filled with a gentle tenderness that makes Vox’s heart ache. “Even if I bumble my way through, I…” Alastor leans up, pressing his lips to Vox’s glass face, sincerity in his ruby eyes. “I'd like to make you feel good.”

“You are,” Vox gasps, his body trembling over Alastor, muscles strained with the intensity of his emotions. “You are.”

The grip of Alastor’s legs tightens, his lithe body arching beautifully. His other hand roams over Vox’s body, soothing the tense lines of his muscles, lingering on his defined biceps and squeezing. He actually moans, and damn if that isn't the best compliment he's ever received. 

He wants nothing more than to be inside Alastor, to finally get exactly what he needs, but he knows this is a delicate moment. He doesn’t want to overwhelm Alastor, to give too much, too soon. This is good, he tells himself, and it’s true. This is enough.

Vox shudders with a sharp gasp when Alastor’s thumb brushes over the head. “Yeaah, Al, I—” His voice breaks, a plea for more, for nothing, for everything. The rhythm of Alastor’s hand quickens, becoming more confident, more purposeful. Vox’s breaths come with deep, desperate groans as he pumps into the warmth of Alastor’s tight fist. 

Alastor traces the arch of Vox’s back before settling with purpose on his hips. He brings him closer with a flex of his strong legs and the pull of his talons, reducing the space between them to nothing. “Please,” the radio demon arches, canting his hips up, rubbing their hard cocks together. His head lulls back against the couch cushions, lips falling open in a soundless cry. 

Vox would give him anything. “I’ll make it up to you, Al, let me—” He gets lost in the grind of their bodies. He wraps him up in his arms, both hands squeezing Alastor's ass and drawing him into every thrust with a hungry, commanding intensity. It's enough to erase it all— the feel of Alastor’s hardness against his own, the sound of them moving together, thick with their heavy breathing and the subtle, rhythmic creaking of the couch. 

“Vox~” Alastor cries out and he can't fucking believe how wonderful his name sounds in that breathy voice. Alastor’s guard is completely down, and he sees the man beneath the demon— the man he’s always wanted to meet.

“Yes, yes,” Vox’s big hand traces up the elegant dip of Alastor’s side to curl around a waist so thin, his cyan tipped fingers nearly encircle it completely. “Ah fuck.” 

Bioluminescent circuitry pulses faintly under his skin, illuminating the dark blues of Vox’s body like the eerie glow of the sharks in the tank behind them. He catches Alastor watching him, his palms skimming the circuits, his eyes alight with wonder.

Glancing down, Vox can see their precum smeared onto his abs, pale against his dark skin. Jesus Lucifer Christ, Vox presses his face against Alastor’s shoulder, the familiar scent grounding him as he breathes it in deeply. He licks him with a groan, loving the taste of his salty sweat. 

A sharp, keening whine of staticy feedback escapes Alastor’s lips, those claws hooked deep in his back, and the scent of sex, the pleasure, everything is a sensory overload. He’s going to come so hard. Fuck, and he’s close. 

“Ahh-lastor,” Vox growls out his ecstasy with powerful thrusts forceful enough to move the couch. Each one is accompanied by deep, rumbling grunts that Alastor swallows in a kiss. His body tenses, locking his muscles tight as hot ropes of come shoot across their chests, marking Alastor with every pulsing wave of his climax, again and again.

For a moment, everything stills. Vox's mind is a blissful haze, simultaneously cleansed and desolate. It's as though someone has swept through his thoughts, clearing out the cobwebs and clutter, leaving him bare of the past. The world narrows to the sensation of Alastor’s body against his, the slick warmth between them, and the lingering taste of the kiss they share. He feels weightless, filled with a deep satisfaction that thrums through his circuits like the electric veins of the city all around him.

But Alastor hasn’t come yet, and he’s crying out, jerking his hips in aborted little thrusts, his ruby eyes pleading, utterly desperate. Vox finally releases his tiny waist, his skin banded in red marks from where he held on too tight. He rubs them apologetically then draws his hand through the thick come on his chest, coating his fingers. 

Vox’s hand slips between Alastor’s trembling thighs, swiping wet strokes across his entrance before pushing in a thick finger. Alastor gasps, and he’s so hot inside, his muscles tightening so fucking good around him. Vox groans, leaning back to watch his come drip down off his working fingers. God, that’s perfect. Then Alastor reaches down to paw at his dick, and isn’t that a sight, too.

With no recording, Vox has to see everything. He can’t afford to take his eyes off him, his gaze roaming hungrily from Alastor’s cock up his body. “Give me those eyes,” He murmurs, brushing Alastor’s sweat slicked hair out of his handsome face, “let me see the heat get to you.” And there he is, his dark lashes fluttering, his reddened lips, the flush of his skin, the arch of his slender neck bared, the brand he left snaking down to his collarbone. 

Vox grins devilishly, leaning closer until his breath is hot against Alastor’s lips. “You will feel me,” he warns, his voice low and rough. He curls his fingers inside him, sending a rhythmic, pulsing current to dance along Alastor's nerves. He’s careful, the electricity just enough to make him writhe with sensation.

The music Alastor has been playing starts to cut out, popping and skipping like a damaged record. He’s close, Vox can feel it, the tension coiling tighter with each passing second. The fragmented melody becomes a backdrop to his high pitched whimpers, and it’s the hottest, most intimate track he’s ever heard. 

Alastor’s searching hands clutch at Vox’s forearms, holding on. The moment he comes, he’s breathless, quiet. His hooves curl, his back freezes in a graceful arch, his lips fall open without a sound. Eyes tightly shut, he comes all over his shuddering stomach without even touching himself. For a heartbeat, he’s suspended in tension before his muscles give and he goes limp in Vox's arms. He gasps in a breath and the music warbles back into existence, uneven notes carrying throughout the penthouse in time with the rise and fall of Alastor’s chest. 

Vox holds him close after, his tongue swiping slow paths over Alastor's cock and stomach, savoring the taste of their come. Each leisurely lick sends shivers through Alastor, his body trembling with the sensitive aftershocks of pleasure. The air is thick with the scent of sweat and sex, and his heart is still racing. 

Once he’s clean, Vox presses a tender kiss to Alastor’s hip before collapsing next to him. Still on his knees on the floor, he leans his elbows on the couch, with his head resting on his hands like a supplicant at an altar.  

It doesn’t take long, though, before the clean slate of thoughtlessness begins to crack. Will Alastor lash out— panic, like last time? A knot of dread sinks in his stomach, and Vox glances to the radio demon, bracing himself for any reaction.

The silence stretches, each second a torment, until Alastor, with a content, fucked out expression, hums, "I hope you’re not expecting a standing ovation?” He smiles lazily, stretching out his long, elegant legs. “You have certainly set a high bar… hm, can you keep up, I wonder?"

Relief floods him. Is Alastor hinting at more nights like this? They still have hours left of their pact, but he hopes that’s what he means. He craves to press on that statement, but he lets it go for now.

Vox grins up at him. "Pfft, just wait, Al. You know the encore's always better than the opening act."

Alastor lets out a breathless chuckle, any discomfort seemingly soothed by the afterglow. “My, another double entendre? You’re almost clever when you try.” 

The playful challenge in Alastor’s banter is familiar, grounding him in the present moment, fending off his thoughts a little longer.

"Almost? Fuckin prick." Vox quips back with mock offense, his eyes gleaming with amusement. "Whatever, I'll take it. That’s practically high praise, from you." 

Alastor, still breathing a bit shallow, reaches for the sheet that's half draped over the couch. "Don't let it go to your head, darling.” When Vox smirks, waggling his eyebrows, Alastor rolls his eyes so hard. "Ugh. I just knew you'd be a handful." He pulls the sheet over himself, the fabric a barrier yet again, but this time Vox hopes it’s more about warmth and less about hiding. 

Vox climbs up to join Alastor on the couch, curled in close next to him. "Bit more than a handful…" His snicker is warm against Alastor's flickering ear. He feels him shiver against him, just a little.

“Could you stop?” Alastor's laugh is a genuine sound that makes Vox’s heart soar.

“I can only promise to try,” Vox teases, pressing a soft kiss to Alastor’s temple, his fingers gently tracing patterns on his bare shoulder. After a long, comfortable moment, he kisses him there, too, right over an old scar. 

"Al, you know… I wouldn’t trade this for anything." Vox tries for conversational, but the words come out heavy and serious.

“You would say that,” Alastor mutters, tugging the sheet over his shoulder and tighter around himself. After a moment, there’s a soft sigh, "We'll see how long that lasts..."

Vox settles cautiously against his back, and what's important is Alastor doesn’t push him away.

The fear of their future is already chewing at the edges of Vox’s mind, but this— finally fucking, with Alastor allowing him to stay close after— this is real progress. Alastor’s trust means everything to him, and right now, it feels like a chance at redemption.

NSFW art:

.

.

.

💜 Please give love to Aislin on BSky!

Chapter Text

Let’s admire this gorgeous commission from @quiem_rhole on twitter! Please give this incredible artist some love 💜

The lilting notes of Alastor’s music fill the vaulted room, weaving into the ambient hum of the aquarium. The demons are entwined on the couch, with Vox nestled between Alastor's back and the cushions. Alastor is still wrapped in that damn sheet, the fabric draped teasingly over his naked body. The reflecting water from the aquarium dances along it, highlighting the protective curl of Alastor's back, angled just slightly away from the embrace of Vox’s arms.

The two had long settled into silence. Countless quiet evenings spent together decades ago can’t make it feel natural in the present. The old familiarity is missing and the jazzy song sounds empty without Alastor’s silken falsetto to accompany it. He remembers those high notes fluttering and wafting through the air like the sweet smoke from a clove cigarette. It is a reflection of his best days, when Alastor hums along with a tune. 

He isn’t humming now. 

Vox knows he hasn’t fallen asleep. It doesn’t matter that Alastor is turned away, not when he can connect to all the screens nearby, like a CCTV wall in his mind's eye, allowing him to see the room from every angle. It’s the mounted flatscreen across from them that gives him the perfect view of Alastor’s face. His shoulders are bowed forward, both hands resting on the couch in front of him, obscuring a small, muted smile. His eyes, half lidded and unfocused, gaze blankly at his fingers tugging a loose thread. 

Alastor’s expression is a stormy sky, guilt drifting over him like dark clouds. 

Vox wishes he could decode the subtle shifts in that guarded wall of a smile. Why is he pulling away? Things had been going well. What is he thinking? The puzzle nags at him, an unsolved riddle that refuses to give up its answers. Alastor always reveals more of himself when he thinks no one’s watching, but there's nothing he can do about it, if he’s not supposed to see. He knows asking would only shut the door tighter. 

So Vox hums for Alastor, a deep harmony to compliment the tune. His palm glides in a circle along Alastor's arm, mirroring the slow rhythm of the melody. From his hidden vantage point, he watches Alastor’s eyes fall closed, the edges of his smile softening. 

It’s as if Vox’s gentle touch can coax Alastor’s tension away. Oh, how he wishes that were actually true. 

The music transitions to a later decade, playing a song Alastor must’ve remembered he liked. Victoria went through a phase where she sang it constantly. Her small voice echoes through his mind, recalling her dancing in the backyard, curls bouncing with every note. She had a way of drawing him and Joan into her joy. Vox tries to remember Joan’s laughter, but… it’s gone.

Each note wavers on his lips as he sings along, barely more than a whisper.

One of Alastor’s ears shifts toward the subdued sound of his voice. “What’s the matter?” He peeks over his shoulder, “is it the song?” 

Vox ducks the flat surface of his face against his back, hiding from that scrutiny, never sure if it would bring kindness or cruelty. “Memories,” is all he manages. Let Alastor think they’re about him— it’s easier that way. 

Alastor’s forearm drapes over his as he laces their fingers together and squeezes. Even though it's not over, the song flows mercifully into another, and Vox wants to forget. The inactivity suddenly grates. Contentment in stillness is a foreign concept to him, and he never sits idle with his thoughts. 

Tapping into the digital ether, his mind is abuzz with new stimuli, merging with vast streams of data. His personal feeds fill with countless demons across platforms, all seeking his expertise, his authority, his praise. Negotiation counter arguments are crafted and sent within milliseconds, new programming slates and scripts are greenlit, and a zoning dispute is settled— all high priority items that can't afford delay.

A twinge of disappointment— Valentino hasn’t texted him back yet— but he must still be sleeping. Of course Velvette is up and has immediately clocked his absence. It’s not like him to miss work, ever.

Her message brings a smile to his face: ‘Have you finally taken my advice? You better be outside touching grass 😛 snap a pic or it didn’t happen’

Another message shortly after: ‘Seriously tho you need to approve the funding for that ad spot asap. It can’t be held up’

That’s a simple review and signature. ‘Done.’ Then, ‘Hold down the fort, Vette. I’ll make it up to you.’ He is already ordering that slinky Envy dress she’s been eying, and arranging a lunch delivery from her favorite restaurant. He hopes her reaction will be waiting for him on the recorded feeds later.

Velvette’s response is reliably fast: ‘Cheers V! I’ll keep it sorted, you’re good. Now give that grass the touch of its fuckin life’

Amusement tickles his throat, but he locks the laugh behind a tight lipped smile, narrowly avoiding the side eye that would inevitably follow. These days, Val always picks up on (and viscerally despises) his divided attention, though Alastor seems none the wiser.

A little side work doesn’t prevent him from caressing Alastor, taking advantage of their closeness. Vox is propped up on one elbow, threading his fingers through his silky hair to rub the base of his antlers. The persistent thrum of Alastor’s power pulses from them like an eldritch chant, the rhythmic sensation tingling pleasantly against Vox’s fingers. 

His other hand trails up from Alastor’s wrist to circle the dip of his inner elbow and drifts back down to savor the transition from bare skin to the velvety softness of short fur. He avoids overtly sexual touches, yet the air begins to buzz, the vibrations in the signal unmistakable. Alastor’s breathing deepens, and whenever he shivers, Vox makes sure to linger. 

Vox’s broad palm and long fingers span the width of that slim chest as he draws Alastor closer to press a tender kiss to the nape of his neck. Alastor tenses, a muscle jumping in his jaw as if bracing for more than just physical sensation. “Shh, it’s okay sweetheart,” He soothes softly, feeling the gentle rise and fall of their breathing like a soothing tide. 

As Alastor shifts against him, he huffs a sigh. "Ever the glutton for more, aren't you?”

Vox stifles a snicker against the smooth plane of his shoulder blade, “Is that disappointment I hear?”

“Hm.” Alastor’s response is indecipherable between agreement or dissent. “I’ve faced worse than your... enthusiasm.”

“Oh?” Vox vibrates his signal, a teasing echo of the radio demon’s excitement. “And what’s your excuse?"

A scoff is the only reply.

Casting his signal out to the TV again, Vox can see a flush to Alastor’s cheeks. The slow lick of his lips reveals more than words ever could. Vox focuses on that face as cyan claw tips skim lightly over the sharp jut of Alastor’s hip. His hand slips down to brush the inside of his meatier thigh, watching Alastor’s lashes flutter, and when he squeezes, he’s rewarded with the quietest little moan.

Vox immediately cuts off from the network, singularly focused on the demon in his arms. It’s a rare privilege, these days, to have his undivided attention, but there was always something magnetic about Alastor. He’s an irresistible pull that captivates him completely.

Anchoring a firm grip on Alastor’s waist, Vox presses against the curve of his ass, the thin silk of the sheet the only barrier between them. Alastor’s tail flicks against his stomach, ticklish, and he hears the threads of the cushion pop under the pressure of flexing claws. It’s like striking gold when Alastor arches subtly, pushing back against him, just once. 

His pleased hum sounds like surrender. 

Cautiously, Vox’s hand travels around Alastor's hips, brushing teasingly between his legs. He rumbles in approval, finding Alastor halfway there. Mirroring the slow, sensual rhythm of his hand and hips, Vox rubs on Alastor from both sides, feeling him lengthen and fill out under his touch. 

Vox’s lips part as the heavy sound of their breathing begins to fill the air. Pulling the sheet down just enough, he nips Alastor’s shoulder and neck, licking the fractal patterns of the lightning burn spreading like roots beneath his skin. There are shivers under his kiss, as if it reignites echoes of the electric charges that marked him.

Alastor’s thighs shift and squeeze together restlessly, and there’s a shuddering breath. He turns his face into the throw pillow, hiding from even the bird's eye view. The new angle of his body makes it harder for Vox to touch him, and for a moment, panic flares— his heart pounding with the dread of being shut out once more. 

But then Alastor rises to his knees, face buried in his arms, presenting his ass in the air with a steep, seductive curve to his back. 

Vox is overwhelmed by a sense of surreal joy, as if every fantasy he's ever had is unfolding right before his eyes. His pulse races as he scrambles to kneel behind him, tugging impatiently at the sheet, almost tearing it apart in his urgency. He sucks air through his teeth as it flutters to the floor. 

Alastor is a vision. Ass tipped up invitingly, tail raised and waving, the elegant swoop of his back leading into the drawn up tension in his shoulders. The sight of him is intoxicatingly perfect.

“Goddamn, doll. You look.. so fucking good.” The rush of excitement tightens Vox’s voice as he slaps a hand on that ass, grinning as Alastor jumps and his tail swishes. “Do you even realize how irresistible you are?” He whispers, rubbing soothingly over the fresh red mark. There’s no way that little wiggle isn’t on purpose. “I bet you do. You’ve always been such a cocktease.” 

Alastor’s tail drops to cover himself, and Vox hears a disapproving ‘meh!’ against the couch, a reprimand in the form of a little deer sound. He hasn’t heard that in ages. He tries not to laugh, he really does, but a chuckle still rumbles free. “Aw, don’t be like that, Al. I’ve been holding back every filthy thing I’ve wanted to say all night.” 

“Do not call me that.” But the breathy tremor in Alastor's voice betrays him, turning the demand into a plea that sounds sultry. 

“Hm?” Vox caresses the back of Alastor’s thighs, nudging them apart to slip a hand between his legs. “Call you what?”

“You only—” His breath hitches when Vox trails a knuckle teasingly down his length, his body shivers, but his fists clench tight. “You just want to hear me say it.”

“You’re right,” Vox’s shoulders shake with a deep, satisfied laugh. “I do.” 

The grumpy deer sound comes again, louder this time, as Alastor sits and turns to glower at him. His reaction, more squeak than snarl, the tuft of a tail flickering angrily, practically melts Vox’s mechanical core. 

“Damn, you’re so cute.” Vox’s voice softens, a tender smile playing on his lips as he gazes at Alastor. “It's unreal, how the radio demon could be this goddamn adorable."

Alastor’s ears twist backward, his lips curling into an insulted sneer. Vox isn’t about to give him time to hurl any vitriol— he seizes his chin tightly and crashes their mouths together. The kiss is defiant, possessive, demanding, meant to lay waste to the snide retort where it crouches on Alastor’s tongue, ready to tear into his skin. 

Vox leaves him gasping. “Like it or not doll, it’s the truth,” he whispers, their hot breaths fogging up his glass. “You have the cutest face. I’ve wanted to say it since the ‘60s... You can gnash your teeth, flash those radio dials, and growl all you want.” He gently caresses Alastor's jaw, the tapered point of his chin fitting perfectly between his thumb and forefinger. “You’re still so fucking cute to me.”

Alastor stares at him with a hint of softness in his expression before deflecting with a roll of his eyes. “You always did have poor taste.” 

“How about you learn to take a compliment?” Vox teases, his hand slipping off the point of his chin.

“‘Cute’ is no compliment in hell.” Alastor’s claw hooks on the underside of his casing, tugging him closer t-to— lick across the glass.

“Oh.” Vox gasps, caught by surprise as Alastor's tongue slips past his lips to curl around his. For the briefest moment of bliss, Alastor actually sucks on his cyan tongue. Then the kiss becomes more aggressive, all teeth, until they’re panting into the violent desperation of it. 

As they break apart, Vox is left reeling, his heart pounding in his chest. Alastor seems to hesitate, biting his bottom lip that looks pink and swollen from how thoroughly he’s been kissed. His claws release the chokehold on Vox’s screen to clutch his shoulders, tracing the faint lines of circuits under his midnight skin. 

“Flattery doesn’t excuse making me wait for this ‘encore’ you bragged about.” Alastor finally braves saying it, nerves mostly hidden under the teasing swagger and familiar textures of his radio filter.

“Ohho, I’ll cue the lights then,” Vox jokes breathlessly, pitching forward to kiss him but Alastor quickly jerks his face away, cheeks a ruddy red.

Alastor twists in Vox’s arms to bury head first in the cushions again. Even as his ass bumps up against Vox, his body language screams nervousness— muscles taut, shoulders hunched slightly forward. He trembles, “…show me.”

“You want me to fuck you?” He pushes with a wolfish grin, craving to hear that voice, though he’s not surprised to be left wanting. He tsks out his disappointment, dipping into the pocket of his pants on the floor for the lube he’d stashed earlier. He tosses the bottle on the couch between Alastor’s knees and strokes both palms down his sides to settle on his hips. “Or maybe you want this?” He lightly nips an ass cheek, before dragging the flat of his tongue between those cheeks. 

Alastor jumps, and Vox has to hold his hips steady. “You did seem to like it,” he teases gently, though he can’t quite hide his eagerness as he devours him— and each flick, each press of his tongue, makes Alastor squirm. Vox is instantly lost, savoring every gasp and shudder, but driven by his own need, hunger and satisfaction in his every groan and lick. 

Vox pops the cap of the lube, slicks his fingers, and nips the undercurve of Alastor’s ass as he watches one of his thick fingers slowly ease inside. So tight. A deep grunt of approval spills from Vox, and he can’t resist pressing his tongue back in. Fuck if he can’t decide which he likes more. He alternates between tongue and finger fucking him, until Alastor is shaking, his claws scoring deep lines into the cushions. 

The radio demon is making these wavering, delicate little cries, and Vox can’t stand it anymore. He’s overwhelmed by the need to get inside him, to possess Alastor, to show him. His fingers pull free with a wet pop and he pushes his palm down the small of Alastor’s back, manhandling his hips into a better angle. The slicked tip of his cock bumps eagerly against his entrance, so close to having him as he rubs back and forth.

The knowledge that he’s the first to do this to Alastor sets his blood on fire.

“You’re going to take all I give you.” Vox growls, his voice a low, rumbling command. Alastor’s only response is a soft whimper, his claws gripping the armrest, tendons taut and straining as Vox begins to claim a space inside him. He watches, biting his lip as the heat of Alastor’s body slowly swallows the head. 

What a sight. 

Fuck. 

This is happening.  

He fights against the rush of hunger. The barbells of his frenum piercings catch, and he can feel the tight ring of muscle stretch around the metal, a delicious resistance before sliding through with a satisfying push. 

Alastor’s muffled gasp is full of nervous energy, tinny with static. He’s holding very still, the muscles of his back pronounced and tense. That’s how Vox knows it hurts. Despite taking it slow, Alastor suddenly winces and reaches back, his palm firm against his stomach, stopping him from getting further inside. He’s coiled up tight, grimacing as he peeks up at him, ears low. 

Oh, that face.

“Too much?” Vox grins, shuddering with pleasure, hungry for Alastor after decades of starving. This man, this demon is finally his. He struggles to control himself, knowing Alastor isn’t ready, that he can’t take all of him— not yet. 

“Give it a minute, Al.” Vox rubs his palm up Alastor’s thin arm. His hands are warm as they glide over him, kneading the tension from his muscles. “Relax, don’t fight it,” He curls protectively over his back, his breath hot between his shoulder blades. Slowly, he wraps his arms around him, drawing him carefully against his chest. 

There’s a low, defensive growl. Alastor is shaking. 

This is dangerous. Vox knows what Alastor is like— an animal backed into a corner, his wrath merciless, his unpredictability a razor’s edge. If the radio demon changes his mind, Vox could be in real danger— the threat of potential violence lurks in every shadow. The thought sends a shiver down his spine, but not from fear alone. There’s a thrill in dancing this close to the fire. 

Yet, there's trust here, fragile and precious. Vox leans into it, his touch gentle, coaxing Alastor to relax, to let go. “You’re doing good,” He waits with soothing words, his voice a low, calming hum as he keeps himself still through every squeeze of Alastor’s muscles. He brings the pleasure back for him with tight strokes of his hand between his legs, and as he slowly pulls out, the softest moan escapes Alastor. “There you go, baby.”

Putting weight behind his hips, Vox eases forward, savoring the way Alastor’s body welcomes him, inch by inch. “Mmm, that’s it, sweetheart. Keep going— you're better at this than you think.” Alastor is biting his lip, as if holding back, and he’d give anything to know what he’s thinking.

Vox needs it to be perfect. Maybe then Alastor will want more. Maybe he’ll stay. Vox's thoughts spiral into madness, but he feels too good for anything else to matter. He imagines Alastor here with him forever, a fantasy that seems almost within reach. 

Vox groans through clenched teeth, rocking into him slowly. He sets a shallow, steady rhythm to give him time to adjust, stroking Alastor’s cock in time with his hips. He needs him to like it, and he can feel the pleasure taking hold. The tension in his shoulders starts to melt away. His breathing deepens, punctuated by soft, involuntary gasps that sharpen with each thrust. It’s so sexy, the thrill of knowing this fierce, unpredictable being is letting him in.

Vox straightens up, drawing a palm down his back to wrap around his soft tail, another hand on his waist, guiding him back rather than thrusting forward. “Bring that to me,” he whispers, squeezing and pulling to show his meaning. He hears a shuddering exhale, Alastor’s teeth catching on the fabric of the armrest as he experimentally pushes back. Vox’s eyes go lidded, letting Alastor set the pace as he starts to fuck himself on his dick. The little sounds he makes are perfect, it’s like music as they begin to build, becoming full of need. 

“Use it, baby,” Deep moans rumble out of Vox, “take it how you want it.” 

Alastor pushes up on his hands and knees, casting a glance over his shoulder. The hunger in Vox’s gaze meets the vulnerability in Alastor, and Vox feels the weight of being seen and wanted by the one demon who can unravel him completely. It’s the realization that he has Alastor, truly has him. His oldest friend. His best friend, for so long. His worst enemy, for longer. The love of his life.

Alastor draws his bottom lip into his mouth and his gaze flicks down. Vox can see him focus on what he’s doing, and then they’re both watching his cock glide in and out of him. With every inch that presses in, the roll of the piercings creates extra friction, pulling sharp, uneven gasps from them. Alastor’s thighs begin to shake, his mouth falling open, the tip of his pink tongue hanging just past his teeth.

"Hmm, that face you make… when you're losing control…" The quiet moans fuel him as Vox drinks in the lust in his expression. “Knew it'd be worth the wait.” Alastor’s brows twitch into a furrow before he collapses back onto the couch, face hidden in his arms. He trembles as he bucks against him, struggling to keep the rhythm. His tail is popped up and shudders on each long, slow in stroke. “I love watching your perfect little ass bounce on my cock."

"I could… do without the running commentary." Alastor’s attempt to feign indifference is laughable. He is too worked up for the facade to cover for him, his flushed skin shining with sweat, messy hair stuck to his face, mouth open and panting. 

“Too fuckin bad,” Vox laughs playfully, snapping his hips forward, watching the tail drop when he hits too deep. Alastor gasps, biting back the sound that refuses to be silenced, becoming a low whine through gritted teeth.

God damn, that sound.

There’s a sharp hiss as Vox tugs that narrow waist back, bullying his cock deeper. He chases the pleasure until he hears a helpless whine that sounds suspiciously like his name, heavily distorted. “Let me hear it, Al. Your real voice.” He loves the way Alastor reaches back to grab his thigh. He wants it. He wants me. Vox shudders, groaning as he forces that last inch, all the way inside. “Say my fucking name.”

Alastor’s head tosses back, and Vox is a drawn out cry that fills the vaulted room, free of static, pure and clear and beautiful.

“Yes,” Vox’s voice is strained, his grip on that waist like steel. “Alastor… fuck, that’s all of me.”

This is as close as they’ll ever get.

He’s finally getting everything he’s ever longed for, gift wrapped tight in velvet heat.

“You’re doin so good,” Vox groans his approval, letting the blissful pleasure roll through him. He watches as Alastor writhes, twisting from the overwhelming stretch of fullness, kicking the cushions, desperate for leverage. It would be a bold faced lie to pretend he didn’t love being a little too much for him.

Then Vox relents, fucking him with smooth, long strokes at an angle that isn’t too deep. “Fuck yes,” The force of him steadily builds, each thrust hitching Alastor forward until his head is bowed over the edge of the couch. He’s clutching the armrest to keep from falling, sucking air in through clenched teeth, the slap of their skin an echo to every filtered, breathy moan.

Alastor is nearly toppled over the side when Vox snatches a fistful of red hair to pull him back. Alastor’s groan tappers into a hiss, back arched beautifully. Possessive claws squeeze that pretty waist, keeping himself buried inside as he repositions Alastor flat on his stomach, blanketed with his body. Now they grind together with short thrusts that keep him seated as deep as possible, every movement like dancing on the edge of oblivion.

A rolling moan tumbles out of him, his hand sliding up to grasp Alastor’s slender throat. Alastor’s hand joins his, claws biting into the tendons of Vox’s arm. “Ah, aah~ Vox, I— Vox!” 

Vox has to see his face. His fingers tense on his throat, the sudden need overpowering. He mourns the loss of that perfect feeling as he grabs Alastor under the thigh and flips him like he weighs nothing. Alastor gasps in surprise, catching himself on the edge of the couch, but Vox is already hauling him closer, until he’s stretched out beneath him. 

Alastor’s eyes dart around, never settling, like he’s embarrassed or… doesn’t want to look at him. He holds his arms in front of his chest, but his legs are hitched up and spread wide for him, an invitation that’s at odds with the tight clench in his jaw and that wary flicker in his expression.

”Alastor…” Vox is dizzy and panting from all he wants. His gaze flits away from Alastor’s eyes to his lips, from his throat to his waist. The sight of his hard cock, flushed red and leaking against his stomach drives him crazy. Holding the back of Alastor’s knee in one hand, Vox lines himself up. “Fuck, look at you,” This position makes his hips look fuller, accentuating his slutty little waist. He can’t resist wrapping his hand around it again as he pushes back inside.

Only Vox has ever seen Alastor like this, in this life or the last.

Vox crashes down on top of him and Alastor's palm pushes into his chest, flattening against his skin, fingers splayed wide. Vox pulls his wrist aside to get closer and Alastor’s breath catches, ears back, writhing against the hold of Vox’s hands and the force of him between his legs.

Vox captures his lips in a hungry kiss, savoring this moment, the closeness, the heat of their skin. Alastor twists, tugging on his wrist and kicking his legs out, breaking their mouths apart with a harsh gasp. Vox’s world narrows to the feel and taste of Alastor as he licks the hollow of his arched throat, his arms tightening possessively around him. “Ah-Alastor,” He cries desperately against his neck, lost in the intense, all consuming pleasure of being so close.

A dark hand slaps flat on Vox’s face, forcing him back. Frustrated, he brushes it aside, but Alastor’s nails dig frantically into his shoulders, sinking into the muscle. Vox hisses through gritted teeth, noticing the tremors in Alastor's frame just as he's shoved away. Those ruby eyes— wild, unfocused— glint with dangerous light as Alastor’s claws flash out, razor sharp, raking deeply across Vox’s chest. 

Agonizing pain erupts as blood and electric blue coolant weep from the long, vicious cuts. The weight of his own skin drags the wounds wider, revealing raw, glistening muscle beneath the pooling blood. Embedded circuitry flickers and dies where wiring is severed, feeding errors that flood his systems. 

Vox’s snarl is pure instinct as he lunges, his left eye wide and pulsing with rage. “Why, Alastor—? What is wrong with you!” His booming voice crackles with electricity, the air alive with a thrumming current that prickles the skin. 

Alastor stares at him, wide eyed as if surprised, legs drawn up with his arms held protectively in front of his chest. He shrinks down like he could disappear. He’s a small, desperate figure, and the sight stops Vox from unleashing the voltage surging through him. 

“Ha-ha! Pardon me!” Alastor’s abrupt laugh is jittery and forced. A strained noise escapes past his clenched smile and he presses his palms to his eyes, shoulders hunched forward. “Just a… a minor hiccup, I assure you.” 

Vox looms over Alastor, chest heaving, each inhale and exhale a struggle against the searing pain. His cerulean circuits glow brightly as he tries to throttle the influx of power. "I… I thought you wanted this." His voice falters, blood dripping over Alastor’s curled hooves like the first drops of a rainstorm, matching the dangerous tang of ozone that fills the room. 

“Vox…” Alastor whispers, face flushed with shame. He’s trying to hide behind his arms, his claws tangled in his red hair. His lips part, trembling, but he doesn’t speak.

Alastor leans away, his back bowing over the armrest, his shoulders hanging over the edge— the curve of his torso carves out his ribcage like the hollow arches of an ancient temple. His body is an offering, as his drawn up thighs ease apart, exposing the dip of his navel and the length of his cock. “Keep going.”

The metallic scent of blood saturates the air, and the taste of iron coats his tongue. A loud, disbelieving laugh slips free. “You’re out of your fucking mind. You just tore me open—” 

A low growl erupts and turns dangerous as Alastor slams Vox into the couch with enough force to splinter the back frame. He throws a leg over Vox's lap, straddling him as his claws grow long and black along Vox’s shoulders. “Did you hear what I said?” His eyes burn with unholy light, his monstrous voice distorted by chaotic, dissonant frequencies. “Do as you’re told.” 

The furious urge to feed him lightning churns with the twisted desire in Vox’s gut. He would keep going, but it isn’t lost on him how fucked up that is. This hadn’t been claws at his back in a moment of passion— he’d glimpsed real fear in Alastor. He twists with discomfort, voice tight from the pain. "Al, this is— fuck— are you serious?"

Alastor shifts his knees apart and reaches between his legs, his elongated claws whispering over Vox’s flagging erection. Vox tenses, snatching Alastor’s hand and twisting his arm away. “No.” He hisses, low and dangerous. His claws dig into Alastor’s wrist, squeezing until he can feel the racing pulse beneath his fingertips. “If you want it,” he growls, “then fucking say it, Alastor.”

Alastor’s gaze flicks in his direction, and Vox isn’t prepared for the impact of those eyes, radio dials smoldering like glowing embers. There’s something frantic about that sharp smile. “I need to move past this. Everything. You.” Frustration and self loathing taint Alastor’s static as he tears his wrist free. “Get it over with, Vox. Isn’t this all you ever wanted?”

“For fuck’s sake, Al, that’s not what I…” Vox stops, his heart aching at the thought of Alastor pushing himself through out of sheer stubbornness.

You. The venom in that single word burns like acid, corroding his fragile hopes. He wanted to be more than just a hurdle for Alastor to overcome.

“Backing down?” Alastor laughs at him, the sound especially pointed somehow. He pins him by his throat against the cushions, every word grating with interference. “Countless times you’ve branded me the coward!” He’s close enough that Vox’s vision is dominated by the black abyss of those eyes. “I am no coward. I’m not—” He chokes on the words, but the unsaid hangs heavily in the air. Weak. Afraid. 

Defective.

Alastor shakes his head violently, eyes squeezed shut as if trying to block out his own thoughts. The moment disarms him, and he shudders, face buried in Vox’s shoulder, the darkness of his demon form wisping away like ashes from a dying fire.

“Easy, Al...” Vox reaches out, his fingertips barely grazing Alastor's arm before it's shoved away.

Alastor shushes him, the sound more hiss than breath. He’s painfully heavy on his chest, pressing so close he can feel his heart pounding. “I.. I’m not… I-” Alastor is sputtering, he can barely make out any of the distorted mantra. His thumbs stroke his shoulders as he kisses Vox’s chest, just above the highest cut, right over his heart. He stretches his body over his, their cocks slipping against each other. “... this is better.” He wiggles in his lap, clutching his shoulders like a lifeline as he ruts on him. 

The salt of their sweat burns in every slice. Fuck, it hurt.

“I didn’t… want us to be like this,” Vox whispers miserably, his head slumping against the back of the couch. He squeezes his eyes closed as Alastor rises and reaches between them, clumsily balanced while trying to guide him inside. “I hate you so much, Alastor.” His claws burrow into the cushions and his hips shift up just enough.

They both let out a shaky breath as Alastor eases down, squeezing smooth skin and hard steel with perfect heat and pressure. He glides in smoothly, but Alastor still winces at the fullness, balancing himself on his shoulder as he slowly takes those last inches. 

The ghost of that night howls in Vox’s mind, inescapable. He’s afraid to look at Alastor’s face. He’s not sure Alastor likes this, he’s not sure if he’s fully here, and that possibility carves a hollow ache in his heart.

It’s inevitable, though. His eyes find their way to him. Leaning back, Alastor braces his hands on Vox’s tense thighs, his ruby eyes burning with challenge. His collarbones cast shadows like crescent moons, his body all sharp lines, long and slender. That narrow waist, those hip bones, his pretty dick— despite everything, he’s mesmerizing.

The radio demon is a cliff’s edge, where the allure of the view masks the danger of the drop.

When Alastor starts to move, his ears are pinned, the muscles in his stomach and thighs straining beautifully. He can’t get much lift and the pace is stilted, his inexperience showing. His red, neglected cock slaps against his stomach with every grind.  

Vox doesn’t touch him.

A frustrated whine begins to build from the back of Alastor’s throat. Tipping forward, he clutches Vox’s shoulders, trying to use him for leverage, but quickly gives up riding him. He settles against him, sweaty skin burning hot. He squirms on top of him with small, needy rolls of his hips, the underside of his cock rubbing on Vox’s stomach. He starts to cry out, and Vox feels it as soft puffs of air tingling across his throat.

Alastor’s hands are everywhere, brushing his sides, holding his arms, mapping out the muscles of his shoulders— the faint prickle of wicked claws igniting every nerve. He presses kisses down Vox’s neck and licks sweat from the slant of his collarbone, sharp teeth scraping sensitive flesh in their desperation.

“What happened…” Alastor finds Vox’s hand and squeezes, his head bumping against his shoulder, “…to my noisy picture box?”

Vox wants to be Alastor’s tongue in his mouth, his sweaty, flushed skin, the rub of his leaking cock. He wants to be everywhere Alastor is, to feel everything he feels. He wants to be the couch, the cameras in the walls. Anything but himself. 

“Vox,” Breathy, aching little moans, each twist of his body so sweet. “Vox…” 

It gets to him, of course it does. The way Alastor draws out his name affectionately, gasping in anticipation at the slightest flex of Vox’s hips.

“Hold yourself up for me.” Vox growls, positioning Alastor’s knees properly. His claws squeeze the tender flesh of Alastor’s ass, holding him steady as he slams upward, punching a moan from his throat. Alastor grips his shoulder with one hand, the other cradling the back of Vox’s neck, holding on tight as he’s taken.

They’re just fucking. Vox knows that. 

Vox gives him everything. Alastor cries out every time his cock is all the way in, sharp, breathless sounds escaping him. He seeks out the feeling now, pushing frantically against the slap of Vox’s hips, moaning as he’s filled. His forehead rests against his screen, each huff of breath fogging the glass.

The sounds Alastor makes seem amplified, and Vox realizes he’s hearing them across frequencies.

Opening to the signal, radio waves crash from Alastor like the relentless tide on a rocky shore, a buzzing shock of pleasure reverberating through his every nerve. His eyelids flutter, and it’s so much Vox can’t think, can hardly breathe, each rough groan devoured hungrily by Alastor's sharp kisses. Vox channels those devastating sensations back, letting Alastor feel the combined surge of their desire. It’s not quite emotions, not quite words, but meanings that are loud, intense, and overpowering. A language beyond, a connection that transcends physicality, sex on another level. 

"Alastor," he moans, unable to mask the need in his voice. “You feel s-so good.” The couch frame creaks with every thrust as he drives into him harder, faster. The lights flicker and spark, reflecting the swells of electrical current he can’t control.

Alastor's cries become an incoherent static filled mess. He reaches down to touch himself, and he’s so beautiful and desperate, lean muscles tense and shuddering.

Vox’s fingers are steel bands on that waist, his moans rough like gravel as they free fall off the edge together. He slams deep into that perfect heat and pumps him full of come with every thrust, pushing Alastor down on him through each pulse. He holds them both there, grinding, and through the fervor of their frequency he knows Alastor can feel the full throb of his cock, the heat of his seed, and he’s fucking him through the waves of pleasure when Alastor cries out, long and loud. Head thrown back in ecstasy, the gorgeous, taut arch of his body quakes as pearly come shoots all over them. 

Alastor is completely lost in it, and only Vox’s steadying hands prevent him from tipping backwards. He tugs him down against his chest, holding him close and tight, his fingers clenched in his hair. 

Vox’s entire existence narrows to the sensation of Alastor's body. He moans, hypersensitive— the head of his cock feels like it’s on fire where it’s buried inside him. It’s the best feeling in the world, a euphoria he never wants to end.

The smile that graces Alastor’s face is unlike anything Vox has ever seen— a look of pure ecstasy, eyes closed, lips parted in a satisfied, lazy grin. It’s absolute bliss, a moment of unguarded joy that leaves Vox breathless. He’s never looked so free.

The frequencies between them settle into a soothing hum. A gentle lullaby after the storm.

It can’t last. His chest hurts too much to bask in the afterglow for long. He winces as the adrenaline fades, leaving him with the raw, aching pain. The salt from sweat and Alastor’s release stings like hell in the bloody rends through his skin.

Alastor tucks his chin low, hiding his face against Vox’s chest, humming contentedly. Breath hot against chilled skin, his tongue flicks out and with each kitten lick comes a sharp, searing pain. Disgust roils in his stomach when he realizes Alastor is lapping at raw nerve endings and he fights the urge to shove him away. 

The radio demon wears a sweet, bloody little grin as he reaches up to trace a finger over Vox’s screen, gently pulling the edge of his downturned mouth into a smirk. “A smile suits you best,” he whispers with sleepy, half lidded eyes, his touch soft and affectionate.

Chapter Text

A smile suits you best. 

It’s all wrong. Alastor’s chipper voice doesn’t match that bloody grin. It doesn’t belong with the desperate passion he showed or the fear in his eyes when everything spiraled. The polished facade is back, and the insincerity tastes like ash. Vox’s claws curl against the couch cushions, caught between longing to hold him close and the urge to ring his neck. 

Vox had imagined their first time together differently. He stares at the man who once illuminated his world and aches with loneliness. What should have been triumph sinks into a hollow place inside him, as if finally having him means losing him forever. 

Alastor’s cheek is resting against the gore glistening across his chest. The scraping flat of his tongue is excruciating, the pressure of it snagging the skin, swiping against exposed nerves in cuts deep enough to reach bone.

The pain drives Vox’s claws into Alastor’s hair, wrenching his head back with enough force to tear a gasp from his throat. Alastor’s thighs flex around his hips and he lets out a long, shuddering breath, the warmth of it ghosting across his screen. 

Vox’s hiss vibrates with a dangerous edge, “Stop tonguing my open goddamn wound.” 

The weight of Alastor’s gaze falls on him. His fiery eyes perfectly match their burning world, framed by lashes as dark as the abyss, beautiful in their promise of ruin. “Seems a shame to let it go to waste,” he smirks, licking the red from his teeth.

“Alastor.” Vox’s fist knots in his hair, his control hanging by a thread. “Do not push me.”

Alastor’s tongue flicks sharply against the roof of his mouth, a quick tsk of irritation. He tips back in his lap— all posturing aside, it takes only a hard look and a shake of his head to break free of Vox’s grip. 

Blood paints his navy skin down to his hip bones. Red streaks and hand prints mar Alastor’s body, staining him with the proof of Alastor’s rage and Vox’s need— remnants of battles they fought with themselves and lost. 

With a flick of Alastor’s wrist, his shadow slithers across the floor like a living thing. It drops the sheet in Alastor’s outstretched hand and retreats, growing across the back wall, an unnatural shroud looming over them. Vox’s narrowed eyes track its movement as the shadow’s scowl reveals more than Alastor’s face ever will.

Alastor wipes the fabric down Vox’s chest, sopping up blood, revealing muscle and sinew between the gaping, flayed skin. Near his sternum, where the damage is most severe, his bioluminescence is dark, circuits like dead Christmas lights in an otherwise glittering string. 

Each doting caress is a bitter aftertaste that should have been sweet. Vox can sense the undercurrent of disgust in the way Alastor cleans his release off their skin. Even still buried inside him, that look on his face burns, knowing his desire has always been Alastor’s sharpest weapon against him.

Vox can’t take it anymore. “Don’t.” He shoves the sheet— Alastor’s hands— away. “Just get off me.”

Vox’s stomach flutters as Alastor shifts those narrow hips and pulls away, his half hard cock slipping out and lulling against the angular V of his pelvic muscles. His eyes are immediately drawn to the apex of Alastor’s thighs, where his come is leaking out of him, and a tremor runs through him at the unbearably intimate sight.

Alastor stands, propelling himself back several feet. He clutches the bloody sheet to his chest like a shield, the cascading fabric hiding everything except the line of his bony shoulders, a peak of his hooves and his hands. His dark knuckles are lightened with the force he uses to hold on. 

It’s like the fire between them is snuffed out in an instant. Alastor’s cryptic smile reemerges, offering nothing, as indecipherable as ever. He stands there in front of the aquarium, a creature of the deep, bathed in shifting light— distant and dangerous, so untouchable he might as well be on the other side of the glass.

“You seriously have nothing to say?” Vox gestures to his chest, unable to mask the hurt in his tone. “Fuck Al, I’d like to think it wasn’t seeing my face that set you off…”

“Fishing for compliments, are we?” Alastor’s posture is perfectly straight, his practiced smile honing to a fine edge. “You won’t find any here.”

Vox’s eyes widen, fingers jumping to the edge of his screen, a soft clink of metal fretting across glass. His mouth twists into a gnash of deadly teeth, “Listen, you miserable prick, getting flayed isn’t my idea of a good time—”

“Such flair for theatrics,” Alastor’s irritated gaze sweeps over his naked body dismissively. “That’ll stitch up in no time.”

“God fucking damnit, Alastor!” His furious scream reverberates through the silent room. “You—” His anger cracks, his clenched fists tremble, “Why are you like this?”

Alastor watches him, blinking slowly, as though he doesn’t warrant a reaction at all. He sounds bored. “Does it truly matter?”

Vox surges to his feet, pushing off the couch with enough force to shift it across the floor. “It matters when you’re taking it out in my skin!”

For a moment, the room is filled with nothing but their heavy breathing, the tension thick enough to choke on. Alastor’s shoulders are stiff, his ear twitching subtly, as if losing the fight to hide something deeply unsettling. Vox notices the glance down, the way Alastor’s hooves stamp awkwardly against the hardwood. His expression breaks with an emotion Vox can’t quite place, but he can guess what he’s reacting to— his come must be dripping down his thighs.

“I,” Alastor stammers, his voice uncharacteristically small before he recovers. He smiles primly. “If you’ll excuse me.”

Alastor melts into his shadow, the click of the guest bathroom door telling where he retreated.  

Vox catches his breath in the stillness left behind, the room too quiet— at some point, the music stopped. The broken couch is splattered in blood, cushions steeped like it absorbed someone’s last scream. His hands twitch at his sides, grasping at nothing, as if trying to hold onto the fading warmth of Alastor, even though he’s already gone. The absence gnaws at him, somewhere between loss and loathing.

Vox slips on his boxer briefs and automatically swipes his abandoned phone off the kitchen counter. He storms through his bedroom into the master bath, grabbing a first aid kit from under the sink and tossing it onto the counter with more force than necessary.

Vox leans into the counter, head bowed. His mind is full of images of Alastor, filled and dripping with his come. He thinks he hears retching from the other room— Alastor, choking on the aftermath of what they’ve done.

Vox questions what they are now.

He’s a fool to think it could’ve been different. There’s a reason Alastor hasn’t allowed another soul near him in a century, why he shrinks from touch, why those walls are so impossible to tear down. Seven years of starving for contact hadn’t changed that, it couldn’t erase what was underneath, hell, it had probably made it worse. 

A thought twists uncomfortably in his mind— what if Alastor just needed someone to be there?

He doesn’t know if either of them understand what they truly want anymore. Maybe that’s why Alastor chose him— knowing whatever fallout followed, he would deserve it.

In the mirror, Vox sees nothing of the person he once was. He thinks his eyes were blue, back when he was still human. He can’t be sure anymore. Decades of living with this face and he still feels like he’s looking at an object. His expression, distorted by the glare of light off the glass, makes his fist itch to shatter the reflection, just to silence the sight of it. 

He turns on the faucet, splashing cold water from the sink over his chest. Thin rivulets of pink trace paths down his dark skin, dripping to the floor. The discomfort hardly registers, a whisper against the constant, gnawing ache inside him, an emptiness that’s been there for as long as he can remember. 

The delicate click of hooves announces Alastor’s presence at the doorway. He stands there, silent, backlit by the dim light filtering in from the bedroom. He’s wearing trim black slacks, with a white dress shirt tucked in and fastened tight to the base of his throat. Against crisp white, Vox realizes it’s the reds Alastor wears that makes him look washed out and pale.

Vox’s eyes trace the reflection of Alastor’s slim body, each button a lock, each seam a barrier to the memory of that bare skin. His fingers twitch, remembering the feel of him, the way he’d shivered under his touch. He aches to peel back those defenses, but knows he’ll never see Alastor naked again. He’s lost that rare and precious chance, forever. 

Alastor hasn’t left though. And the armor is only halfway there— no shoes or jacket yet. He wants it to mean something. 

“I thought we were past… everything was going well, then…” Vox’s voice is low, strained, as he meets Alastor’s eyes in the mirror. The radio demon’s expression is shadowed with something that looks suspiciously like regret, but there’s hardness too, a wall that Vox knows all too well.

“I should have known.” Vox’s fingers curl around the counter’s edge, “When you can’t handle your emotions, I’m the one you tear to pieces.”

Alastor’s lips press into a thin line, and for a moment, Vox thinks he’s going to walk away. “You must think I enjoy this?” 

The counter creaks beneath the pressure of Vox’s grip, the muscles in his forearms tightening. “You act like you do.”

Alastor’s silence is heavy, loaded with all the things he refuses to say. Vox can see the war in his eyes, the way his claws flex at his sides as if he’s holding back from lashing out.

Would Alastor kill him and seal his soul forever, just to avoid facing this? Vox wouldn't be surprised if he tried.  

Alastor suddenly clamps a hand on Vox’s shoulder, forcing him to sit with a ringing clatter of metallic claws on porcelain as he lands on the edge of the tub. “Do be a dear and sit still, won’t you? You’re making an absolute mess.” He tuts at him, moving about the small room with an almost clinical detachment, gathering supplies. 

The first aid kit Alastor is digging through is a battered metal box, edges worn smooth from frequent use. He snaps the lid shut with a sigh. “The truth is…” 

Vox waits, every muscle in his body coiled like a spring. Alastor balances one knee on the tub next to him, his fingers hesitating just above the deep gouges carved into Vox’s chest. Though healing fast, the raw, jagged flesh still seeps blood and neon coolant. When Alastor sprays them with antiseptic, the cuts fizz and burn, but Vox’s neutral expression doesn’t change.

“The truth is,” Alastor begins again, his hand trembling slightly as he wipes away the blood with a cool, damp cloth. “I don’t know how to be any other way.”

The admission hangs between them as Alastor carefully dabs at the torn skin, face a mask of concentration. Beneath the surface, Vox can see guilt simmering, unspoken but undeniable. This moment of exposure burns into his memories, of Alastor doting on him, his expression twisted like he actually cares. 

“Then let me help you,” Vox whispers, burning to touch him, to hold him. He gives in, letting his fingers lightly caress his side, but Alastor flinches away, a hand thrown up like a barricade. 

“I wouldn't.” It's a warning. 

Vox’s palm drops to press into his bare thigh, clenching cyan claws bright against midnight skin. It takes conscious effort to prevent his hands from shaking. 

Alastor kneels in front of him on slate tile, perfectly framed by his spread thighs. Vox swallows, frozen still as Alastor’s fingers ghost over him, only touching him where strictly necessary. Using butterfly closures, he aligns the first strip along the edges of Vox’s torn skin and draws it up into a clean line to secure the adhesive. It would hold the cuts together and his demonic healing would do the rest. 

“I forgot what it was like,” Vox murmurs in the lingering quiet, “…to have you fret over me.” 

The hollow of Alastor’s throat deepens when he swallows. As he presses another strip into place, he sighs. “I didn’t intend to do this.”

“Yeah,” Vox’s lips twist into a frown, looking away from the tile shadowed between Alastor’s thighs. “I must’ve missed the apology, when you pinned me down and had your fun.” 

Alastor’s hand pauses for a fraction of a second, a slight tremor running through long, slender fingers. “This will have to suffice as an apology.” His staticy voice becomes clipped, defensive, as he gestures to the task at hand.

“Would it kill you to just say it?” Vox whispers, bitterness sinking into his tone. “I… I asked you to tell me if it was too much, Alastor.”

Those sharp teeth clench into a hardened smile, Alastor’s jaw muscles working like cables beneath his skin. “How noble of you.” 

Vox studies that face in silence, he’s seen that jaw tense so many times— in anger, in frustration, in stubbornness. “Alastor…” There’s a tightness in his chest as another suture is placed right over his heart. “I tried to be… I should’ve… I don’t know, fuck, I haven’t been with a virgin since I was one.” 

That word, that label— he knows instantly he shouldn’t have used it. Alastor’s ears twist back, offended, and he can practically see the contrarian in him wanting to deny it, to lash out and save face. But none of it fucking matters, not to him. 

Vox speaks again before Alastor can, cutting him off. “At least tell me what I did wrong?”

Alastor’s jaw is set in a familiar stubborn line. “No.” The single syllable comes as no surprise, and it’s like a door slamming shut. “You really thought we’d have a heart-to-heart?” He barks a laugh. 

Tension ripples through Vox’s body, his muscles locking as if the sheer force of restraint could keep his frustration from lashing out. His voice is deceptively quiet, calm, “Then what are we doing, exactly?”

With fluid grace, Alastor stands, tossing the bloodied cloth into the sink. A practiced, indifferent expression schools his features. “We’re taking this time,” he says with intentional detachment, “getting it out of our system. Once a deal is finalized, I take my leave. That is all.”

“You honestly think it’s that simple?” Vox’s laughter rings out, sharp and bitter, echoing harshly off the walls of the small room. He’s on his feet in an instant, and there’s nothing graceful about it. Alastor stills, straightens to his full height, their eyes meeting in challenge. 

“You came to me. To make you feel real again, and you—” Vox presses forward, a predator closing the distance between them. He crowds him back without touching him, the force of his presence and the heat of his body enough to push Alastor against the cold, hard tiles of the walk-in shower. He braces a palm over his shoulder and leans close, “You think you can cum three times in one night and forget how that feels?”

Vox drags a clawtip down his slender throat, igniting a shimmering path of electricity across his skin. “You think your body will forget me?”

Alastor swallows against the tingle of current, his eyes narrowing with chilly resolve. “What exactly were you expecting, Vox?” His head tilts condescendingly to the side, the tips of his hair slipping over Vox’s wrist. “That I’d be so charmed by you I’d join your little club, and stay locked in your tower, under constant surveillance?”

A glitch in Vox’s audio creates a painfully loud reverb around the word— NO!— but he tamps down on the sudden force of his emotions. He can’t fuck this up, he can’t. 

So Vox lets himself smile, taking a breath to steady his voice. “Heh. No, of course not. But I want to see you again. We can start slow, see what happens. No one has to know.” His fingers smooth down Alastor’s collar before falling away, nerves making his stomach flutter. Alastor’s face is stone. It’s wrong, all wrong. “C’mon, I just— whatever it is you’re willing to give, Alastor. I will meet you there, halfway.”

“And when what I’m ‘willing to give’ inevitably isn’t enough for you?” Alastor’s eyes sharpen with knowing focus when Vox flinches. “Even now, you act entitled to make demands of me.” He shoves him away, his strength enough to move him with one hand. 

Vox catches himself against the edge of the counter, knocking gauze to the floor. “I didn’t— it doesn’t have to be sex,” He stares at where it rolls to a stop at their feet. “I just don’t want us to go back to how it’s been.” 

“I’ve never known you to be a man satisfied with half measures.” Alastor hisses, gesturing above them with a mocking wave. “You’ve already been watching me since I returned. Recording me at every opportunity. The sheer number of cameras monitoring your own penthouse speaks volumes about your psyche, I’m afraid.”

Vox’s mouth twists into a grim line, his fingers curling around the counter’s edge. “Alastor…” The room is small, and they’re still so close. “You know that’s not fair. The network, the security system, the cameras— they are as much a part of me as your shadows are to you.” He falters as he tries to put words to something that’s as much instinct as it is conscious thought. “It’s where my power lies. It’s… currency, information, protection—”

Alastor’s hand rubs subconsciously at his wrist, as if remembering a shackle. “Oh, so you’re ‘protecting’ the people you fixate on by what, hm? Keeping constant tabs on them?”

Vox hesitates, his chest rising with a sharp breath. “Yes.” 

Alastor’s laughter rings out with an unnatural buzz, beneath it lurking a shadow of bitterness— a hurt that refuses to stay buried.

Vox despises that laugh, and he wants to deny, to defend, but all the clever justifications die on his tongue. He’s used to playing people like instruments, he can handle Val, Carmine, all of them… But with Alastor, it’s conducting a symphony with missing notes— nothing ever lands the way it should. “Look, I know I have trouble with…” He fights to find a word he’s willing to label himself with, his shoulders tensing as he reluctantly admits, “Boundaries.”

A sneer twists Alastor’s smile, “I’d say we’re perfectly clear on that point.”

“I’m trying to say I—” Frustrated, Vox pushes off the counter. Alastor is instantly on the back foot and he stops, not wanting to push him away further. “I’ll work on it. What you’re willing to give, Al. That’s all. I swear.”

He knows he’s asking too much. He’s always asking too much— pushing people, testing their limits. But this time, he doesn’t want to. This time, he wants to give something, to meet Alastor halfway, even though he’s never known how. The urge for control, it’s always there— buzzing just under his skin like an itch, but he fights it. For him. For this one last chance.

“Promises, promises.” Alastor tsks, stepping toward the door, his hoof a click against the smooth tile. “We’re both well aware of how far you’ll go when you don’t get your way.” 

Alastor’s words land like blows, pressing a weight into Vox’s chest that makes it hard to breathe. “Would you stop?” Emotion sticks in his throat, shame and fear stalling his words, making them small. “You said… you forgave me.”

Alastor pauses in the open doorway, the fall of his hair concealing his expression. “You should know by now, Vox, I’ll say whatever it takes to get what I want.”

When Alastor crosses into the bedroom, Vox tears after him. “Don’t you fucking lie Alastor.” It rips from his throat, the surge of emotion bubbling over, uncontrollable. “Don’t fucking do that to me!” 

“What reason do I have to lie now?” Alastor stops in the center of the room, arms crossed tightly over his slim chest, claws digging into his sleeves. Those breathtaking ruby eyes narrow, "You act as if forgiveness would undo what you’ve done." 

“No! That’s not— no.” Vox’s screen flickers faintly as he shifts his weight, his claws digging into the doorframe as if he needs the support. “That’s not what I’m saying.”

“Good.” Alastor’s lips curl into a sneer, but beneath the sharp edge of his smile, something stirs in his gaze. He looks away, jaw clenching, as if swallowing back words that threaten to betray him. “I shouldn’t be the only—” 

The sentence hangs, unfinished. Alastor’s sharp inhale gives him away, and his hand lifts instinctively to his hair, tousling it, pulling at it. “You reminded me of the only truth that matters: trust is a loaded gun.” The usual defenses, the sarcasm, they’ve all fallen away, leaving only the weight of years— the burden he has been carrying, spilling out in words he can barely force himself to say. “You made sure I’d never feel safety again.” 

Vox can see how much it costs Alastor to voice his pain, the shadows at his feet beginning to ripple like disturbed water. For once, he isn’t fighting an illusion. He’s facing the truth, and the gravity of it makes him feel like the room is spinning away from him.

“Not with you,” Alastor continues, hurt shining through his ruby eyes, “Not with anyone.”

Vox can’t look away, though he wants to. The weight of Alastor’s stare pins him in place, the truth of it undeniable. “I… never meant to take that from you. I never wanted to make you feel that way.”

Alastor’s smile crystallizes into something icy, a shield of cold indifference that slams into place, cutting off any sign of weakness. “And yet.”

Vox wants to apologize with his every breath but it hasn’t soothed Alastor before. He’s at a loss, all he can see now is the pain he’s caused, the wreckage he’s left behind. “Al, I hurt you. I know I did. I can never undo that mistake.” He whispers, pushing away from the door frame, desperate to reach out but too afraid to follow through. “But I’m trying. I want to be there for you.” 

Alastor’s lips twist into a bitter smile. “And how will you do that, Vox? A fresh set of excuses?” His laughter is devoid of warmth. “Even today you tried to spin it as my fault.”

“That was before we talked.” Vox takes a step forward, panic starting to crawl into his chest. “That’s not what I’m doing now!”

Alastor scoffs, the sound harsh, but it fades into something weaker, a shaky exhale. “You’ve always had a talent for telling yourself it’s not as bad as it clearly is. Isn’t that why you make the Love Potion?”

“That’s not even—” Vox fumbles for a defense, blindsided. “That’s not my product. There’s—a- a disclaimer, for fuck’s sake.” The words feel hollow even as he says them. 

“You market it.” Alastor’s eyes burn with accusation. “You allow that poison to exist.” 

“I market what Hell wants, Alastor! The Vees don’t create the demand. We just give them what they’re already begging for.” His voice rises, desperate, trembling at the edges. “Everyone is forced to play the same game or get chewed up by this place. Hell’s a fucking slaughterhouse, and we’re all just trying to get through eternity with our skin intact. Money... it’s how I survive, Alastor. It’s how I’m able to protect me and mine."

Alastor’s ears snap backwards, his shoulders tensing beneath the tight fold of his arms. “You willingly slap your name on something that ruins people’s lives and dismiss it as business?” 

"Don’t stand there and pretend you see demons as people. You— you fucking hypocrite!” Vox’s screen flickers violently, a flash of electricity hissing over his body, "You, the fucking Radio Demon, tearing souls apart for entertainment. You eat people alive, Al. They’re nothing to you— just cattle." 

Alastor’s eyes narrow dangerously, his silence daring Vox to go on.

“But you wouldn’t let Rosie sink her teeth into Mimzy. Or Husk.” Vox cautiously steps toward him, his words spilling out in a panicked rush, “Don’t you get it? I care because it's you! I don't give a fuck about the people in Hell, I can’t save them, I can’t stop all the horrible shit that happens down here. But I can protect those who matter to me— from the monsters around us, from the monsters we’ve become.” 

Vox’s claws flex at his sides, burning with the need to touch him. “I never wanted anything like that to happen to you. I never wanted to hurt you. Never.” 

Alastor eases away from him, “You’ll always be that person. You can upgrade yourself a thousand times, but you’ll never outrun what you’ve done.”

The words cut into something fragile, striking at the foundation of who Vox is— what he’s built himself to be. “Shut up,” he sounds weak and broken, the suffocating pressure in his chest squeezing until he can barely breathe. “I’m not the same— I’m… I’ve evolved."

A low, predatory chuckle escapes Alastor’s lips. His shadow sharpens, dark tendrils reaching toward Vox like some involuntary action before they jerk back to settle below. “No matter how many souls you collect, how much money and power you claw from this place… it’ll never be enough, will it? In the end, you’ll still be left alone with your own self loathing.”

“That’s why,” Alastor traps Vox under that stare, “you always act so small.” 

Vox’s breath stutters, static crackling around him as his vision warps. Alastor leans in, and the world feels too close, the air too thick, and he realizes with a sickening lurch that he’s cowering before him. 

Small.

Alastor tilts his head, the sudden excitement in his eyes matching the subtle growth of his height, as if he’s anticipating a fight. “Who knows,” He muses thoughtfully, “Maybe it was your repulsive, inhuman face that did it.”

That face reflects in Alastor’s eyes, warped and distorted like a funhouse mirror, and it makes him want to scream. Hot tears blur his vision, and he turns his head sharply, desperate to blink them away. 

The pulsing noise of radiowaves falters, the buzz of demonic power subsiding as Alastor’s body returns to normal. There’s a deep, frustrated sigh, the snap in his tone softening despite himself. “Do your business partners realize what a crybaby you’ve always been?” 

Vox’s chest rises and falls too fast, his hands clenching at his sides like he’s physically trying to hold himself together. “Why are you doing this?” His voice is a weak rasp, his trembling fingers swiping at the tears, trying to erase them, to pull himself together. He hates it— he hates feeling this weak, this vulnerable in front of the radio demon. But he can’t stop it. His hands clench into fists, but the trembling continues.

The sigh comes softer now, Vox can barely hear it over the rush of his own panic. Slowly, carefully, Alastor wraps his arms around Vox’s waist from behind, his movements hesitant, unsure whether he’s crossing a line. His chin barely touches Vox’s shoulder, as if he's nervous Vox will crumble beneath the weight. 

Vox’s fingers clutch at Alastor’s shirt cuffs, holding his arms tight against his bare chest. How wrong it is, that Alastor comforts him.

“It would be much simpler,” Alastor’s quiet words are a breath against his neck, “if I could hate you.”

The tears come heavier, unrestrained, rivers of shimmering light rolling down his screen. Everything they’ve buried is crashing down at once, each tear a fracture in their game.

“Alastor,” The name is almost lost in a sob, “I’m a piece of shit. I know that. And you… you don’t owe me anything— not forgiveness, your trust, a… s-second chance… n-nothing.” His voice cracks as he clings tighter, starving for a comfort he can’t justify. “I don’t deserve you.” 

Alastor’s claws flex as though torn between pushing Vox away and pulling him closer. Then a decision is made, and he presses against him, the warmth of his body sinking into Vox’s back. A gesture that feels like acceptance, an indication that maybe he’s finally done something right. 

In the long silence, Alastor takes a deep breath, and when his voice finally comes, it’s gentler than Vox has heard in years. “You’ve always felt so deeply, Vox.” His thumb skims over Vox's sharp collarbone, lingering just enough to show the hesitation beneath his touch. “The anger, pain, the passion, the way you process everything… You never hold back.” His tone lacks its usual sharp edge— no cutting sarcasm, just a quiet confession. “It's… something I've always envied about you.”

It’s a cruel irony to envy this pathetic mess of emotion. Alastor’s calm is unshakable. He’s never cried, at least not in front of Vox. What if he can’t? The thought sinks in, a quiet, unspoken tragedy.

Alastor’s cheek rests on Vox’s trembling shoulder. “When I was severed all those years… it was the small memories I clung to. Like how you can never sit still when you really start laughing, like your feet are catching joy.”

“Why, why are you…” Vox doesn’t understand, yet he craves kindness from Alastor like a starving man longs for a taste of something forgotten. He twists in his embrace and collapses against him, his knees hitting the floor as Alastor is pulled down to settle on the edge of the bed. His face presses into Alastor’s chest, arms trembling as they wrap tightly around his waist. The sobs wrack his body, vulnerable in a way he hasn’t allowed himself in decades.

Alastor’s hand slowly glides to the nape of Vox’s neck, holding him steady. “It wasn’t your face,” He whispers as if someone might overhear, “I’ve always liked it.” His cheek rests against the top of Vox’s head, softly stroking the edge of his casing. “No matter how much you remake yourself, you’re still my picture box.”

‘My picture box.’ The words short circuit everything Vox thought he knew. Each syllable pulses through him, and he clings to them, desperate to make them real. For the first time in what feels like eternity, he feels like he belongs. He vows not to push, to accept only what he’s given, but he’s terrified of the inevitable shatter of it all, knowing Alastor will pull away and take it back.

“I’m sorry, I’m so fucking sorry,” He gasps out the mantra until his sobs begin to fade, softening into uneven breaths. He has no idea how much time passes, but he holds on as tight as he can, feeling the steady rhythm of Alastor’s hand tracing lines across his shoulders.

“It could have been simple…” Alastor’s touch stills for a moment, hovering just above his back, and the silence between them grows heavier. He doesn’t finish the thought and Vox mumbles into his chest, his question nearly lost in the fabric but imploring all the same. The radio demon relents, a low sigh escaping him. “Easier, perhaps. I set the stage to give us a clean exit. A proper fight.” 

Vox attempts to shake his head, but the angular expanse of his screen catches against Alastor’s body, the motion stuttering to a halt. Frustration flares in him, and he squeezes his eyes shut, pressing closer as if he could burrow into Alastor and hide from the world. “You don’t get to decide that for me.”

Alastor’s response is a subdued hum of acknowledgement, though it’s impossible to read agreement or dissent in the ambiguous sound. 

Vox breathes through the silence, his heart hammering as the weight of everything unsaid churns inside him. He doesn’t want Alastor to leave. Not yet. Slowly, he pulls back just enough to meet Alastor’s eyes, the movement feeling monumental, like dragging himself out of quicksand. The back of his hand rubs at his screen, smearing streaks across the glass that only blur his vision further, but he doesn’t care. There’s something burning on his tongue, a question that refuses to be silenced any longer. 

“Al…” Vox’s voice cracks, throat tightening around his name. “Did you… did you really hate the bar? The record store?” He swallows hard, his voice dipping into a quiet whisper. “I need to know.”

Alastor tilts his head, eyebrows raising with mild surprise. “Have you been waiting seven years to ask me that?” His lips twitch into a faint, almost sad smile before it fades. “I doubt you’ll appreciate my answer.”

Vox’s heart sinks, remembering the last time he saw him. He can picture them together among the brass accents on the bar, the rich mahogany counters and dim, vintage lamps, across from a small stage for live music. Below that, the record store— two floors of jazz, soul, and blues stacked in neat rows, each album a piece of their history. He’d designed it just as they always planned.

“It was meant to be an apology, but more than words. I thought if I showed you our dreams were still possible, then— maybe…” A grand romantic gesture disguised as a business proposition. One he’d been so convinced would fix it all.

“You built it in your territory.” Alastor says quietly, tone measured. Unreadable. “When we weren’t even on speaking terms. If it was to be built at all, it should have been together.”

Vox sits back on his hunches to shake his head, his hands fidgeting on Alastor’s legs. “Don’t pretend you ever would have worked with me on it.”

“I’m not pretending.” Alastor’s smile twists, so close to a frown. “That’s why it never should have been built.”

Hesitating only a heartbeat, Vox’s arms snake back around him to pull him close, as if holding him could soften the truth. “I know,” He sighs, trying to let the bitterness go, to accept the mistake for what it was. The bar is still there, untouched, a monument to a future that never happened. “I haven’t remodeled. I couldn’t. It… reminds me of you.”

There’s always a chance he will, but Alastor doesn’t pull away. His hand strokes his back in slow, calming motions. The tenderness in his touch is jarring, as though something between them has cracked open forever.

Alastor’s voice sounds far away in thought, “Everything seems to remind me of you.” 

Vox looks up, surprised, expecting the usual coldness, but something unravels there— exposed for only a heartbeat before Alastor turns his head, one ear twitching as if suppressing the urge to run. He feels the weight of ‘everything’ land inside him and his heart stumbles in his chest, realizing how deeply he's carved his place in Alastor’s world, despite all the distance, all the hurt. A place he’d spent his afterlife trying to prove he deserved.

“I tried to let you go.” Alastor blinks hard and his shoulders draw up ever so slightly. The air thickens with shadows that creep along the walls, reaching for them as he exhales, finally releasing years of repressed tension. “But you’re everywhere.” 

In that moment, both of them are laid bare— two broken creatures, trying and failing to escape the inevitable gravity that keeps pulling them back together. Desperation lingers in the air between them, unspoken.

“Is that the problem, you didn’t think you’d care?” Vox’s question slips through the silence, a challenge laced with painful understanding. He watches as Alastor’s back stiffens, his slim frame rigid with the weight of the truth neither of them can fully deny. “You came back thinking you could hate me, but you feel it too, don’t you?”

Alastor’s eyes flicker away, a slight quiver in his chin that Vox’s finely tuned sensors can’t miss. “What I feel doesn’t matter.”

“It matters,” Vox says softly, just a little push. “You know it does.” 

“No.” Alastor whispers, and he looks so out of control for a moment. He doesn’t want to face it. His breath sounds shallow, ears pinned back as he pulls away, the warmth of his body gone in an instant. “I told you! I told you nothing would change.”

“It already has.” Vox breathes the truth of it. Before Alastor can retreat, he latches onto his wrist, squeezing, stopping Alastor where he stands. “There’s no point running away. Hell isn’t big enough to keep me from you.”

“You think I’m running from you?” Alastor wrenches his arm free, “This is survival.” The words twist with desperation, matching the clench of Alastor’s claws at the front of his white shirt. “And your crocodile tears won't stop me from getting all I need from you.”

Vox stays where he is, kneeling beside the bed. He presses a hand to his bare chest, feeling the faint hum of his circuits, and the absence of those Alastor's claws severed— a reminder of everything he’s tried to salvage. “What more is there?” 

"You’ll help me deal with her. My patron.” Alastor whispers, and Vox feels a chill through the air, as if the darkness is listening, waiting for a crack to slip through. As if the very mention of her conjures a presence, invoking a curse.

Shadows rise at Alastor's hooves, coiling up his legs like shackles. “If you refuse,” His voice falters, just a hitch, and his gaze flickers wildly to the corners of the room before sharpening with resolve. “I will ruin all you’ve built.”

Vox looks up at him, watching the way the dim light carves Alastor into a silhouette— an untouchable figure cast in shadow. He’d asked for help earlier, then tried to dismiss it so casually when Vox refused. But now there’s cold determination in Alastor's eyes. A threat— yes. But there’s misery and guilt there, too. A guilt Vox has glimpsed all night, though he’s only now beginning to understand its depth. 

“I warned you.” Feedback fills the space between Alastor’s words, echoing the cries of those he’s consumed— desperate, pleading— only to be swallowed by the hiss of silence. “This is the only way I know how to be.”

Chapter Text

Every pleasure has its poison. Isn’t that what Alastor said? The words come back now like a whispered taunt, curling around his ribcage, tightening with each heartbeat.

The moment the scratch of the radio fades, Vox watches Alastor smother all his emotions with that ever present grin. That smile is as charming and false as ever, and Vox would give anything to claw that infuriating smirk off his face. To pry into the layers of that twisted mind, to unravel his tangled thoughts and finally make sense of him. 

“How could you do this to me?” The question spills out, weaker than Vox intends.

Alastor chuckles, and it’s a forced, lilting sound, like a carnival tune played just slightly off key. “How could I not?”

The ugly, bitter truth sinks inside him and burns all the way down. Alastor spewing threats and angling for a favor is predictable, a well worn script he’s seen too many times. Hell is a kingdom of scavengers, where no one gives without expecting twice in return. There's a twisted comfort in the familiarity of it, a perverse satisfaction that he had been right about Alastor’s intentions, no matter how bitter the taste.

The vindication doesn’t last long, and Vox’s hand flexes against his chest, the sting of his claws dull compared to the frustrated scream trying to claw its way up his throat. He can’t let it tear free— he can’t allow another slip, another moment of weakness. Pride steels his resolve. He has to be smarter than this. Stronger. 

So Vox steadies his breathing, shoring up the cracks in his defenses. He splinters his mind, flitting between camera feeds, diffusing his awareness through fragmented viewpoints, a mosaic of pixels. He becomes a ghost in the comforting quiet of his own surveillance network, observing the scene from afar, watching himself and Alastor as if they’re characters in a film— an echo of reality, but the weight of emotion becomes cold observation, remote and intangible.

A voyeur into their shared misery. 

Vox rises from his knees, his movements unsettling in their calmness. Alastor, despite all his bluster, steps aside instinctively as Vox brushes past him. He hears the click of Alastor’s hooves follow him out of the bedroom, toward the glassy bar that takes the place of a formal dining room, its polished surfaces gleaming under the ambient light. 

So many cameras out here, a dozen watchful eyes. All the better to see you with.  

Pulling a bottle of whiskey from the shelf, two glasses clink against the counter as Vox pours with a steady hand. Curious ruby eyes watch him closely when Alastor thinks Vox isn’t looking. 

“We’re both out in the open now.” Vox finally says, raising a glass to his lips, pausing only to sneer. “Might as well fucking drink. A toast to the farce!” He turns, spreading his arms wide in a broad gesture to the cameras mounted to the walls. “So this is me,” His laugh comes sharp and humorless as he tips his glass toward Alastor. “And here you are, dancing the same dance like a thousand times before."

Alastor stands tall and elegant by the bar, lifting his glass with long fingers, unfazed. Dark sleeve garters hug his arms, his white shirt crisp and starched, the picture of timeless grace that dares Vox to look closer, to want him, even now. “Well, the classics never go out of style,” he smirks behind the glass as if he’s read his mind, “and you do spin so nicely on cue.” 

Vox glowers at him, but his mind isn’t on Alastor— at least, not fully. He’s running the numbers, analyzing the verbiage of their deal earlier, every word and implication scrutinized. 

He’s still rapt with attention at the press of the glass against those lips, the way ruby eyes fall closed to savor the taste. A stray drop clings to the corner of his mouth, and Vox feels his attention narrowing with the kind of hungry focus that brought them into this mess. It’s a sight that brings back images of Alastor red faced and panting, long legs stretched out beneath him.

His hand flexes for his phone but doesn’t see it in any of the live feeds. He doesn’t remember where he left it last. It would have been a welcome extra layer of distraction to guard against Alastor.

Pathetic, really. But no worse than breaking down in your rival’s arms.

There’s a bite of shame at how easily he’d fallen apart, how weak he must’ve looked. Had Alastor planned for that? Had he wanted Vox to feel powerless?

He brushes his consciousness against the feed, just enough to touch the messages from Val. Of course there are dozens. Val can’t hide how desperately he wants him, how he craves attention from his luzita nocturna. Vel too, there’s an outage with one of the VoxTek systems and she can’t fix the code. They both sound needy for different reasons and he loves the heady rush it brings. It’s not only them, he has hundreds of messages and all of it is need.

Vox extends his reach, sending a ping through the network like a heartbeat reverberating across Hell. He threads himself into the city’s veins, feeling the pulse of each screen and the flicker of every camera lens. He’s no longer confined to one form; he’s a lattice of electricity, a web of eyes watching and unseen, his essence tangled in the gridwork of Hell. The sheer volume of input surges through him, but instead of overwhelming him, it grounds him in the hum of millions of connections.

Powerless is the last thing the media demon could ever be.

Alastor looks smug, confident, back in his element. His ability to counter his moves, to dismantle and disrupt broadcasts has always been a problem, but he still views him as merely a TV demon, an idiot box, blind to how much he’s grown with new technology. 

The cold edge of business sharpens Vox’s focus. This could be his chance to secure VoxTek against a threat.  

On a hunch, he texts his assistant. A casual statement, that he appreciated the coverage while he dealt with the Radio Demon. By the rules of their earlier pact, any mention of Alastor never should have gone through. It sends, and a moment later, he sees the indicator: Read. 

Vox’s narrowed eyes flick to Alastor and stay there, trained on him. 

Black tipped ears twitch back as Alastor bares his teeth. “Don’t look at me like that. As if this is a betrayal.”

“Of course not. It’s business.” Surprise frets across Alastor’s eyes, but the two of them smile all the same. 

There is only one weakness in the verbiage of Alastor’s deal: a 12-hour blackout period, starting with my arrival at your door.  

Vox is flipping through hours of camera feeds in seconds, and there it is. A subtle distortion of pixels glitching right outside his front door, exactly twelve hours before Alastor had knocked. 

“You were here at noon yesterday. The muzzle agreement doesn’t cover any of our time together.” Vox pauses to finish his drink, the bite of the whiskey far away, leaving only a smooth, familiar warmth. He watches himself move toward Alastor, a metallic claw tapping on the glass tink tink tink in time with each step. “You plan to use tonight to blackmail me.”  

“Got it in one try. Impressive!” The musical lilt to Alastor’s voice oozes with false praise. 

“Don’t tell me you want to go public, make it official?” Vox purrs as he leans in, setting his glass on the bar with a casual movement, but there’s nothing casual about the way he braces one arm on the counter, effectively boxing Alastor in. 

“You truly believe you have the upper hand? How adorable.” But Alastor leans ever so slightly away from him, giving away his discomfort. “Agree to assist with my patron and I will adjust the time frame, ensuring our… privacy.”

Vox’s eyes glint as he looms closer, his voice dropping to a husky whisper. “But doll, I’d love all of Hell to know how desperate you were for my dick up your ass.”

Alastor’s tense, unnatural grin is locked in place, his mouth stretched too wide, too still. The subtle eye twitch isn’t missed. “You have no proof of what we’ve done, no footage. And yet, I have all the audio.” His lips remain still while his voice oozes from nowhere, creeping into every corner of the room like a whisper from the void. “So much to work with, in fact…” 

Alastor’s pupils spin, snapping into dials, and Vox hears it— his own voice— confessing to trying to fuck him while he was passed out. Alastor didn't even have to tie it to himself, his words were damning enough on their own. The radio demon’s low, malevolent laugh cackles, skipping through frequencies, each one layering Vox’s pathetic sobs over weepy pleas for forgiveness. He hears his dismissal of the Love Potion, admitting he didn’t give a shit about what happens to the people of Hell. At every turn, he didn’t just take the bait, he’d tied the line around his neck and pulled.

A jagged burst of static cuts the audio like a severed signal line.

There’s danger in Vox’s silence. A restraint more menacing than any outburst could be.

He watches Alastor with a fury that waits, a silent promise of retribution for every stolen word, every exposed fragment of weakness. He calculates, gathering information, ready to strike the moment he knows exactly where to sink his teeth.

“Now, remind me… what’s your brand, Vox? Perfection, wasn’t it? Your platform, that you care. And the slogan— ah, I remember— trust us.” Alastor’s form wavers, darkening as he fades into shadow. His sharp grin is the last to disappear but his echoing voice continues, “I’ve always thought that particular choice was as misguided as they come. In Hell, only you would pick a pedestal so high a gust of hot air could send you plummeting.” He materializes close behind Vox in the feed, and he tries to ignore the warmth of his breath tickling his casing. 

Bare but for his black underwear, Vox’s shoulders are squared and tense, hands clasped behind his back with the authority of a man who might as well be dressed in a full business suit. Even stripped down, he exudes an effortless confidence that makes the room feel like his boardroom.

Alastor isn’t the only one who can hide behind a mask.

Vox’s tone is dangerous. “This is not the road you want to go down with me.” 

“Oh, I never intended for things to go this way, old pal. As sentimental as you are, I thought you’d leap at the opportunity the first time I requested assistance— so humbly, I might add.” In the feeds, Alastor’s cane reappears with a spin, then he tucks it under his arm with a shrug of a thin shoulder, with such casual, infuriating allure. 

“But you know me, always prepared,” Alastor whispers, still close, “These recordings are simply my insurance policy, a contingency of sorts. You understand.” Vox stays silent as Alastor keeps talking, his calm practiced, a mental calculation meant to throw Alastor off balance. It’s the first rule of negotiation— whoever speaks first, loses. “After such a delightful evening, it’s only fair I get something in return.”

A smirk twists Vox’s lips as he turns, locking eyes with Alastor. “Did you really whore yourself out to me for a fucking favor?”

Oh, Alastor doesn’t like that. 

“Whore myself to you?” The lights in the penthouse shudder.

“A slutty sycophant, maybe?” Vox’s smile sharpens, and with each heartbeat pulse of light Alastor’s body elongates, thin, wiry limbs stretching as bones crack from the unnatural growth. 

“You think I’d crawl to you by choice?” Alastor towers over him in seconds, antlers twisting from his skull, branching out like the gnarled limbs of a dead tree. “Seven years I rotted in darkness, Vox— seven! I would burn every soul in Hell before I’d wear her chains again.” 

The dark pits of Alastor’s eyes flash, and he looks furious enough to tear the whole room apart. “If that means burning through you, so be it!”

Patterns of circuits hum to life around them, glowing angular veins zigzagging across the walls and floor, as if the room itself is a vast motherboard, alive and self aware, triggered by Vox’s call. Of course he, the professionally paranoid, fortified his home into a bastion of his power.

"So we’re doing this as beasts then?” Cables appear from hundreds of hidden ports, racing towards Vox like digital tributaries converging on a central power. They drop from the ceiling and slither up his legs, surging under his skin, burrowing into his back and fusing with his arms, an amalgamation of wires feeding him their energy.

Alastor has to feel it, the sparks popping in the air as the electromagnetic field around them thickens. The sharp tang of ozone sears lungs and prickles the skin like a warning. 

“Fight me, and you’ll lose.” Alastor meets the threat of Vox with a grin so unnatural his jaw unhinges with a sickening snap, revealing rows of jagged, razor sharp teeth. “The powers of Hell are colliding, and when the dust of war settles, I will be free. I’ll strike when she’s weakest, align with whoever can bring her down, and I’ll take back what’s mine— my soul, my freedom.”

Vox’s form begins to swell until he matches Alastor’s height, until his broad shoulders brush against the ceiling. Armored cables can be seen moving under his dark skin like serpents, the reinforced steel casing melding with muscle and sinew. 

With a final crack, Vox’s screen snaps sideways, rotating into a diamond shape that centers a single, pulsing eye. “You signed away your soul, Alastor.” When he speaks, his voice splinters, deepening into a chorus that spills from every speaker in the penthouse. One voice, a hundred strong. “Deal with it yourself. This is not my fight.” 

That serpentine grin spreads ever further across Alastor’s split face, "It is now."

The two of them stand as monstrous horrors, every inch between them heavy with a deadly, electric heat that hovers on the edge of violence. “Then name your fucking terms.” 

Alastor slams a large palm into the ceiling, claws gouging deep into the plaster as he leans in close. He grits his teeth, seething, before he is able to reel it in with a smile. “A rare compliment from me, Vox, so savor it! Even I have to acknowledge the power you wield. You’ve stretched your reach farther than any of the overlords. And you can compel your audience." Skeletal fingers that seem to drink in the light around them rise to tap just below his hypnotic eye. "With a rousing call to arms, you could rally this entire city, turn them on a true enemy. My enemy.” 

Alastor brushes his thumb softly across the glass. “That’s the type of favor that will come knocking at your door, one day. I’ll expect nothing less than your best.”

“You expect me and my people to die for you, over your stupid fucking mistake.” Vox’s is a voice that is felt. His words vibrate through the wires embedded in the walls, a ripple of energy so intense that Alastor’s hair shivers with each syllable, the static lifting stray strands. 

"How easily you write off your life.” Alastor hums smugly, jerking Vox closer by the edge of his screen. “I plan to be on the side that wins."

Then Vox spots them. Eyes. Dozens of massive, dark eyes blink open along the walls, watching from every angle— black, endless. “She knows, you idiot.” Just as quickly, they all close, but the weight of her presence presses down on him, filling the space with suffocating awareness. “She knows you’re planning this.” 

Alastor shrugs, dismissing the implication with a dangerous chuckle. “She expects nothing less from me.”

“Stupidity or confidence— I really can’t fuckin tell.” 

"You know I never gamble, darling.” Alastor whispers, his long, tapering claws tightening slowly around his casing, his touch brimming with threat. “Not with my own survival, anyway. Now, be a dear and agree to my favor, won’t you?” 

Vox’s hand shoots out, gripping Alastor’s wrist in a hold that grinds his thin bones together. His navy, glowing skin snaps with electricity that races down Alastor’s arm, his expression twisting as the shock lances up his spine.

He knows without a doubt Alastor would drain every ounce of his power without hesitation, burn through him like fuel in a matchstick, just for the slim chance to wriggle free of his own miserable deal. 

"You will amend the terms to never interfere with my business.” Vox counters with a snarl, the wires along his body thrumming, filling the room with an almost unbearable electric pressure. 

“Ha!” Alastor easily jerks his wrist free, “You’re hardly in a position to negotiate." Impatience fractures his composed mask and morphs into something primal and hungry. “I’ve seen your suffering, it leaves me wanting. But don’t think for a moment I won’t bury you.”

Their faces are close enough Vox’s sensors catch the faint scent of decay that clings to Alastor in this form. "I could ruin you just as easily. I don’t need real footage to drag your name through the fucking dirt." 

“Enough!” Alastor’s sudden scream booms, heavily distorted by static. “You’ll take nothing else from me!” He turns sharply as darkness snaps over him like a shroud and his form is instantly back to normal. Looming behind him, his shadow remains monstrous, towering, its twisted antlers stretching wide across the walls. 

“If you want to make up for what you did, this is it!” Alastor’s cane cuts sharply through the air, his lips pressed into a thin, bitter line. He clenches the cane tightly in both hands, his shoulders rising and falling with the force of his breaths. “I’ll do anything to escape her. Anything. And if fucking you is the price, then consider yourself paid.” 

Vox can feel himself contracting, as wires that once arched out from his back and shoulders like a defensive array now retract, spiraling back to the ceiling or down his spine and arms, folding into him, pulsing with power. The glow beneath his skin flares brightly, illuminating the room in a cascade of electric blue that throws Alastor’s form into sharp, jagged shadows. For a moment, the light is so intense that it’s hard to look at him directly, his body a neon blaze against the dark. Then, slowly, it fades, sinking beneath his skin, leaving only the faint, pulsing circuitry beneath.

“Alastor,” Vox says his name as soon as his normal face reappears. He sounds exhausted and the feeling settles into his very bones. This day, this deal, his damn lives— all of it. “Tell me that isn’t the only reason you did this.” 

Alastor sneers at him, one ear twitching. “Do we have a deal?”

“Answer me!”

A single eyebrow lifts, Alastor’s mouth twisting to barely conceal the predator's snarl lurking behind it. He lets the silence fester, tilting his head just so, studying Vox with the kind of patience reserved for prey on the brink of defeat. Vox’s growl breaks the stillness, sharp and furious, knowing he’s closing in without even moving.

His image, his reputation— it’s the foundation of Vox’s influence. Alastor, for all his charm and unsettling cheer, rules through fear, his victims’ screams across the radio waves an effective warning. Vox, though— Vox has earned adoration. The masses love what he and the Vees peddle, the comforts, pleasures and distractions they provide. He is supposed to be the smart one, cleancut, traditional, the reasonable one.

He’s already lived through the fall of public favor while he was alive. Velvette may be a PR magician, but Alastor is a problem she can’t contain, the one broadcast beyond his control. This accusation would cling to him for decades, the question in every interviewer’s mouth. The sneers, the shame, and worse, the comparisons— to be dragged down to Valentino’s level. It would tip the Vee’s carefully balanced brand irreparably. That, above all, is a thought he cannot bear. 

But could he agree to the Radio Demon’s goddamn favor? It’s a gamble that could sap his power, but it is an uncertain outcome in an unknown time frame, not an immediate punishment. Only days ago Alastor humiliated him on a live broadcast, tearing through his defenses without breaking a sweat. The cringe and disappointment from his business partners had been palpable. It is too soon, too soon for another monumental fuck up involving Alastor. 

The contract offers him what he needs most: time— time to maneuver, to reclaim control and scheme his way out. Time to keep his empire intact, his ambition burning. 

He has to take it. There is no other option.

Alastor knows it, too. He steps forward, hand outstretched, the maddening return of his smug smile saying it all. 

Vox seizes Alastor by the collar, twisting the fabric tight, and slams him against the bar with a force that rattles the bottles overhead. He presses the muscular line of his body close and crushes their mouths together, sealing the deal with a harsh kiss. Alastor doesn’t kiss back, but the energy coils around them all the same, heightened by the increased strength they’d gathered to transform. 

Vox means to let him go, but instead his fingers slide up, threading through Alastor’s hair, cradling the back of his skull with a rough tenderness. The urge to take him burns hot, a desperate need to lose himself in a place where thoughts can’t reach. How much time did they have left? Would Alastor still— his gaze locks onto wide ruby eyes, his hands framing that handsome face as he leans in, dragging him into another kiss— slow at first, then surging, furious, possessive. 

"Tell me you love me," Vox whispers against Alastor’s lips, a command barely masking the plea beneath. “Lie to me, Alastor.” He craves the words, just once, just for tonight, where no one else will ever know. If Alastor gives him that, it might just make everything worth it. “Please.”

Please…

Alastor flashes that polished, untouchable smile. It’s the same smile that once made Vox feel invincible. Now it’s hollow, an empty symbol of something dead between them— a grave marker.

The quiet is soul crushing. 

A snarl rips from Vox, his claws twisting sharply into Alastor’s skin. “I paid for my fucking whore,” He hisses against Alastor’s cheek, gripping his thigh as he bullies him onto the edge of the counter, forcing his way between Alastor’s long legs. “I want my money’s worth.”

Alastor’s crimson eyes flash with fury, wild, defiant, but his ears dip ever so slightly, that honest flash of emotion piercing. His claws flex in Alastor’s soft hair and suddenly he’s remembering his first touch of a fox pelt as a child. Dirt poor, he’d never felt anything so luxurious. It had felt wrong though. Beauty like that is only meant to be admired, yet here he is, seized by a hunter’s instinct to own, even if it means destroying the very thing he wants most.

Vox’s grip tightens one last time before he forces himself to let go, shoving Alastor away and stumbling a few steps backward. His stomach turns, his fists trembling at his sides. “I— I’m—” He swallows another useless apology, “I’m fucking done. Just get out!” 

Vox walks away, leaving Alastor and every temptation to hold on behind. The bedroom door slams behind him, but the hatred— the want— still burns under his skin, hot and restless with nowhere to go. He doesn’t stop moving, pacing like a caged beast before finally stripping down and stepping into the shower. The scalding water feels like penance, stinging the jagged gashes Alastor left across his back and chest. 

He braces his forearms against the cold tile, head bowed, fists clenched as he chokes down the rising sob. An overlord, breaking down in the shower? Pathetic. He refuses to be the weak link in their trio, Val and Vel can never know he made a deal to play cavalry to his worst enemy.

All it took was one night. One reckless, desperate night to hand Alastor the perfect weapon against him, and he’d given him the ammunition without even thinking. The twisted, gutting irony digs deep, fueling the urge to rage and hurt and destroy. He had seven long, empty years to tear Alastor out of his heart, to harden himself, to finally move on. Instead, he’d tied a noose that could tear apart his partnerships, destroy his following, and drain him of decades of hard earned power.

All to get his dick wet.

Anger slowly overtakes his disgust, becoming sharp, searing, consuming every thought until all he feels is fire. It’s blinding, intoxicating— a comfort. Rage is a weapon he knows well, an old companion sharp enough to cut through anything, even the ache of regret. And if he can’t reverse what happened, he can damn well destroy who caused it. His claws dig into his palms, grounding himself in the sting, as the searing heat crystallizes into cold clarity. 

There isn’t a debt if Alastor is fucking dead. 

The thought unfurls like a promise, filling him with a rare, chilling peace. He can almost feel the power of it in his hands, just within reach. Maybe then he’ll finally be free.

------

This is the best my friend Tori and I could do to try and make concept art for Vox’s demon form. He can absorb technology which impacts what it looks like, here it was mostly cables. Imagine if he transformed in his control center, adsorbing all the monitors and his sharks? Too cool not to try and make art of!

Chapter Text

When Vox steps out of the bathroom, the steam clings to him, swirling faintly off his shoulders in the dim light of the bedroom. A towel hangs low on angular hips, beads of water trailing over dark skin, tracing paths along healing gashes and old scars.

Alastor is still there.

The radio demon sits neatly on Vox’s bed, legs crossed at the knee, fingers laced in his lap. The bed is freshly made, every fold of the comforter precise, each detail meticulous yet out of place in the chaos of their night. His expression looks almost serene, as though this is where he belongs… perfectly composed in a way that feels like a taunt. And why wouldn’t it be? Alastor has gotten everything he wanted. 

“Oh, you miserable bitch,” Vox hisses, one hand tightening on the edge of the towel. 

Alastor’s tone is light, amused. “Vox, the poet laureate of perdition himself.”

“Fuck you, you fucking—” Vox exhales sharply, arm snapping towards the door. “I told you to get the fuck out!”

“And I figured I owed you an explanation,” he says with a flick of his wrist, gaze drifting for a moment before meeting Vox’s. 

“What use are your excuses to me? Isn’t that how we’re playing this now, pal?” Vox knows better than to take him at face value. Alastor has always been a riddle with no answer, a game with no rules, and every word and gesture feels like bait. Vox can’t fall for it again.

“You’re the one who’s always asking why I’m like this…” Alastor’s words carry a practiced indifference, but the deflection doesn’t quite reach his eyes, too guarded to match the easy shrug of his shoulders. “If you’re so curious, allow me to enlighten you.” 

Of course Vox had asked before. Beneath all the biting insults, the grudging honesty, and the endless game for control, there was always that question. 

“Why would I trust a word you say?” Vox craves the insult surely waiting on the tip of Alastor’s tongue, because he wants to meet him there, unflinching. “This is my life Alastor, and you’ve already fucked it up!” 

But Alastor’s expression pinches, and his fingers twitch against his knee, a small, unconscious motion before he stills them. “I wouldn’t have come to you…” the words catch somewhere between his throat and his pride, “if there were anyone else.”

“Nobody else you’re willing to sacrifice, you mean.” Vox snaps, the heat of his anger flashing bright neon sparks along his skin, sizzling water droplets into steam. “I’ve heard enough bullshit outta you to last me another century. Just go, leave.”

Vox is sure Alastor will take the out, slinking off to bury his secrets under layers of false charm and sass like always. Instead, there’s no quip, no radio filter, no buzzing frequencies. Alastor’s voice is soft, startlingly human, “But then… you’ll never know.”

You’ll never know.

That catches like a hook in Vox’s chest, tugging at instinct. A fragment of control, a slice of power— a possible advantage. A key to Alastor’s carefully guarded vault of secrets. There’s a certain possession in understanding, and Vox feels the hunger for it coil low in his gut. He wants to resist, to throw Alastor out and bury whatever part of him still gives a damn. But there’s a crack, small but widening, where his anger can’t quite drown out his curiosity. A part of him that still wants to understand why.

Maybe he can’t resist one last taste of Alastor’s attention, however fleeting…

“Fuck!” Vox’s fist slams into the doorframe of the bathroom hard enough to rattle the hinges. “You piss me off so much,” he growls, striding toward the bed until his dusky shadow falls long over Alastor. His shoulders are tight with tension and the towel is loosening, slipping lower on his hips, but he doesn’t care. “You make me want to scream.”

“Oh, just sit down.” Alastor murmurs, ears bouncing with the tilt of his head toward the two glasses on the bedside table. “I took the liberty of preparing proper drinks. You could use one.” 

“Alastor,” Vox’s voice is quieter now, a low, dangerous warning. “If this is another game—”

“It’s not.” Alastor replies quickly, softly. “For once, it’s not.”

“For once he says!” Vox echoes with a bark of a laugh, storming into the walk-in closet to snatch a pair of pajama pants off a hanger with enough force to bend the wire.

At waist height, a sleek black device is mounted to the wall, its five apertures perfectly aligned for his clawed fingertips. He eyes the mouth of the closet before sliding his hand into place, and the machine hums to life. The sound is faint— barely louder than a whisper— but in the suffocating quiet of the room, it feels deafening. His gaze stays trained on the doorway, tension knotting his shoulders.

Inside the device, serrated clamps secure his claws with a soft click. The mechanism works quickly, unscrewing the metal tips and retracting them for storage. Preloaded angelic steel replacements whirl smoothly into place and lock with a clean snap. A familiar pinch of discomfort in his fingers signals the job is done. The entire process takes less than five seconds, but he can’t risk swapping both sets, so just one hand will have to do. 

The heavy weight of the angelic steel anchors his fury in something tangible. Their appearance is identical to his regular set, except for a faint iridescence that gleams under certain lights, betraying their heavenly composition. He flexes the deadly claws, and a sharp grin slowly overtakes his face.

Countless conflicting memories of Alastor tangle and knot in his mind. He focuses on that insufferable smirk— always so smug, so sure. He can still hear the sneer wrapped around every lie, feel the chain of Alastor’s blackmail at his throat.

It has to end. 

Vox pictures the moment in vivid detail: Alastor leaning in with that infuriating smile, and then the sharp, precise motion of Vox’s hand. His chest tightens with anticipation. The key is to stay calm, keep him talking, let him feel untouchable until the very second he’s not. Just one clean strike— quick, final, unavoidable.

Tossing the towel over his shoulder, Vox tugs on thin black pajama pants and practically stomps back into the bedroom. Alastor hasn’t moved from the bed, though one hand now cradles a glass of whiskey. His dark lashes rest on high cheekbones, his lips poised at the rim of his glass. 

There’s no sign Alastor noticed anything— no acknowledgment, no trace of suspicion. 

“Spit it out, then.” Vox stops abruptly at the foot of the bed, every muscle in his lean body taut. “Don’t make me guess what fresh hell you’re about to drag me into.”

Alastor glances to the side, his tongue darting out to wet his lips before he takes a sip of his drink. The glass lingers near his mouth like he’s forgotten it’s there. The air buzzes, searching, pushing to crawl under his skin. Alastor is nudging along their wavelength, but Vox stays closed to it completely. He refuses to feel it. 

“Use your goddamn words, Al.” Vox holds his searing gaze for a long, tense moment as the signal stubbornly pulses between them.

When it finally dissipates, Alastor looks away, ears flicking. The shadows seem drawn to the weight of his presence, softening the sharp angles of his handsome face. Vox turns from him, dropping onto the edge of the bed opposite to him, head in his hands. 

There’s the chime of ice cubes as Alastor polishes off his drink, and the pour of liquid when he makes himself another. Vox doesn’t look up, but he can hear the restless motion— the heavy clink as Alastor sets the bottle down, the impatient tilt of the glass, the quick gulp that follows. A third refill is poured and Vox bristles with irritation.

“Go ahead, drink yourself brave.” Vox mutters bitterly, “Maybe you’ll surprise us both and actually finish what you start.”

The slam of the glass on the nightstand is loud with the strength Alastor puts behind it.  

The silence between them stretches thin, fraying at the edges with every second that passes. Alastor’s fingers tap a slow, uneven rhythm against his knee. Vox’s circuits pulse faintly, his impatience buzzing tangible static through the room. “Well?” he snaps, the low growl of his voice breaking the quiet.

Alastor exhales slowly. “In my youth, my father treated my mother and I like slaves.”

Vox doesn’t lift his head, but his claws tighten around the edge of his casing. He doesn’t feel prepared— fuck, not for this. When they were friends, Alastor had rarely spoken about his life topside. Sure, he’d bragged about his career in radio, a significant accomplishment at the time with his mixed heritage. He’d made many fond comments about his mother, but Alastor had never once spoken of his childhood, or his father. 

“In his mind,” Alastor continues distantly, “I existed to serve. Cook and clean. To be seen, not heard. Just another thing in the house to hit when it suited him. I don’t remember a time when a hand reaching for me wasn’t…” 

Alastor trails off, then plucks up his drink again, the faint jingle of the ice punctuating the stillness. “Well. He was especially cruel to my mother. Mama— she stepped in every time, took the worst of it so I didn’t have to. Frail as she was, there was a strength in her I’ll never forget. She never flinched when it came to protecting me.”

His fingers squeeze the glass hard enough for those talons of his to scrape the crystal. “Her love for me… It made her weak, an easy target for him…” He shakes his head, hand trembling, and he tries to cover it by downing his drink. “I… I couldn’t bare to see it. I didn't want to be protected.”

Alastor sets the glass, empty once more, aside. “So, I took matters into my own hands. He had to go. And as luck would have it,” A humorless laugh escapes him, “it was a dealmaker who came to my aid.”

Vox lifts his head slightly, the glow of his screen casting faint blue light across the sharp lines of Alastor’s rare frown. “I was small. Weak. Of course my patron left me to my own devices, with only hatred as my guide. And I was sloppy.”

Alastor doesn’t look at him. His gaze drifts to the floor, staring blankly as though replaying a memory etched into his mind like a scar. “He beat me within an inch of my life.” His crimson claws uncoil to press his palm flat against his chest, “But I managed to cut deep, and he… fell on me. His weight... I was so small.” He grits his teeth, resenting the admission, “I was in agony. I couldn’t move him. Couldn’t breathe.”

Alastor’s claws curl slowly until they bite into the fabric of his shirt, his shoulders hunched, as though the weight of that body is pressing down on him again. 

“My father did not die quickly.” Alastor closes his eyes tight, “His blood soaked me through, his piss, sweat, stomach acid… I could feel every rattling breath, taste the rot of him in the air.” 

The details are grotesque, but it’s the quiet in Alastor’s voice that cuts deepest. “When mama found me… his corpse was long cold. Hours, I’d been trapped underneath him. Hours.” 

Vox’s stomach churns, his claws pressing hard into his knees, grounding himself against the unbearable image.

“…how old were you?” He barely manages to ask the question.

Alastor’s voice drops even lower. “Eleven.”

Vox exhales sharply, the sound loud in the quiet room. Eleven. The number rattles through his mind, impossible to reconcile with the powerful man sitting across from him. 

In life, the worst thing that ever happened to Vox was himself. 

Alastor’s smile twitches back into place, barely there. “That was only the first deal I made. The first mistake. The first lesson in what survival demands.”

There’s the blurred edges of what Alastor isn’t saying. About what came after— about the boy who walked out of that house covered in blood, the boy who learned what the world respected. The boy who killed again.

“I received all I desired in the end. My patron granted me power and success, enough that no one could touch me— figuratively or… literally.” Alastor’s meticulous facade, his walls, his distance. All of it rooted in that single, devastating truth. 

Vox’s gaze lingers on Alastor’s slender hands, the way his nails dig into his shirt. He thinks of Alastor’s reaction to his weight earlier— how he flinched at even the slightest pressure. How he kept his hands in front of his chest, just like now, trying to protect himself from something impossible to outrun. 

Vox hates it. Hates seeing his mistakes so clearly now, too little too late.

Suddenly, Vox feels like he cracks open. The sound that escapes him isn’t laughter— it’s twisted into the shape of a laugh. It bursts from his throat, on the edge of hysterical.

“So what?” he asks, sparks of cyan crackling against his dark skin. “You dump this— this sob story at my feet, and expect what? That I’ll forgive you? Do you think this makes swallowing your blackmail any easier?”

Alastor’s hands twist together, his nails biting into his palms. “Forgiveness? Don’t be absurd. I only want you to understand—” 

“Understand?” Vox rounds on him, pressing his palms into the mattress and leaning forward into his face. “What the fuck do you want from me, Al?! I’m not your fucking nursemaid or your goddamn priest! And you—” Vox stops short with another bitter laugh, the sound as jagged and painful as a broken bottle. “Defective from the start… isn’t that what you said?”

Alastor flinches, unmistakable hurt flashing across his face before he can mask it. “I’m not… ” His voice shakes, trembling with anger. His tight fists press hard against his knees. “Not anymore. It’s fixed. We— I did it. It’s done!”

Vox watches the words fall apart as soon as they leave Alastor’s mouth. They’re hollow, and he’s trying so hard to convince himself, to believe having sex could prove something, could erase decades of pain and avoidance. That crossing this line would somehow fix him.

And there’s something in the way Alastor clings to the lie— like a man trying to hold up a crumbling wall— that stabs at Vox harder than the words themselves.

It’s familiar.

That gnawing need to pretend you’re okay. That forcing of a smile when the cracks threaten to show. Vox feels the bitterness fracture in his chest, threatening to break apart into something soft he doesn’t want to name.

“That’s not how it works, Al.” His voice is quieter now, closer to exhaustion than anger. 

Alastor’s ears flatten, his lip curling into a sharp snarl. “Spare me your goddamn pity. I’m not broken— I’m not!” 

Vox’s claws flex, plucking at the fabric of the comforter like he might tear it apart. “You don’t just get to decide it's all behind you, choose to be fine. That’s not realistic, and you know it.” 

“I only told you this so you didn’t think—” Alastor yells, but his voice wavers. “So you didn’t think it was your fault! When I— I panicked, it wasn’t about you. It’s never been about you.”

It’s never been about you.

Vox’s mind races as the meaning of Alastor’s words settle over him. He opens his mouth, but the breath catches in his throat, tangled with everything he wants to say but can’t. He doesn’t know how to respond… he doesn’t know if he should.

Fuck. 

“I’m well aware it’s not realistic, Vox.” Alastor snaps, his hand clenching into his shirt. “But I hate that after all this time, all I’ve become, he still holds power over me. Someone always does.” His lips twist with disgust, “Just the thought of that sniveling little boy, pitiful, spineless, fucking worthless— too weak to stand on my own! And it’s still true— I’m- I can’t…” 

For the first time, Vox recognizes it: Alastor’s cruelty, the relentless push and pull between them was never about malice or control, not really. It was forged from a lifetime of weakness Alastor despised in himself, sharpened into something he could wield. It was about the boy who had crawled out from under his father’s corpse, who hadn’t learned how to be strong— only to never be vulnerable again. 

Weapons to fight against ghosts. Vox understands, because he’s been there. He knew Alastor would never quite kill them off. No matter how much blood he spilled in their name.

The sight of him like this, trembling, grates against every enduring instinct Vox has to protect him. He watches Alastor’s eyes dart away like he wishes he could snatch the words back and bury them behind the walls he’s built over lifetimes. Walls Vox has spent decades trying to tear down. He should let Alastor hide, but he can’t fight the maddening urge to comfort him.

Cautiously, Vox shifts closer. His shadow stretches long across the headboard as he reaches out. Alastor’s head tilts toward him, their gazes meeting in the dim light. It’s not trust in his eyes— right now, Vox knows better than to expect anything beyond tenuous and fragile. 

“I hate that I need your help,” Alastor whispers, “I shouldn’t need anyone.” 

Vox pulls Alastor closer like coaxing a feral creature to take food from his hand. Alastor freezes for a heartbeat, a statue caught between tension and doubt, before his body softens like ice thawing under heat. Slowly, he slumps into Vox, his cheek resting against his bare chest. 

The fabric of Alastor’s shirt is smooth against Vox’s skin as he wraps his arms around him. There’s a faint buzz in the air, and Vox’s antennae respond instinctively, a low frequency signal that hums in their bodies like the harmony of two hushed, sustained notes.

Yet, even here, even now, Alastor scoffs. The sound is abrupt, exaggerated— too loud to be anything but a defense. “Call tonight one stone, many birds,” he mutters, his claws curling tightly around Vox’s arm, gripping it not like an attack, but a lifeline. 

“I’ll admit, I did want to…” Vox tenses at the words, sensing a caveat lurking just behind them. Alastor keeps going, softer now, almost as if speaking to himself. “But I needed you to remind me who we are… what I can’t be.”

Dread settles in his stomach, but Vox asks anyway. “What can’t you be?”

Alastor’s gaze flicks upward, unguarded in a way that draws Vox in. “Soft,” Alastor murmurs, his voice quiet, dragged from somewhere deep. “Open.” His lips twist bitterly, as he exhales the last word like a confession. “Yours.”

“Stop,” Vox’s dangerous claws flex at Alastor’s waist, restless. “Just… stop, all right?” Please…

“I tried,” Alastor replies simply, flat and resigned. “From the very beginning, I knew I’d fall short of what you wanted.” His fingers betray him, tightening against Vox’s back, pulling closer and anchoring himself there. “But I couldn’t stay away.”

Alastor’s words take hold in the hollows of him, a pit of hurt where he’d prefer anger. The revelation devestates because it changes nothing. Alastor could bare his heart, but he’d never let Vox claim it.

Vox forces himself to let go, to untangle from those grasping hands. It feels like an act of self preservation— choosing distance over desolation— but when he falls back against the mattress, of course the ache remains. 

Alastor surprises him by moving to lie beside him, the bed dipping under his slight frame. He curls toward Vox, not touching, but the space between them is thin as a whisper. Those ruby eyes are staring up at the ceiling, unblinking, reflecting the faint glow of the city lights filtering through the curtains.

Vox is aware of every breath between them, the shallow rise and fall of his chest mirrored by Alastor’s. When Alastor’s hand lifts, it hovers hesitantly before the warm press of his palm finally meets the cool expanse of Vox’s chest, claws resting at his collarbone. The touch is impossibly light, delicate, but the weight behind everything it implies is crushing. His touch fills Vox with a fleeting warmth that fades into the cold reminder of how wrong they are together. 

Vox shifts onto his elbow, and though Alastor glances up at him, Vox’s gaze is solely focused on the elegant curve of his neck. Drawn to his collar, a claw snags on the top button of his white shirt. The slightest tug pops the button free, and the sound doesn’t mask the breath Alastor sucks in between his teeth. Cyan claws trail over the soft skin of his throat, razor points barely grazing the surface like the edge of a knife testing its sharpness. 

It would be so easy to end it. 

The thought slithers into Vox’s mind, insidious in its simplicity. One quick press. Just deep enough to sever tendons, to silence the voice that has consumed him for so long. No blackmail. No favor. The end of the radio demon.

Alastor shifts beside him, arching his neck like an offering. The long curve of it is exposed, pale in the dim light. He looks utterly relaxed under his claws, body boneless against the mattress. He stays silent, but his actions speak volumes: an invitation, a challenge, surrender. 

It’s almost over. Don’t overthink this.

Do it. 

My picture box. Alastor had said those words. 

Vox’s fingers tighten around his throat, and there’s a glint of teeth as Alastor’s lips part, his pink tongue slipping out to wet them. He leans up, nuzzling against the edge of Vox’s casing, butting their heads together like an affectionate cat. Warm breath ghosts over his neck, and the heat of it makes his blood burn.

Those striking ruby eyes remain fixed on Vox, lashes falling heavy like a curtain over his gaze. Vox swallows and looks away, down to the splay of red hair across the bedspread. He imagines it twining around his fingers, soft and vibrant— until the image warps. The red darkens, becoming wet and heavy. Blood clings to it in thick, sticky clumps, matting it against pale, lifeless skin.

Joan.

He hadn’t meant to hurt her— God, he hadn’t— but her wide, empty eyes still accuse him from the depths of memory. She’d tried to leave him when he needed her most. The network had dropped him. The embezzlement scandal was breaking wide open. 

Against fifteen years together, the fury was only seconds. One thoughtless shove. One terrible instant, and her skull cracked on the counter’s edge, that sickening sound... 

She was supposed to be safe in his hands, not broken by them. He’d promised to always protect her, to cherish her. He was the only one responsible. Just like the bullet he swallowed to escape all he’d done. 

And now, like Joan, Alastor was going to leave. 

An irrational madness takes hold of him— a desperate, all consuming urge to tear out Alastor’s heart and keep it locked away. Preserving their last night together…

Alastor would always be his.

With a sharp inhale, Vox jerks his hand away, the warmth of Alastor’s throat lingering like a phantom brand. The possessive fury claws at him, but he forces it back, burying the violence behind clenched teeth and trembling hands. He sits with his back to Alastor, shoulders slumped, fighting the rise of nausea. He wants to tear his fingers off digit by digit and scatter them somewhere far away from himself. 

Behind him, there’s a faint rustle of blankets. In the camera feed, he sees uncertainty fret across Alastor’s face. The demon’s hand hovers between them, as though he is reaching for something he doesn’t know how to ask for. The weight of every unspoken thought bears down on that single, unsteady gesture. 

When Alastor’s fingers spread across Vox’s shoulder blade, the touch is light and tentative, testing the edges of a flame. Their skin against each other is like walking through fire— searing, a burn that scars but makes him feel real in a way nothing else can.

Make me feel real. I want to matter.

The press of Alastor against his back is a quiet reassurance he doesn’t deserve but can’t bring himself to reject.

Alastor’s voice is a wisp in the silence. “Do you still love me?” 

Fragments of Alastor’s voice continue to echo in Vox’s mind from earlier that night: When I was severed, I realized there’s one soul who’s seen the absolute worst of me… and loved me despite it all.

He hadn’t been able to admit it then. 

“It’s always been you.” Vox’s confession lands quietly, rippling through the silence like a stone dropped in still water. “Do… you?” The question comes out barely audible, unfinished, afraid of the answer. He stares at his sharp, metallic claws, his vision blurring as he fights the urge to look at Alastor. He can’t face the rejection that might be waiting for him. The sight of Alastor’s sneer would be too much.

Tell me you love me, despite it all. 

Please.  

“If you listened,” Alastor murmurs, resting his cheek against his shoulder, “you’d know.”

Bastard. Vox can’t help the pang of resentment. 

Neither of them would ever say it outright. Too much pride, too much fear, too much of what Hell had made them. Love, if that’s even what this was, had no place here. Maybe they both knew better than to tether themselves to something so fragile, so human. Or maybe they were both cowards after all.

“You don’t have to go,” The words are quiet with reluctance. Vox’s grip tightens on the edge of the bed, a subconscious instinct to hold on to something he knows is slipping through his fingers. “Not tonight.”

Alastor chuckles softly, a sound too sweet for a demon as dangerous as him. “Very well, picture box. Not tonight.”

My picture box, he’d said.

With a sigh, Vox falls back until his shoulders hit the mattress. He lets the warmth of Alastor’s body beside him seep into the hollow ache that nothing else could touch. His fingers graze the sheet near Alastor’s hand, and it mirrors the truths they skirt around— close, but leaving words left unsaid lingering in the space between them. The unsteady truce of two demons who want more than they’ll ever allow themselves to admit.

Neither of them pulls away. Neither of them reaches further.

Maybe it’s fear. Maybe it’s the only way they know how to survive.

But tonight… tonight, Vox lets himself pretend. That the warmth will last. That Alastor will let him back into his life. That the jagged edges of what they are could ever fit without drawing blood.

Stay tomorrow, too, Vox thinks, but he doesn’t say it. He knows better.

~~

The world is quiet, the air still, the only sound is the city filtering faintly through the penthouse walls. On the edge of Vox’s consciousness, a fragile hope blooms, delicate as spun glass. It rises despite itself, tainted by memories of the night filtering in on the edges of half dreams. The things they said. The things they didn’t. 

The feel of Alastor’s skin lingers on his hands. Somewhere in the night, the lines they couldn’t cross before blurred, and the sharp angles of Alastor’s body pressed closer. The wrinkled fabric of his shirt chafed against bare skin, so Vox had slowly stripped his clothing away, stopping after his belt with Alastor tense against him. Vox’s arm wrapped around his shoulders as naturally as breathing, pulling him to his chest, their legs tangled under the weight of the blankets. 

It felt easier in the dark, with Alastor beside him, pressed close as they slept. The pieces seemed to fall into place with a satisfying click. 

But mornings in Hell are just as dark as night, and when Vox finally opens his eyes, the spell is already breaking.

Alastor is standing at the edge of the bed, shirtless, trousers wrinkled, his suspenders hanging loose. His back is to him, and though he doesn’t look his way, Vox knows Alastor is aware of him. 

"You're leaving." It isn’t a question, and Vox ensures each syllable is stripped of all emotion.

Alastor glances back only briefly, his tone distant. "Our business is concluded.” There's tension in his shoulders as he shrugs on his shirt, concealing the slender nip of his waist and tuft of his tail, deliciously nestled between the dips of two sacral dimples on his lower back. It’s a loss Vox instantly mourns.

Surrounded by messy blankets in the bed they’d shared, Vox slowly sits up, the sheets pooling at his hips. He senses the weight of their doubt lingering in the air, suffocating them both. "Alastor, I..." 

"Ah, ah, ahh. Careful. We're beyond the terms of our agreement." Alastor warns with a smile as sharp as the one he’d worn on his doorstep. With each button fastened, it's as if another barrier rises between them, a mask slipping into place bit by bit. 

The back of his throat itches and he swallows it down. The return of old bitterness. 

Vox turns away, his scowl fixed on the bleak landscape outside the window. He stares for so long, unblinking, that he stops seeing anything, his sole focus fighting the weight of sorrow by sheer stubbornness alone. The silence is deafening enough that he assumes Alastor left, until the subtle shift of the mattress behind him.

In the camera feed, he sees Alastor watching him, his knee hesitating on the edge of the bed. Another shift in weight accompanies a gentle brush of Alastor's fingers against his knuckles, contrasting a grip on the sheets so tight Vox’s fists are quaking. He shakes the touch off, snapping his glare up to meet Alastor’s eyes. The radio demon doesn’t look away. He stares down into his soul, and Vox wonders if he likes seeing it shatter into a thousand pieces. 

As if compelled by some unknown force, Alastor leans over him, drawing closer. Vox stiffens, his recoil instinctive, suspicion flashing in his expression.

The radio demon licks his lips. 

"I promise you," Alastor finally whispers what he had refused to say last night, an unexpected surrender. But there is no guarantee of any truth to his word, no deal to bind and protect them from their very nature as demons. 

And yet, their lips meet, hesitant at first. Each kiss from Alastor is a petition for unspoken forgiveness, words he’ll never say lingering in the heated brush of his mouth. Vox shudders, rigid lines in his posture softening as Alastor's palms glide across his bare shoulders, kneading at his muscles. The pressure of those hands pushes him back slowly onto the bed. 

Kneeling over him, Alastor traces the clean, flat angles of Vox’s casing with the calloused pads of his fingertips, the texture standing out despite the muted feeling. His touch is gentle, taking it all in, as if each caress carries the weight of a cherished memory. Vox watches him, wide eyed, and doesn’t dare move, afraid of breaking that reverie.

Alastor's hand dips lower, skimming the curve of Vox’s neck and trailing up the back panel. He brushes the indentations of ventilation slats, letting his claws scratch softly along the grooves, until his fingers find the edges of an open port. His claws linger there, teasing the border, then dip inside, and the sensation sparks a noise that is more a fizzle of white noise than a gasp.

"Sensitive," Alastor murmurs with delight, as if he's fascinated. His palm presses flat against the back of Vox’s head, coaxing Vox to tilt forward. His lips hover just over the edge of the screen, his breath ghosting across the surface. They stare into each other's eyes, and with a resigned sigh, Alastor collapses against him, his tongue slipping between Vox’s lips as his narrow hips press between eagerly parting thighs. 

Vox hooks a knee over Alastor’s leg and wraps his arms around him, his grip on his back harder than it should be, but he wants to hold on, to keep this moment from slipping away. He is drowning, the longing and sorrow building inside him the longer they touch. The radio demon tries to kiss away reality, but he knows he can’t make it right. 

When Alastor’s mouth leaves his, Vox whimpers so pathetically he hates himself for it. The sound only seems to spur Alastor on, and his lips find the crook of Vox’s vulnerable neck, the lightest scrape of sharp teeth over his shoulder. He hesitates, pulls back enough to flick a searching gaze over Vox’s expression.

Vox angles his head against the pillows, baring his throat and Alastor latches at his skin with a groan. He bites down, just deep enough to draw blood and an arch to Vox’s back. The pleasurable sting is quickly soothed by a sweep of tongue and Alastor’s low hum of appreciation. Vox’s fingers find themselves clutching Alastor’s hair as his tongue swirls over each pinprick, sucking until the blood ceases to flow. The seal of his lips feels possessive, more like an animal than a man, a claiming that leaves him breathless.

Neither of them speaks as Alastor tugs the sheet away, exposing more of Vox’s midnight skin to the cool air. His palms glide slowly up Vox’s arms and across broad shoulders to the firm planes of his chest, lingering over every ridge of muscle. His lips follow, pressing kisses along thin scars, the only remaining evidence of Alastor’s panic the night before. 

His chest rises and falls beneath Alastor, his breathing uneven, shallow, engulfed by the growing ecstasy of just being touched. The radio demon’s hands draw down his sides, fingers pressing firmly to feel every inch of him, open mouth kisses and sharp scrapes of teeth blazing a slow path down the slope of his abdomen. 

Vox resents the fact Alastor is still fully clothed as he skims lower, licking across his quivering stomach and nipping softly at the defined v line disappearing into his waistband. Vox tugs desperately at his shirt, trying to drag him up, but Alastor shoves his hands away. 

"Let me do this for you." Alastor’s talons hook into the linen of Vox’s pants, flexing hesitantly. Slowly, he pulls, the fabric dragging against Vox’s skin until his flushed cock springs free, slapping heavily against his flat stomach.

The sight makes Alastor pause, his eyes flicking up to meet Vox’s gaze. For a moment, he just looks at him, then a smug hum of satisfaction rumbles from his throat. 

“Alastor,” Vox writhes, panting. What are they doing? This is a bad idea. The deal— their time is up. “Y-you’re promising me?” He asks, trying to be mindful of what he says, desperate to believe this won’t blow up in his face. 

“I promise.” Alastor echos, a whisper so light Vox barely hears it, but he feels the warm breath of the words against his cock a moment before Alastor tastes him. 

The drag of that tongue against his piercings wrenches a gasp from him, sending him scrambling for purchase in the folds of Alastor’s collar. His desperate hands roam over his thin shoulders, kneading and tangling in his hair to rub the soft fur along the base of his ears. The purr of Alastor’s unexpected moan makes him shudder. 

Alastor captures Vox’s wrist, forcing his wandering hand firmly to his taut stomach, and pins it there with their fingers tightly intertwined. His smirk lingers even as his lips part, dragging soft, open mouthed kisses across the head. With smoldering eyes that burn through the fall of his hair, those lips finally surround him, taking him in with an aching slowness. Vox is mesmerized— the sight of the thick length of him disappearing between those wickedly clever lips is such an erotic picture, searing itself into Vox's memory. 

It’s far from the most skillful blowjob he’s ever had, but it’s Alastor, who doesn’t yield, doesn’t break, doesn’t give— and that makes it precious. Every stuttered motion, every tentative flick of his tongue is an offering, a surrender that Vox knows Alastor would never offer to anyone else.

Even as Alastor takes him deeper, he wants more, always more. He tries to shift his legs, to feel if Alastor is hard, but Alastor’s arm presses down like an iron bar across macular thighs, pinning him effortlessly in place. He whines, wanting, knowing he’d let Alastor fuck him— an opportunity as rare as diamonds. He can’t ask for it, can’t risk giving Alastor that soundbite, but if Alastor would just take what was his, Vox would give it all willingly. He wants it so badly. He wants Alastor to touch every inch of his skin. He wants his laughter, his attention, his time. His body aches with all he wants from Alastor, knowing he can’t have any of it. 

A swell of sadness blooms in his chest and the frustrating prick of tears threatens at the edges of his eyes. Vox throws his arm across his face, muffling gasps as he thrusts helplessly between soft lips. The warm cushion of Alastor’s tongue feels so good, but the threat of impending loss is an unshakable shadow. 

Vox feels the tension in his body coil tight as the sensation builds low and deep. Every nerve sings, each glide of Alastor’s mouth sending waves of pleasure crashing over him. The lights flicker and spark with the uncontrolled electrical current surging in the room, and he tries to hold himself still, desperate to prolong the feeling, but Alastor only sucks harder. 

When Vox comes, his body arches, every cerulean circuit alight, and his voice breaks on Alastor’s name— hoarse, wrecked, a sound that barely feels like his own. A second pulse of pleasure leaves him shaking, Vox’s head tipping back with a shuddering gasp as Alastor’s throat flexes around him, swallowing it all. 

Even as the intensity begins to wane, Alastor’s lips linger. He presses gentle kisses down the curve of Vox’s softening cock, drawing aftershocks that make the muscles in his stomach jump. The attention is unhurried, tender in a way that feels achingly personal as he nuzzles against the base, lapping at the sheen of sweat on his skin.

Breathing shallowly, Vox clutches Alastor's hand tightly against his stomach, unwilling to let go. But eventually, the hand slips away, leaving behind a lingering tingle on his fingers that Vox can't help but miss. Alastor smooths his pants back into place, pressing feathery kisses over his hip bone, each like a silent farewell to what could have been. 

That blowjob is the only apology Vox will ever get. 

When Alastor pulls away, the unnatural intensity of his frequency goes with him. Vox feels a surge of desperate longing for someone he knows he can never keep. Alastor grabs his jacket laying across the nightstand, and watching him dress is like watching him shoulder on a different person. The materialization of his staff with a snap of shadows is another wall that casts him off, probably forever. 

Vox closes his eyes against the rush of emotion, forcing himself to accept the inevitable. He twists onto his stomach, burying his screen against a pillow to block out the sight of Alastor leaving him. 

“Please, I can’t miss you anymore.” The admission slips free before he can catch it. He knows it’s foolish to say any of this aloud, but he can't let this last opportunity slip away. He has to know if there’s even a glimmer of hope left. 

"Promise me you’ll visit again, before the extermination?" Vox's voice trembles with desperation he can’t mask. His grip on the pillow tightens, his claws piercing deeper with each moment that stretches on, until it feels like his breath might catch fire in his chest. 

There’s only a deafening void where he hoped a promise might be.

With a heavy heart, Vox pushes himself up, his movements sluggish, weighed down by the truth he already knows. He casts a miserable glance around the cold, empty room, the reality of Alastor's absence sinking into his soul.

For a long time, Vox doesn’t move. He tells himself he should get up, bury himself in work, deal with whatever fallout ignoring Val brought him, but his body doesn’t listen. He lays in the silence and Alastor’s lingering scent for what feels like an eternity, his thoughts churning in restless loops, unwilling to settle. 

When he finally rises, he drags himself to the window. Outside, the city sprawls endlessly, neon lights fighting against the perpetual darkness of Hell. His gaze lands on the Hazbin Hotel, its sign glowing faintly in the distance.

What a fucking joke. The place reeks of naivety, an idealistic promise of redemption in a world where survival demands wit, teeth and claws.

And yet, they have Alastor.

It is so like him, isn’t it? To drape himself in the guise of civility, to haunt a place that offers hope without daring to take it for himself. Alastor embodies the Hotel— a beautiful relic, contradictory, and incapable of change.

He pictures Alastor there, his laughter echoing through the halls, spinning his charm for demons who don’t deserve to share his air. Alastor, who’s willing to ruin him easier than he’d kissed him.

Would he visit before the extermination? 

Vox exhales sharply, pressing his fingers against the cool glass, the glow of his rectangular reflection a stark outline against the landscape. Alastor leaves him with too many questions, too little certainty, and an ache he can’t swallow down. There is still the patron to consider, the war on the horizon. His thoughts buzz with calculations, considering whether he could still leverage an advantage, turn Alastor’s desperation into a favor for a favor. 

That's the rule the Vees live by. No matter the problem, refuse to lose.

Today, the idea leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. Alastor laid himself bare for the smallest chance at freedom. He doesn’t know if Alastor can truly change… but it’s clear he’s trying. And maybe that’s what gnaws at Vox the most.

Because Alastor didn’t do it for him. Vox is nothing more than a step on that path, a tool to reach his destination.

He’s always known Alastor is chaos dressed as charm, whereas Vox’s world is power and control disguised as order. They were never meant to fit together, had become opposites perfectly designed to destroy each other. And yet here he is, his palm pressed to the glass, imagining that chaos close enough to touch.

In Hell, hatred and love are the same shade, and Vox will always feel both dancing through him for Alastor.