Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Vox steps out of a sleek, blue limousine, brushing imaginary dust off of his pressed suit and straightening his bowtie. Before him, that stupid damn hotel towers. It looks a little better than it had before the rebuild: bigger, wider, more ergonomic. The ways its idiotic residents have staked their claim on the structure is a little tactless in his opinion. The Princess's music staves and notes sprawl audaciously across the building, likely a reference to her mother's powerful voice. That winged cat has plastered the card suits on the left wing of the building, which also features Lucifer's signature apple. On the right wing, the triple X design is a blatant ripoff of the triple V design that he pioneered with his coworkers years ago. Tasteless. Probably Angel Dust's work. Equally tasteless is the tacky radio shack callback that tops the right wing. Hey, at least it's better than the clearly improvised radio station sticky-taped to the side of the previous iteration of the hotel.

Vox closes the limo door behind him, and the car takes off almost before his claws have released it. He's practically vibrating with anticipation, but he allows none of it to surface visibly as he approaches the broad, welcoming, stained-glass doors at the front of the building.

It had been clear to him months ago that this hotel was going to be a THING whether or not he allowed it to be, which in itself was already fascinating. Vox has held an iron grip on the media for many years now, with the help of his coworkers. He handles the decision making, quick thinking, and charisma. Velvette, despite her youth, handles the wisdom, knowing exactly what the public wants to see and feeding them the right amount at the right times. Valentino handles the raw guts to blacken whatever eye he needs to create content en masse. Together, the three of them control what sinners see in their day to day life in almost every possible facet.

The fact that any attention had been paid to this damn hotel that wasn't facilitated by Vox personally had already been enough of an affront. The fact that it had been facilitated by Alastor INSTEAD?

That, in addition to some other factors, had made his blood boil so badly he had lost control and humiliated himself on live television.

Never happening again. Especially not now that the old timey prick got what he deserved from Adam. Vox's easy smile grows a little sharper, a little more vicious, just thinking about the way Alastor's bloodied body had hit that wall with the force of Adam's blow. He wishes once more he could've recorded it in more clarity. (Just to have around, not to jerk off to or anything. Obviously!)

With Alastor finally gone from the Princess's dumb hotel, it's his chance to get a slice of the cake. He raises a fist and raps it sharply on the glossy wood framing, because his claws would likely shatter the delicate glass. (Glass is a terrible choice for a main front door. So flimsy. No security whatsoever. Who designed this?)

A few moments pass, and the door opens. A shorter woman with long, ivory hair rakes her steely gaze up him. Her eye finds his screen.

"Hello!" He begins, offering a hand.

His fingers are almost crushed in the doorframe as the woman slams the door in his face. How fucking rude. He soothes his temper with the knowledge that Alastor would be positively seething to know he was even standing on the doorstep of the Great Radio Demon's stupid (newly unprotected) little pet project.

He contemplates whether to knock again, placing both hands behind his back while he weighs his options. Before he can decide what move is most befitting, the door creaks open again. This time, the Princess is the one opening it, and her expression is cautious, but sporting a sinfully tempting amount of undisguised hope. In stark opposition, the long-haired woman from before is glowering at him from behind the Princess, wielding an angelic spear. Its shaft is currently planted firmly on the floor, but Vox doesn't doubt that it wouldn't take much for her to wave that blade in his direction.

"Hello, again!" Vox tries a second time, allowing none of his very much present ire to leak into his pleasant tone of voice.

"Hi," the Princess says with audibly trained caution. "What brings you to my hotel? Um, Vox, right?"

"Correct!" Vox says, and once more holds a hand out.

The Princess looks at his hand suspiciously. Vox removes it.

"I'm sure you've been told plenty about all my worst traits, but rest assured that even I am not the sort to try to pry deals from ROYALTY." (Oh he so is.) "If a handshake makes you uncomfortable, I'm happy to greet you with a bow instead."

He bows, gracefully, and he hates every second of it. The only thing that makes it worth it is the Princess's expression of surprise and gratitude. The other woman is not so easily fooled, and Vox doesn't miss how her knuckles whiten on the shaft of her angelic spear.

"Um, thanks. So what does bring you here, Vox?" The Princess asks.

Vox straightens and places his hands confidently on his slim hips. "May I enter? I mean no harm, and business is always better discussed over coffee."

"No way am I letting that spying piece of shit inside here," the woman behind the Princess asserts.

Ouch. Spying? Yeah, well, he had tried to plant a camera not so many months ago, and he did have Voyeur Scopes trained on the hotel most times of day. However, piece of shit? ...Also yes, but he doesn't appreciate being pinned as such from some woman who hasn't even seen the long list of crimes that landed him a one way ticket down here in the first place.

"Please, Vaggie, what if he's here to repent? I can't turn him away," the Princess half whispers to the other woman--Vaggie? Woof, unfortunate name.

"Charlie, he isn't here to repent. He's one of the Vees. He's only going to cause trouble," Vaggie hisses back.

"Two for three there, my dear," Vox cuts in. "True, I'm not here to repent, and I am one of the Vees. However, I intend no trouble at all. No, I have a business proposal I think will be very enticing to everyone involved! I simply ask to propose it in a more suitable environment than a cold, public doorstep."

It isn't cold, not in the slightest. Hell is sweltering as always. Still, he shoots the Princess his best shunned puppy look, and she immediately bends. Vox drops the look the moment the Princess's gaze leaves him.

The Princess turns back to Vaggie, whose demeanor almost instantly goes from cement wall to putty. Interesting. When Vox had watched the latest extermination be fended off by the Princess and her crew, the Princess had been the soft one and the woman at her side--Vaggie, he knows now--had shown herself to be of steel resolve. To see her melt like that is a weakness Vox files away to exploit at the next viable opportunity.

"Okay, you may come in," the Princess says, and Vox sidles past her quickly, before she can change her mind.

Inside the foyer is a bar on one side and a spacious seating area on the other. Behind the bar is that winged cat, eyeing him with a hostility that almost threatens Vaggie's distrust of him. Angel Dust is on the customer side of said bar, very deliberately not making eye contact with him.

Angel he is familiar with. He tries to keep the distaste out of his expression, rather successfully if he does say so himself. He has been on the receiving end of one too many Angel induced tantrums from Val to have the capacity for anything but disdain for the porn actor.

Something skitters up his leg like a ginormous cockroach and Vox flinches backwards. That maid, the one that had made the news covered in golden angel blood, has scaled him like a cat in a tree. What the fuck? She twists two hands in the lapels of his suit jacket, feet braced on his chest as she leans in far too close to his screen. She weighs almost nothing.

"You're the big, bad CEO! The one Alastor doesn't like!"

"Niffty!" the Princess exclaims from behind him.

"Hi~" the maid purrs, and then giggles brightly, batting the eyelashes of her single eye.

Vox suddenly understands why Valentino had reacted so strongly to the news that this knee-high maid had offed Adam.

"Alright, no hitting on the suspiciously non-hostile Vee," Vaggie scolds, plucking the maid off of him with one hand.

She places the maid back on the floor and the little creature immediately scuttles off. Vaggie doesn't look away from Vox once, expression guarded. Vox clears his throat and smooths his lapels back into place, choosing to simply ignore everything about what had just happened.

"What is it you wanted to discuss?" the Princess asks cautiously, leading the way to a long table.

Vox is a little surprised when she sits in the middle of it instead of at the head, where someone of her status belongs. Vaggie sits to her right. Vox makes the quick decision to sit opposite the Princess in the middle of the other side of the table. Highly unconventional seating standards, but he can make do.

"Well, Princess Charlotte-"

"Um, Charlie is fine!"

Vox fixes her with a winning smile. "Charlie, then. Your hotel has become quite the sensation all across hell--yes, all seven rings! Fending off the angelic extermination in such a successful bloodbath has placed your project in the center of the public eye."

Vox squares the his thumbs and pointers against each other, creating a frame with his hands in which the Princess is centered. She blinks. Vaggie, who he has not included in this frame, bristles.

"Sinners and hellborn alike are watching you, eager to see what your next move will be."

He drops his hands, instead steepling his fingers on the table in front of him. With his hand no longer blocking Vaggie's face, he can see again the distaste boiling just under the surface of her skin. Totally unfair. He hasn't done anything at all to deserve that. ...Today at least.

"Problem is, you don't have a proper PR team. All of your efforts to advertise your hotel have been..."

Pathetic. Laughable. Downright insolent at times.

"...Well, a little bit clumsy and unprofessional. That televised commercial you attempted to air some months ago was getting closer to what the public would respond well to. Such a shame it was interrupted."

Vox had been the one to interrupt it, not that the Princess needs to know that. That commercial had been snuck into his broadcasting schedule, probably by pulling more than a few limbs based on the damage done to his employees. Vox was lucky he had noticed in time to plaster over it with the news of the new extermination. Nothing gets past him, not on his own fucking network. Even though he had caught it in time, the mere fact that someone had dared such an insolent gesture, treading on his turf like that, had irked him. Learning later that the perpetrator had been Alastor had downright infuriated him, though he had still been too busy licking his wounds and doing damage control after the TV fiasco to do anything about it.

"I believe that your hotel has the potential to reach a much wider audience, and I have the ability to fulfill that potential. I would like to propose an offer in which I can assist you in advertising your hotel to the sinners of Pride. As CEO of Voxtek, I have the resources to outfit your hotel with the latest in technology, as well as the manpower to run it. Of course, we would need to draw up some contracts to iron out the logistics--nothing soul binding, naturally! Just legal paperwork, all the boring but necessary things."

"You want us to willingly install a bunch of spy cameras so you can watch us like a creep?" Vaggie asks, incredulous.

"No, no, of course not, my dear. The Princess here would be in charge of all the security codes," he reassures cheerfully.

Vox neglects to mention that he specifically is unaffected by the security measures of his own devices. His tech is practically an extension of his own personhood and conciousness. No matter how tightly one tries to lock down a VoxTek device, Vox can still personally access whatever he wants, travel into or even through the device itself. That information is on a need to know basis, though, and the Princess certainly does not need to know that right now.

Some of the wariness in Vaggie's expression eases, though it doesn't disappear, and she looks to the Princess, deferring the conversation to her. The Princess is clearly thinking deeply, contemplating the offer.

"You want to help me advertise the hotel? Does this mean you believe in what I'm doing; you believe sinners can be redeemed?" the Princess asks hopefully.

Truth be told, no. He thinks the notion is ridiculous. What he really wants here is to sink his claws into Alastor's precious little pet project and make his mark. He wants to piss on Alastor's old turf. He hasn't yet decided whether that means he wants to take this project and very publicly smash it up to bits to show just how pathetic it was in the first place, or if he wants to milk it for all it's worth and steal the credit from right under the old timey prick's nose. He's sure the redemption bit is doomed to fail, but if he could manage to televise another bloody extermination battle with an actual filming setup instead of a couple Voyeur Scopes? The viewership numbers would be through the roof! Of course, being honest about his intentions was never on the table, so he whips up a half-truth.

"I didn't believe killing an angel was possible until two weeks ago, and yet you piled dozens of angelic corpses right on your doorstep!" Vox says energetically. Time to butter her up. "Charlie, if anyone can redeem a sinner, it's going to be you."

The hostility finally leaves Vaggie's expression and the Princess smiles at him softly.

Hook. Line. Sinker.

"Besides," he pushes, "with Alastor gone, you're going to need the extra assistance."

The Princess tilts her head curiously. "Huh? Alastor's not gone. He's just-"

Vox feels him before he sees him, and he leaps out of his chair, sending it toppling over behind him as he gouges claw marks into the table. The radio signal crashing against him is unmistakable, exhilarating, INFURIATING. Alastor materializes from the shadow of the Princess's chair, briefly wreathed in darkness, and then there he is, crisp and composed and grinning like he hadn't weathered a blast from Adam's holy light just two weeks ago. He places a hand on the Princess's shoulder. Vox glares at him, and he knows his display is flickering wildly, and at the moment, he doesn't care.

"He's just waiting for the right moment to step in!" Alastor finishes for the Princess.

It had been bad enough seeing that red fucker all glitched out on his screens, but being in the same room as him again for the first time in seven years is a full body experience. It's entirely too much for Vox. He looks perfect. Perfectly tailored suit, perfect posture, perfect Cheshire grin. Electricity flickers off of Vox, and the two women seated opposite him flinch away from him. He can feel his heart racing as Alastor's grin widens, leering at him, surely satisfied to see him losing control again.

Vox forces his faculties back under his control one by one, first prying his claws out of the Princess's furniture. He stands up straight and fixes his expression back into a smile, then turns stiffly and rights the chair he had knocked over, easing back down into it. He absolutely will not give Alastor even one more drop of satisfaction. He just needs a moment to think, a moment to turn this around, a moment to reclaim his advantage.

"I take it you did not expect to see me here, old pal?" Alastor asks, and his voice is just as melodic as Vox remembers.

"I admit I'm surprised to see you standing after Adam fucked you so thoroughly on extermination day," he replies pleasantly.

The change in Alastor's demeanor is immediate. The ambient radio signal that the other demon constantly emits flips from emanating an aura of smugness to open hostility, a silent dare for Vox to say something like that again. Vox narrows his eyes. Right at the switch between the emotions, there was a brief splinter of something else, just a brief flicker of... something he can't remember ever detecting from Alastor before.

"Ah-hah! I assure you that it takes more than one lucky shot to get rid of me!"

Alastor removes his hand from the Princess's shoulder and props his elbow on the back of her chair instead. His smile doesn't flicker, but his radio signal does. He switches from radiating hostility back to smugness, a different brand than before. This one is possessive, screaming 'look at my prize, the Princess wrapped around my little finger!'

Vox grits his teeth. That flicker, that break in his wavelength. What the fuck is that? Additionally, parading the Princess like a carnival prize is low (even though Vox has to admit he would have done the same if roles were reversed.) This is all very irritating. How can he spin this to his favor?

"Funny, I was under the impression it took one bad argument to get you to piss off for seven whole years," Vox replies with a casual smile that doesn't betray the hundred mile an hour race his thoughts are going through.

Alastor's mic emits a short crackle of feedback, and then the sound of a laugh track. That same weird undertone is just under the surface of that feedback, and then quickly covered again. It distinctly feels like it is being covered. That's unusual. Is the radio demon hiding something? Oh, that would be delicious. That would make this trip entirely worth it.

"I simply took a sabbatical, nothing at all to do with you. How presumptuous of you!"

The Princess clears her throat. "So you want to help the hotel too? Even if it means you have to work with Alastor? It seems like you two don't really get along, but I'm sure that I can help you two work through your differences!"

The laugh track plays again. "My dear, I assure you that you want nothing to do with this... arrogant picturebox."

Alastor jabs his microphone at Vox over the table, and Vox immediately adopts his best approximation of a kicked puppy expression. He knows the act would be more effective if he slouched his shoulders a little, put some body language into it, but he's so excited by the idea of uncovering the radio demon's barely hidden secret that he's unable to manage more of an act than just controlling his expression and words.

"Oh come now, let's not let personal feuds taint this opportunity," Vox says. An act, all an act.

Fuck the hotel, fuck the opportunity. Vox's mind is racing in overtime, trying to figure out what is going on with Alastor. The fact that it's his precious radio waves, the same medium that television runs on, that is giving Alastor away just adds to it for Vox. Only he can read these waves, transmit his own in return. Everyone else is clueless how deliciously out of practice Alastor is at masking his signal.

"Maybe he can help, Alastor. Shouldn't we at least hear him out?" the Princess pleads.

She places a hand on Alastor's side, exposed to her by the way his elbow is propped on the back of her chair still. That weird signal flashes to the forefront of the radio demon's signal for just long enough for Vox to finally identify it.

Pain. Alastor is hiding that he is in pain.

Vox is unable to disguise the way his smile widens at the revelation. Adam really did damage him, and he's struggling to pretend that he is fine for the Princess and the other hotel residents. This is fucking beautiful. His blood is practically singing with manic electricity as a thousand different scenarios cross his mind. Alastor is weak, and Vox has a chance right here, right now, to make him pay for hurting him. Should he electrocute him right here in the dining hall in front of the Princess? That would be satisfying, but bad for publicity. Jump the both of them through the nearest live wire and into an alley, leave Alastor's corpse undignifyingly draped in a dumpster? Prise his claws into Adam's wound and make Alastor scream in his own broadcasting room?

He's getting ahead of himself. Calm down, Vox, stop vibrating. Step one, get out of public before he does something stupid. Again.

"Apologies, I don't mean to be a pain in the side," he says, staring Alastor in the eyes as he exudes his own taunting radio waves, communicating clear as day to the radio demon that he knows. "Perhaps Alastor and I should have a little chat, sort out some of our gripes in private."

Alastor straightens from leaning on the chair, recoiling from the Princess's touch. He twirls his microphone, then places it and both hands neatly behind his back.

"Good idea, old chap! We couldn't be seen letting bad blood fester in royal company! What awful manners that would be!"

"This is a terrible idea," Vaggie says, crossing her arms over her chest in a most resigned way.

"I'm happy to mediate, if needed!" the Princess suggests timidly, almost like she can sense the immense amount of radio waves crashing like a stormy sea between them in this room. "Are you sure you want to do this alone, Alastor?"

She reaches for him again, but the radio demon doesn't allow her the contact she seeks.

"Quite!" Alastor says. "Vox, follow me! Everyone else, stay tuned. I will be back shortly."

He turns his back and begins walking with a steady, confident gait. Vox leaps from his chair, almost knocking it over again, and he is unable to hide the predatory grin or the bounce in his step as he prowls after Alastor, ignoring the protests from the two women still seated behind him. This is going to be fucking incredible.

Chapter Text

Alastor leads him briskly up several flights of stairs, and then through a classy wooden door. Vox enters the new room. Vaguely, he realizes that it's a very weird room--half bedroom and half swamp--but too much of his attention is fixated on Alastor to pay the confines of the room much mind. He is a shark, and Alastor's blood has made the water oh so sweet.

The radio demon closes the door behind the two of them with a click and turns to face Vox, and finally the displeasure is visible in his expression. The smile remains, but his eyes narrow, and Vox knows all of his tells so intimately after so many years of friendship before their falling out.

"Why are you here?" Alastor asks, and his voice grates with layers of interference.

Vox laughs, breathless, dropping his own businessman's facade as well. Static flickers off of him as he stops even trying to disguise the frantic excitement broiling inside him.

"Hah! I came here to pissz on your fucking gra-a-ave. I didn't know I wasz goi-ing to have the pleaszure of putting you in it!" His manic excitement has his audio output glitching, and he doesn't give a shit.

Oh, the number of times he has fantasized about putting Alastor in his place, pinning him down where he belongs, underneath Vox. The number of times he has dreamt about how the big bad radio demon would thrash when he pumps the volts through that slender body. How many times his claws have shorn through substitute materials while Vox closes his eyes and imagines deer flesh. (The number of times he has jerked off to any of these thoughts is nearly equal to the number of times the thoughts have occurred. His tastes have turned much darker since being rejected, but the obsession is still just as intense.) And now it's right here in front of him.

He stalks forward several steps towards Alastor, who remains standing, pristine, back to the recently closed door.

"Put me in my grave? Ahah! Vox, you are amusing!"

Vox snarls and lunges forward like an animal, slamming Alastor into the door with a thud. He latches his claws around the other demon's throat, not squeezing yet, just holding.

"Yeah, I'm gonna put you in your grave. I'm gonna make you pay. I'm gonna fucking tear you apart, rip your fucking heart in half and stuff it back in your chest the same way you did to me," he growls, letting some electricity travel down his arm to shock the demon in his grip.

Alastor doesn't flinch, even when his hair stands on end. "Is that so?"

Vox squeezes now, pressing his claws into that vulnerable flesh. Alastor hasn't made a single move to stop him. Vox assures himself that it's because the radio demon is simply too weak, pathetic, probably terrified! And yet... the pulse under his palm is steady, even, unafraid: a sharp contrast to the way Vox's heart is racing, pounding like a rabbit kicking the inside of his ribcage.

"I was clear from the beginning that our arrangement was practical in nature. I did not ask for you to place your heart in my hands," Alastor says, tilting his head calmly. "I was clear that my hands hold only knives."

Vox flinches and squeezes harder, taking a sadistic joy as his claws bite into tender skin, drawing blood. It drips hot over his fingers. Vox's blood is hot, too, in a different way. A really twisted up way that he's too manic to think rationally about right now. He has had simultaneously far too long and not nearly long enough to think about this.

"Is this really what you want, Vox?" Alastor asks, and despite the fact that his voice is strained from lack of airflow, despite the fact that he's pinned, weak, damaged, vulnerable, his tone is sticky-sweet and taunting.

Vox laughs again, and even to him it sounds a little deranged. He loosens his grip, stroking his thumb up Alastor's throat, and the other demon tips his head back to bare it to him.

"I could cut your jugular so fucking easy right now. Bathe in your blood," Vox whispers.

He feels the vibration of it when Alastor hums in the affirmative. He clamps his grip back down again, this time more intent on crushing airways than slicing.

"I could choke you out. A silent end to the Great Fucking Radio Demon," he spits with vitriol.

Alastor grins at him, almost matching the demented energy Vox himself is bearing, all without a hint of fear. Vox presses harder, seeking a reaction. It has to be incredibly painful. He doesn't get even a flinch.

He pours his rage, heartbreak, and intent to harm into his own radio signal, practically assaulting the air around him with how intensely he discharges the emotions. Alastor's signal grates right back, violently, taunting, leering, 'you won't do it. You CAN'T do it.' The air itself grits like sandpaper, filled with opposing wavelengths; the whole room buzzes.

He eases his grip loose from Alastor's airways. The air is too thick with unspoken words. Alastor will be more fun if he can speak.

"Is this really what you want, Vox?"

A repeat question. Not the words he wanted to hear. He crushes his grip on the radio demon's airways again. His radio waves falter under the sheer pressure of Alastor's signal, and he compensates by shouting over the oppressive, broken-glass grating in the air with his voice.

"Stop FUCKING asking me that! Yes! I'm going to rip your spine out and choke you with it! I'm going to tear your antlers off and use them to spit you as I roast you with enough voltage to black out all of Pride! I'm going to turn your hooves into jell-o and choke you on it! I'm going to use your own splintered tibia to stake you through the heart! I'm going to--! To..."

No, of course he doesn't actually want any of that. He could feasibly execute any of those theoreticals right now, with Alastor weak and vulnerable in his grasp. Said grasp loosens again.

No, what he truly wants is what he can never have. What Alastor could never give him.

Alastor's radio signal is still assaulting him with wave after wave of taunting, and Vox finally gives in. He tunes his signal to agree. 'I won't do it. I CAN'T do it.' The relief is immediate once they're on the same wavelength; the thrumming broken-glass air immediately settles into a gentle, pulsing hum. Now, as their wavelengths become one, he can read Alastor's pain almost as if it were his own, a phantom ache slashed across his chest

He sucks in a hitched breath and drops his hand from Alastor's throat.

"Good boy," the radio demon purrs.

And then there are shadow tendrils around Vox's ankles, he's airborne, and then his back impacts something hard enough to steal the concept of breathing from him for a moment.

He could fight back. He can tell immediately from previous physical spats that Alastor is indeed at less than full power. If he defends himself and fights all-out right here, right now, even though he is on Alastor's turf, he knows he can win handily.

He doesn't really care to, though.

Alastor's shadows snatch him up a second time, like a plaything, and his already aching back hits the floor this time, snapping the back of his monitor onto the floor as well. His vision flickers, and he can tell his screen has broken when his display settles to show dual fragments of smug, red silhouetted Cheshire grin leering down at him.

"Oh, Vox, you are a fascinating study of the depravity of mankind."

Alastor taps the butt end of his microphone between Vox's legs, and the media demon twitches. Fuck, is he still hard right now? Man, Val would have had a fantastic time if he were the one to discover this particularly fucked-up facet Vox apparently had. He somehow doubts Alastor is particularly chuffed about it.

"Wzzhat, you-u wa-a-nna choke on izt?" Vox taunts from his spread eagle position on the floor.

A sneer of disgust taints Alastor's smile, and suddenly the end of his microphone is on Vox's screen instead. The media demon convulses and his speakers emit a high squeal of feedback as Alastor leans his weight on the microphone, splintering Vox's screen further. Now there are half a dozen Cheshire sneers leering down at him.

"I have a sneaking suspicion, old pal, that the true reason you have come here is to beg for my attention, even if it means humiliating yourself. Am I right?"

Vox thinks about it for a moment. Is he right? Yeah, pretty much. Anything that keeps Alastor's attention how he couldn't manage to before. Getting his claws into this stupid hotel had been a power grab, 'begging for attention' as Alastor put it. He hadn't expected Alastor to be there to answer, but he had, and Vox is loathe to let the other demon's attention leave him again. He had already lost Alastor's favor, affection, and attention once, and now that he has one of those things back again, Vox is disgustingly willing to do just about anything to keep it.

Alastor doesn't need to know that right away, though.

"F-f-fuzzxck yo-ur tight lzit-t-tle deer asszzz-" Vox spits through heavily glitched speakers.

"Manners!" Alastor scolds and lifts his cane.

Vox doesn't resist as the radio demon's shadows flip him face down on the floor boards. Pain cracks white-hot across his back, and his audio receptors only catch the latter half of the sound he makes in response. By all rights he should be ashamed, but he can't muster even that when Alastor chuckles in delight above him.

"Perhaps I have not given television enough credit. When you hide the horribly false visuals, the audio can be quite entertaining!"

Another searing crack of pain. Vox writhes, and probably screams too. Needless to say, he has never been more turned on in his life. All of Alastor's attention is finally on him, him alone. Sure, it's because Alastor is beating the shit out of him, but if that's what it takes to finally be the only person in his eyes right now? Worth it! The pain fades some, and he realizes through it that the shadows are holding him ass up, screen down, wrists pinned to the floorboards.

"Fzuck me," Vox demands, speakers muffled by the floorboards.

A shriek of feedback. "Pardon?"

"If you're gonna pin me and beat me up like this you better fuck me."

The cane cracks across his ass this time, and Vox arches into it with a deep groan, unsure whether it's a punishment or a reward. It feels fucking great either way.

"Fzucking-! Pleasze! Ok, here, beat me up as much as you want but I better get a happy ending out of it. Otherwise, I'll topple this fucking hotel."

The shadow tendrils holding his wrists wrench him up, dragging him to his feet and then a couple inches higher, forcing him to his tiptoes in an effort to ease the searing discomfort in his shoulders. Alastor stands in front of him, and there's something terrifying about the dark, sadistic grin he's wearing. His limbs are just a little too long, a little too spindly, bending a little too wrong. It doesn't help that the slices Vox left on his neck have stained his collar with blood.

"Beat you à̸͚š̷̡ ̷̡͐ṃ̵͌u̴̙͛c̸̜̋ẖ̶̑ ̵̟̓a̷̧͌ŝ̴̗ ̵̧̆Ḯ̵͈ ̷͓͑w̶̛̩á̷͜n̵̻̑t̶̘̀?̴̮͒"

Genuine fear pierces through the heat in his gut and Vox squirms, trying to get a better footing and failing.

"Ok, ok, no permanent harm...! You can rough me up, but nothing permanent!" he amends.

Alastor's form reverts back to normal, and he places the blunt end of his microphone lightly on Vox's chest. "So your proposal is to offer up your physical wellbeing to me in exchange for..." the microphone drags down his body, stopping at the waistband of his pants "...pleasures of the flesh."

Vox should not be as horny as he is. Oh he's so fucked up. Oh he's so fucked.

"Yeah," Vox breathes. "Yeah, c'mon, you'd like that, wouldn't you. Huh? Huh? A chance to beat the fuck out of someone actually worthwhile? Fuck me up, Alastor, c'mon, fuck me!"

Vox tries to punctuate his words with a hip thrust, but he doesn't really have the leverage, not with the ballerina toes Al has him pulling in these dress shoes. Alastor laughs, fucking laughs at him.

"Very well, I'm amenable. Yes, I agree to these terms."

Vox feels it click in his chest. An agreement between Overlords. It's not nearly as binding as a soul contract, but an agreement is an agreement. The tendrils that have been holding his wrists drop him and Vox stumbles as he suddenly becomes responsible for keeping himself upright on his own. He rolls his sore shoulders, suddenly much, much more anxious to be free than when he had been in Alastor's restraints. He eyes the other demon warily, watching as red claws run over the slices Vox had left on his throat.

The radio demon grins at him like a predator. "Let's begin, then."

Chapter Text

Vox flinches when several shadows whip towards him, closing his eyes, but the impact never comes. There's only a whisper of disturbed air either side of him. He opens his eyes to see that Alastor has withdrawn his hand from his bloodied neck to inspect his fingers.

"Sit," the radio demon bids him.

Vox twists to look behind himself. The shadows have pulled up a chair for him. He sits slowly, looking to Alastor again. The fucker is licking his own blood off his fingers. That really shouldn't be as hot as it is, but Vox is long past coming to terms with the fact that he's all kinds of fucked up. Evidently satisfied that his fingers are clean enough, Alastor lowers his hand and approaches Vox. The media demon goes tense, gripping the armrests, unsure what to expect and braced for pain.

Alastor plops himself down sideways on Vox's lap. Vox forgets how to breathe.

Even when they were close friends, many years ago, Alastor never allowed much physical contact. Eventually, Vox had sometimes been allowed to initiate it, once he had learned some of the intricacies of Alastor's complicated rules of touch. He suspects it's because he had used to respect the other demon, to crave his approval and praise alongside his attention. Now he'll just take whatever hit of dopamine be can get.

The most contact Alastor had ever allowed back then was the amount required to dance together all those years ago. The one time Vox had tried to press flush and let the other demon feel how interested he was in more, Alastor hadn't allowed any touch for a whole week. To have Alastor sitting atop him, ignoring Vox's straining erection pressing against the side of his ass, is enough to make his shattered screen flash the SMPTE color bars. Alastor doesn't look particularly pleased about it, but he's tolerating it.

"First thing's first," Alastor hums pleasantly, and starts undoing Vox's bowtie.

The lack of pain that has befallen him so far has Vox incredibly nervous, especially with those red claws tugging fabric away from the vulnerable hollow of his neck. He doesn't dare touch Alastor back, breathing shallowly as his bowtie comes undone and is tossed over the back of the seat. Alastor pauses, contemplating something, and then fabric tears as the radio demon decides that Vox's layers are too annoying to peel apart. Vox flinches when cool air hits his shoulders and upper chest.

Alastor sinks his teeth into the muscle that joins his neck and shoulder, hard. Vox's whole body jerks as a sound slips his speakers that he'd rather not hear himself repeat. He brings both hands up, sinking them into Alastor's hair. Evidently the radio demon is pleased by the taste of his blood, because there's no immediate retribution for grabbing him.

"Fffuck," Vox hisses as Alastor unlatches his jaws.

He can feel his own hot blood start to trickle down his chest, and then Alastor's tongue chasing it. Those teeth are SHARP. Those puncture wounds sting. He pulls consciously on his bound souls, now, willing the energy into healing himself as quickly as possible. The faster the bleeding stops, the faster Alastor might bite him like that again.

Alastor sighs, and Vox is exceptionally pleased to note that the radio demon's ambient signal has some notes of satisfaction in it, alongside the discomfort of an unfamiliar situation and the pain that he has stopped hiding by now.

"Your blood is delicious, my dear," Alastor says pleasantly.

Vox laughs and dares to knead his fingers against the base of Alastor's ears. "Yeah? What makes blood tasty, you freaky cannibal?"

"I protest that I am not the freak here," Alastor says and rocks his hips.

Vox quickly bites what passes for his bottom lip and manages to half muffle the sound he makes. Ok, fair point, he is the one getting off to being bloodied by an actual cannibal. He's not even usually this masochistic. It's just because it's Alastor.

Alastor bites him again, on the shoulder this time. Vox groans loudly, fisting his hands in the other demon's hair in earnest. Alastor growls disapprovingly, sinking his teeth a little deeper. Vox whines (not pathetically at all, thanks) and forces his fingers to loosen. Evidently satisfied, the teeth release him and are again replaced with a tongue.

Vox tips his head back, panting under the onslaught of sensations. The bite marks hurt, the lashes across his back hurt, his screen hurts, but it all hurts so good when Alastor is warm and heavy in his lap, hot tongue leaving cooling stripes across his chest and neck as he laps up the blood he has spilled. He shifts, attempting to grind up against Alastor, and is surprised when the other allows it. Moving makes him aware as the tattered remains of his shirt are readjusted against his skin that parts of the fabric are wet. With what, he isn't sure, but he'd wager blood.

Alastor switches to the other side once the bleeding slows and sinks his mouth of knives into Vox's neck, earning a choked mewl. That bite bleeds much heavier, carved out in more vulnerable flesh. Alastor isn't quick enough to catch all the streams of blood. Vox can feel at least one or two run hot down his chest, making new wet spots on his torn clothes. Now that he knows he's allowed, at least without immediate consequences, he rocks his hips up again, steadily now, hands still tangled through Alastor's hair (no squeezing, he's being good.)

Once he has had his fill, Alastor leans back, and Vox obediently lets go of his hair. The other demon looks a little deranged, blood smeared across his face. Vox is sure he looks worse, based on the smug aura Alastor's signal is broadcasting. He notes with hazy surprise that the pain in that signal has faded significantly.

"Cease your animal rutting," Alastor commands, almost bored.

Vox does.

"Do you like the taste of blood, my dear?" Alastor asks, running a hand up his chest. Vox realizes he's wiping up some of the blood onto his fingers.

"Uh... n-no, not really," Vox answers.

Alastor smiles sadistically and sticks his fingers in Vox's mouth anyway.

Vox has tasted his own blood before. Maybe not so much of it at once, but he has accidentally bitten his tongue like anyone would. It's metallic, coppery, like licking an electrified penny. It's kind of gross, but Vox can get over it, because it means he gets to suck Alastor's fingers.

The other demon removes his fingers when he deems them clean enough, and then he sort of paws at Vox's screen. Surprised and confused, Vox just sits still and allows it. The cracks in his screen have partly fused at this point, but when Alastor drags a claw viciously down one of the deeper ones, Vox hisses.

"So you can feel that," Alastor muses. "You have such interesting anatomy, my friend!"

"Yeah? I think you'll find I have some even more interesting anatomy," Vox says, roughly bucking his hips up again.

Alastor's brows pinch in distaste. Aw, fuck, thinking with his dick definitely just ruined it. Alastor quickly stands off of Vox's lap, and the media demon whines softly at the loss of his warmth and contact.

"I'll have to disagree, old chap. I find that part of you perhaps the least interesting!" Alastor smooths the wrinkles out of his clothes. "In fact, I think you're enjoying yourself a little too much. Now that I've recovered some strength, I think it's time for me to have a little fun!"

Vox touches a hand to the bloody bite mark on his neck and inspects how badly it's still bleeding by how much transfers to his hand. Cyan claws come away covered in red.

"Y'know, it seemed like you were enjoying yourself PLENTY, you sadistic-" he starts to jeer at Alastor.

He's not able to finish the sentence before the shadows grab him and fling him across the room again. His screen re-shatters along the healing cracks as he hits a wall with his side this time and slides to the floor, landing on his hands and knees. He laughs like a man deranged, and Alastor echoes him.

"Isz this the part wxhere you bea-at me up? Is thisz what ge-ets it up for you? Gets yxour rocks off to szee me a-all bloody?"

A shadow whips across his back, knocking him flat on his face.

"Don't be so crass."

Shadows snatch all four of his limbs with crushing, bruising intensity. Vox doesn't try to resist as they hoist him up. One finds its way under his pant leg and squirms up, up his thigh, under his boxers. His hips buck in anticipation, and the tendril finally wraps around his dick. It squeezes viciously tight around the base. Vox is suddenly seized by the very real fear that Alastor could, theoretically, just tear it off.

"Hey, hey, Al! Hey, how worried should I be? 'Cause I don't think I'm into castration, and I'm really hoping you're not either!"

Alastor chuckles darkly, and Vox is very much not reassured. He writhes in the grip of the tendrils in earnest, trying to tear his limbs free in a way that is very much painful to his poor joints, which aren't meant to be pulled in those directions or withstand this much pressure. (It's totally and completely unfair that he's still so into it. If he really, truly wanted to free himself, all it would take is a couple hundred volts and a quick jump through some live wires. Only for Alastor will he let his limits be pressed this hard.)

"You said you wanted me to 'get you off,' yes? I'm making sure you'll still be interested after the 'beat you up as much as I want' part of our agreement! Stop complaining."

A tendril lashes across the backs of his thighs, and damn, if that is the type of beating he's expected to endure, then the pseudo-shadow-cock-ring is going to be a hamper rather than a help.

Those thoughts are replaced with nothing coherent when another shadow whips him diagonally across the bare skin of his chest. His audio output crackles and pops when he screams.

"A shame that I have no reason to rend your very soul on air. You have such a unique scream! I'm sure my listeners would love to hear it."

What a fucked up thing to be praised for. Please, please do it again.

Vox feels himself thrown to the floor again, pinned again, and he zones out as the shadows lay into him. The restraining tendrils keep his head raised so that the floor doesn't muffle him, and Vox is so far beyond even trying to be quiet of his own will. He just submits to the mercy of the radio demon. Some of the pain is fantastic, some of it less so, but it's worth it to hear Alastor's approving feedback.

Finally, eventually, the onslaught stops, and Vox goes limp, gasping for breath. Parts of him sting with raw pain, parts are achy and sore, and parts of him itch as his body desperately stitches itself back together. His speakers fizzle and crackle, and he can tell that a couple components are blown out. He wonders if that's why Alastor stopped, because his voice stopped working right.

"What a delightful show!" Alastor praises, and he's a little out of breath too. Odd. Do the shadows take effort?

Speak of shadows, that one tendril is still clamped around his dick. It takes mere seconds for Vox to start squirming again. He tries to speak, but it comes out so distorted, so thick with static that even he isn't sure what he had been trying to say.

Alastor's microphone lifts the base of his screen. "Give it a moment, my dear. I think your audio needs a moment to repair itself."

Vox doesn't give it a moment. The pain has faded now to a level of fiery heat that blurs all of what he's feeling together. He isn't sure if he wants more or less, maybe both, he just wants relief.

Alastor tilts his head, keeping his mic in place as he simply watches Vox with pleased amusement.

"Fzzze xzpleazzz-ze fdzz- plzzzeazzz-" his speakers are sort of managing.

Alastor's expression brightens with utter delight as he parses the words. "Darling, are you begging me? That suits you. Keep going."

Vox stubbornly goes silent when he realizes that yeah, that's what his traitorous stream of consciousness had been feeding the speakers he assumed were too broken to actually transmit the sentiment.

Alastor sighs. "I said continue, not begin behaving like a dead fish." He prods Vox's partly re-healed screen with enough pressure to warp his vision, threatening to fracture it again.

Who the fuck is he kidding, trying to preserve his dignity in this state?

"Pzleaszzze xAl, fzzxuzckx plzeazxe."

"Please what? Use your words, Vox."

Vox is pretty sure he is quite literally almost incapable of fulfilling that demand with the limited control he has over himself right now, so instead he makes a pleading whine that he hopes will satisfy the radio demon's sadism enough to uphold his end of the deal.

Fortunately for him, Alastor seems to be feeling merciful. The shadows dump him on his knees on the floor and shred the last of his tattered clothes off of him. He doesn't resist when his arms are wrenched behind his back in a position that makes his abused shoulder rotator cuffs ache. Aditional shadows force his knees apart, slithering around his thighs.

"Xxare yzou go-onza shzadow fuzck me?" Vox asks more enthusiastically than he meant to.

The shadows pause for a moment. "Hm. I had been planning to shadow-masturbate you, but if you would prefer to be penetrated, I suppose that can be arranged."

Vox makes a shrill, static fogged sound that means both 'NOT what I meant FUCK YOU' and 'PLEASEPLEASEPLEASE' at the same time. No normal person could have deciphered it, however, his own ambient signal is even more traitorous than his speakers.

Alastor laughs again and puppeteers a change in position. He keeps Vox's arms uncomfortably restrained behind his back, forcing his chest to the floor, back arched, ass up. It's not a position anyone is meant to be in at all, let alone for any stretch of time.

Vox forgets about that when something cool and formless oozes into him like an amoeba. Fucking Satan on a stick, he's actually getting tentacle fucked right now.

Alastor laughs, breathless and mean in front of him. "I must say, I never thought I could actually derive enjoyment from an activity this venereal, but you are a delight to behold!"

Vaguely, Vox realizes that his latest thought had been spoken aloud to the best of his poor speakers' abilities, as well as broadcast through his radio frequency, both of which Alastor would have received full force. He should be embarrassed. He kind of is, but in the sort of way that feeds the experience. The tendril writhes inside him, and even through Alastor's inexperience is clear, he's still pretty sure this is one of the best things to ever happen to him.

The shadows abruptly release his arms. Vox's claws scrabble on the floor to push himself up partway, looking up at Alastor with hazy confusion at the sudden, unexpected liberty.

Alastor smiles down at him mildly. "I'm new at this, you see, and you're clearly not capable of using your words, so I'm going to need to see you claw like a depraved animal to know whether I'm doing it right."

Ah, he has been released so that Alastor can watch him writhe. That tracks. The shadow in his ass wriggles around, exploratory in a way he has never been penetrated before. He has taken cock before, but that's just a pounding in and out. This thing is poking around, stretching, probing. (Is this what it's like to get abducted by aliens? Hah! If so, he should try getting his ass abducted sometime. He doesn't even believe in aliens. Not believing in aliens doesn't matter when he's getting TENTACLE FUCKED by the fucking RADIO DEMON.) It rubs over his prostate and Vox keens, voice garbled by the damaged circuitry, raking his claws into the floor and carving up curly little ribbons of wood.

Alastor has taken a seat in the chair he had pulled up for Vox before, legs crossed neatly. He tilts his head with intrigue at Vox's reaction, and the shadow jabs his prostate again. Vox jerks and makes a sound that might've been a moan if it weren't confounded by his speakers popping. He tries to grind back against it. It's way too much and also not nearly enough. The pressure is so hot and tight, like a tidal wave dammed back. He paws pleadingly at the shadow constricting his dick, only to have that hand pinned behind his back again.

Alastor chuckles. "I should think not. If I am to be involved in this sexual situation as you so desperately want, then I shall be in control."

Vox can't muster a reply, not with the shadow kneading insistently into his prostate. Of course 'sex' with Alastor would be like no sex he has ever had before. It would be overstimulation if the pressure weren't still building, almost unbearable. The broken sounds from his speakers are incessant at this point. Is he crying? Maybe. Alastor is laughing again, so the chances are pretty good he is.

"What a delightful show! I do abhor the frivolities of television, but at least you are good in your chosen medium."

The shadow constricting his cock loosens to stroke once up the length, and the dam breaks immediately. Vox convulses like a man electrocuted with the sheer force of his orgasm, spare electricity crackling off of him through the violent waves of pleasure. His vision goes black when he bluescreens.

Chapter Text

Vox is not exactly sure how long he's out for, but when his vision flickers back into functionality, he quickly realizes he is facedown on wooden floorboards, naked, and unrestrained. Every part of him aches. He'd do it again in a heartbeat. He pushes himself up slowly with a groan that rattles and echoes through the broken components of his speakers. He performs a quick system check to verify that nothing critical is damaged. A few of his components have melted, a few more are knocked loose, but nothing that will require him to open up the casing to repair manually. He should be able to heal up.

He raises his screen to find Alastor walking back towards him from the door.

"I think we are quite finished here," the radio demon tells him, voice chipper and a little clipped. "Thank you, old pal, for that lovely little pick-me-up! Letting off some steam was a nice bonus. I hope you are feeling satisfied, as this concludes our little arrangement!"

Vox manages to prop himself in a somewhat upright sitting position to look himself over. Oh, he's a WRECK. His shoulders hurt from being bent in ways they're not meant to bend. His wrists are bruised--all of him is bruised--and many of those blows drew blood. The bite marks on his upper body haven't healed at all. That's weird. He remembers fortifying his healing with his bound souls. He digs around in his powers, trying to locate those chains.

They're still there. Of course they are. However, the energy connected to them is dulled, drained. What the fuck? He could pull harder if he wanted, force the energy out of the souls on his chain. However, if he did that, they'd know. Overlords only pull like that when they're desperate.

"Wzzhat dijou do?" Vox slurs, more confused and dazed than hostile.

"You offered up your physical wellbeing to me in exchange for sexual gratification!" Alastor informs him. "I took your physical wellbeing for myself by, shall we say... borrowing some of your power! Quite a delightful little boost. You have my gratitude!"

Vox hadn't even been aware that was possible. That's the agreement he had felt click between them earlier? Well, fuck. This could be very not good. He should probably be afraid. He's not, though. All he can think about is that dull ache in his heart that he has carried since his rejection all those years ago. He never would've been afraid of Alastor before.

"I've requested that Charlie bring you a change of clothes, and then I recommend admitting to her that your television proposal was merely a ploy to get my attention, and that you no longer see it beneficial to be involved with the hotel," Alastor says pleasantly, but there's something intimidating about the pleasantness.

Vox had forgotten all about getting his claws into this damn hotel the moment Alastor had sat on his lap. That was what he had really wanted, what he still wants. A knock sounds on the door and Alastor turns his back on Vox to answer. Seeing him walk away makes Vox's chest seize and he drags in a hitched breath, curling his hands into fists.

He catches little bits of the conversation at the door. The Princess twitters between apologies and questions, and Alastor reassures her patiently. Eventually, the door closes, and Alastor's dress shoes click as he approaches Vox with something neatly folded and red.

"Charlie bids me to pass along her apologies that this is the only hotel wear available this far." There's a glint in Alastor's eye that reads loud and clear that while the Princess might be sorry, he isn't. "Here."

Vox takes it. It's a monogrammed, hotel standard bathrobe. At least the material is soft.

"Now go inform Charlie that you have changed your mind and leave."

"Al, please, I'm- can't I stay a bit? Have you ever even heard of aftercare?"

"Can't say I have, old chum!"

Vox takes it as a sign of hope that the shadows aren't actively shooing him toward the door. "Please, just... help me clean myself up. Give me this one thing."

"You've always been so greedy for my attention. Why should I give you any more of it?"

That's not a no. Encouraged, Vox arranges himself in a more put-together position on his knees. "Please? You can bite me again."

"You'd like that," Alastor says.

Yeah, but so would you, Vox doesn't say.

"Very well. I suppose it would not benefit me to have you wandering about as bedraggled as you are. Besides, your blood would stain the clothes Charlie has so generously lent you," Alastor concedes. "Come here."

Vox scrambles to his feet, whole body protesting. Exactly how much of his power had Alastor drained? It's going to be a bitch if he has to rely on only his own body's capacity to heal itself.

Alastor leads him into a bathroom, and indicates for him to sit on the closed toilet. He does. Now that all of Vox's faculties are coming back online, he has the capacity to take in the room around him. It's clean, dim, all wooden trim and checkered tile. The bathtub has clawed feet. Those went out of style forever ago. He chuckles under his breath.

"What are you laughing at?" Alastor asks as his shadows bring him several rags.

He tosses one over Vox's lap for modesty and wets the rest in the sink. The fabric is rough, unsuited for tender wounds. He can't fathom Alastor using anything softer to clean him up.

"Your bathtub has claw feet. That shit is ancient."

"And yet, if you ask a child to draw a bathtub, chances are it will be one with feet." Alastor scrubs the cloth down a cut on Vox's arm, and the media demon hisses. "It is the Platonian form of a bathtub. Why must one insist on fixing what is not broken?"

"Not broken, just flawed," Vox asserts, grabbing a wet cloth and first cleaning the dried blood off his hands. "It has to be a nightmare to clean all those pipes, crevices, underneath it."

Alastor scrubs down the rest of his arm. His roughness definitely gets the dried blood off, but it also starts the wounds oozing again. Maybe that had been the other demon's goal, because he licks at the cuts until they stop again. Vox sighs at the feel of Alastor's tongue on him once more. This is highly unconventional aftercare, but honestly, he wouldn't have it any other way. When Alastor straightens, he twirls a red claw. Vox obediently turns to face away from him, and then the wet cloth begins scouring his half shredded back. He grits his teeth to bear the pain.

"Those new-fangled tubs hide all the plumbing, making repairs difficult for no good reason at all! Something functional and reliable is always worth the effort to maintain. No, shortcuts are never the answer!"

Vox is glad that there's so much physical pain he is experiencing right now, because it helps drown out the emotional pain of realizing that even after everything--the rejection, the hatred, the absence, more hatred--it's still so easy to talk with Alastor. To rib him, to bicker, to laugh with him. It's not fucking fair. He chuckles, breathless from the physical pain and hollow from the emotional pain, and cleans up his chest with almost as rough a hand as Alastor is using.

Alastor's tongue laps across his shoulderblades, soothing the bleeding lashes. Vox releases a staggered sigh. That feels nice. Surely he can let himself have this, just a momentary lapse in his better judgement. He can go back to soothing his broken heart with that comfortable hatred later. Right now, though, he can just float through whatever the fuck this is.

Eventually, several ruined rags later, Vox is patched up enough to get dressed. To his surprise, Alastor never bites him again like Vox had offered. Perhaps he had been satisfied enough with the blood from the wounds he had already left. Vox shrugs into the robe provided and steals a glance at himself in Alastor's mirror. Even cleaned up, he looks like shit. His screen is spiderwebbed with partly healed cracks, stitched together just enough that his vision is no longer kaleidoscoped. The bite on his shoulder is hidden, but the other two look pretty raw. The robe is long sleeved, but his bruised wrists still aren't quite concealed. He laughs drily at his reflection, and he can see how his own smile doesn't reach his eyes.

"Now then! As lovely as it has been to have you over for dinner, I think it is high time you relinquish your pathetic play for power on this hotel," Alastor says, guiding him out of the bathroom with his microphone.

Vox sighs deeply. Of course whatever the fuck this is has to come to an end. He cinches the bathrobe a little tighter, fixes his posture, and flips on his businessman's persona.

"Of course. It would be tragic to leave hellish royalty waiting any longer than we already have."

He steps out of Alastor's bedroom. He still hurts all over, but he doesn't show it in his gait as he strides confidently back down the stairs he had scaled earlier. When he enters the main lobby, the Princess is pacing back and forth while Vaggie appears to be trying in vain to comfort her. The winged cat is facing away from him, shaking something with ice. Angel Dust is the first to notice he has entered the room. The porn actor's eyes bug out as he spit-takes the drink he had been sipping. The spider demon's gaze darts around, clearly conflicted, before he glances at Vox again. The three hands that aren't holding his drink quickly come up to block his view in a very clear gesture of 'I ain't seen NOTHING.' Vox can only suspect he's afraid of Valentino-related consequences.

He feels a pull on the robe he's wearing and glances down. That little murder-maid is lifting up the edge of his robe to peek under it. Suddenly feeling much more violated than he had while actually getting tentacle-fucked, he takes a kick at her as he recoils. She dodges and fixes him with a delighted smile that makes his skin crawl.

"You look like shit!" she says, then giggles.

"Vox, Alastor, you're- oh my Satan."

Vox's gaze snaps back up to the Princess, who is looking over him with wide, horrified eyes. Vaggie is beside her, looking dumbfounded. He quickly grins, putting his hands on his hips. The maid is right, he looks like shit, and confidence is the only way he's gonna sell this.

"Charlie! Alastor and I had a chance to sort out some of our past grievances, and unfortunately-"

"What did you DO to him?" the Princess demands, horns poking out of hair that now flies loose in a breeze that doesn't exist.

Alastor steps up beside him, twirls his microphone, and then plants it on the ground with his hands folded atop. "He consented."

Vox hears Angel Dust choke over at the bar. The Princess's gaze lands on Vox again, and she's still halfway towards full demon form, looking confused.

"I did consent," Vox confirms. "Unfortunately, some of our differences are too great, and I believe my presence at this hotel will prove unhelpful to you in the long run, despite my superior technology."

Alastor's radio signal squeals in disapproval beside him. Good, they can go back to doing nothing but poking sore wounds in public.

The Princess reverts back to her normal form, looking back and forth between Vox and Alastor. It's clear that she does not understand how Vox could have possibly consented to being put in the state he is in now. Whatever. It doesn't really matter whether she believes him or not.

"I'll be taking my leave. Angel, I'd like to borrow your phone."

The porn actor goes stiff, clearly scared of him. "Uh, w-why?"

Vox smiles easily, gesturing to himself. "As you can imagine, I can't be seen in public like this. I have an image to maintain. You use VoxTek technology. Travel via the power grid is much faster, anyway."

Angel nods, eyes wide, and fumbles to fetch his phone out of his fluff while Vox approaches him. The winged bartender glares at him with more intensity with each step he takes. Once he's close enough, he pauses, turns to face the room in general.

"By the way, tell anyone you like. They'll never believe you," Vox says, meanly.

And then he's gone, zapped into the grid.

Chapter Text

Vox zaps back into Vee Tower from one of the cameras in Valentino's bedroom. It was the first camera he could think of that would ensure he'd arrive somewhere mostly private. He doesn't allow cameras in his own personal spaces: too risky. Val is a slutty little exhibitionist, though, so he has never minded the risk.

"Voxy, baby, what are you wearing?"

Vox whips around. Valentino is looking at him, confused, still holding the tub of luxury moisturizer he had clearly just been applying in the mirror of his dresser. His wings are unfolded and he's wearing a royal purple silk robe, untied, naked beneath it. Val's gaze rakes him up and down. Vox's eyes dart around the room, taking in his surroundings and grounding himself. He hadn't expected Val to actually be here in the middle of the work day.

"Why aren't you in the studio at this hour?"

"This hour? Amorcito, it's like 8 at night. I stopped filming by 5:30."

Val turns back to the mirror, smoothing the remaining cream across his cheeks. It's that late? Fuck. Vox hadn't been outside between that stupid hotel and here to see the time of day in the sky. How was he supposed to realize Alastor had taken that long with him?

"Shit," Vox swears.

Val puts down the moisturizer and strides up to Vox. The moth demon is several feet taller than him, but he's not using his height to be intimidating right now. Val hinges at the hip and strokes a hand down Vox's monitor tenderly.

"Shit is right. Baby, you look terrible. Your screen is all busted. I thought you were going to visit that hotel today? What happened?"

"It's who happened," Vox corrects.

A red grin splits Val's face. The hand on his monitor tips his screen to the side, exposing the bite mark on his neck.

"You got laid? By who?"

Vox shrugs out of the hotel robe. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you. Hey, get me something more comfortable, baby, I've had a long day."

Val's jaw drops when he sees the extent of the damage, and then he whistles. "You're braver than me. I'd never let that little maid near me."

Vox frowns. "What? No."

Val just hums as he saunters over to his dresser again, digging around in it for a moment before retrieving some navy blue silk nightclothes. Vox slips into them gratefully, not even complaining that he isn't offered underwear. Val presses up against his back, lower arms gently caressing over his torso. His lover isn't always gentle like this, but it feels incredible right now after the abuse from before.

"So, was she a good lay? Give me some numbers out of 10~"

"I'm serious, I didn't fuck the maid," Vox says, leaning into Val's soft touch.

Valentino's hands slow and then still. "...the Princess, then? No one else at that rancid shithole could do this much to you..."

Vox puts his hands over Val's, folding his claws between the other's fingers. "I told you that you wouldn't believe me."

Val's grip suddenly squeezes tighter. "Holy fucking shit, did you fuck the radio demon?"

"Does it look like /I/ fucked HIM?"

Val abruptly spins him around, inspecting him a second time with pure delight. Vox winces in pain at being manhandled. He can tell from Val's expression that his assertion that the moth demon would never believe him is wrong.

"Holy shit, baby! He fucked you UP! You can never complain if I crack your screen again~ Do you want me to bite you like that? I can totally bite you like that."

Val leans down close to his screen, visibly aroused at this point. Vox is far too exhausted to get it up right now, and far too sore to actually go through with the act, but he does indulge his partner with a kiss that grows increasingly sloppy. After a few minutes, he feels one of Val's many hands palm his crotch, and the moth demon's disappointed hum reverberates in his mouth when he finds no purchase.

Val breaks the kiss, standing back upright. "I can see you're spent for the night. I'm gonna go fuck something, and maybe we can explore your new kinks tomorrow when you're a little more healed, amorcito~"

Yeah. This is where he belongs now. Fuck you, Alastor. He's got Val now, and it isn't perfect all the time, but it's really nice a lot of the time. Val pulls a new cigarette out, and Vox lights it with a precise electric surge without even having to be asked. Val turns away again, this time to dig around in his closet, and Vox sits on the edge of Val's bed.

"Mind if I crash here tonight?" Vox asks.

"Of course not, baby."

Thank fuck. Now that he has sat down on something soft, Vox feels like his legs have turned to putty. Val turns away from his closet with two different dresses in his hands.

"Which one of these makes me look sexier?"

Vox knows the drill by now. If Val is holding one dress in an upper hand and one in a lower hand, he likes the one in his upper hand better, and Vox should always pick that one. If they're both in lower hands, Val isn't sold on either one and wants to be praised for how good he'd look in each of them, and he'll decide on his own based on that. If they're both in upper hands, he likes them equally and just wants someone else to make a decision so he doesn't have to. Velvette had to explain it to him, but now that he knows, it's pretty easy to remember.

This time, they're both in lower hands.

Vox leans back, inspecting them. "Hard choice. The leg slit on the black one would really show off your thighs, but the deep v-neck on the purple one would tease the nipple chain if you're planning to keep wearing the one you have on."

Val looks thoughtful, then turns to pose in the mirror with each of the outfits.

"Hmm. Purple and gold is a classic," Val finally decides, putting the black dress away.

Vox lays back on the bed, feeling the weight of the day he has had pulling at his very bones. He allows his vision systems to shut down, screen displaying closed eyes. Val shuffles around the room as he pretties himself up, and the sound is familiar and comforting. Vox doesn't even crawl under the covers before passing out cold.

When he wakes the next morning to Val feeling him up, his mood is instantly soured by the physical pain of it. The memories hit him next, and fuck that's worse. Absolutely not cool; he can't spend the whole day thinking about what happened with Alastor. He groans.

"Val, baby, not this morning."

The hands become more determined instead of stopping.

"Ṽ̴̯ǎ̸̹l̷̜̿," he insists through heavy reverb.

The hands recoil. "You're no fun, Voxy."

Val sounds unhappy. Too bad. The bed shifts as Val's weight leaves it. Vox lays there a few more minutes, steeling himself for a long day.

He makes an attempt to tug on the power of his bound souls. The trickle of power he gets is sluggish, but it is returning. He directs it all to repairing the damage done to his flesh, prioritizing anything that would be visible in his normal attire.

He's going to have to cancel all his live appearances for today, and probably tomorrow too. Velvette's gonna find out what happened eventually, and he's already not looking forward to that. He hears the door close as Val leaves. Alright. All he needs to do is throw himself into his work today and get drunk off his ass tonight. That should keep his mind off it all.

Chapter Text

It took a measly couple hours before Velvette slipped him a note under the table in one of their meetings, demanding his presence in the living room during the next small break he had. She could've just sent him a text that he could ignore or pretend he hadn't seen, but she hadn't. She's serious. She's too perceptive for her own good. No use putting it off.

He enters the appointed room, and Velvette is already there. He eases himself down onto the couch, trying his best to disguise his stiff movements. Velvette doesn't sit.

"You've been acting strange. You cancelled all your appearances," she states.

Vox offers her nothing but an annoyed look.

"Why?" She demands. "Fess up, Vee."

"That's private," Vox tells her.

She raises an eyebrow. "And?"

Vox glares at her. "Since when do you care about my private life?"

"Since it started affecting me and our mutual business, now spill it."

Vox opens his mouth, but he doesn't get a chance to actually speak before Val's voice rings from a few yards away as he saunters through the living room, a shortcut from his bedroom to the studio. The timing on this one. Wasn't he supposed to start filming 10 minutes ago?

"Voxy got fucked by the radio demon."

Vox tenses as much as his sore muscles will allow. Way to put it bluntly, Val.

"Hah!" Velvette barks, and then her eyes land on Vox's screen. "Oh you're serious."

Vox quickly fixes his expression into a casual smile. "It's no big deal. No one in their right mind would ever believe it if word got out."

"You should see how fucked up he is," Val purrs, pausing behind the couch to twang one of Vox's antennae.

"Vox or the radio demon?" Velvette asks humorlessly. "I'm sure they're both deranged."

"I meant physically." Val presses a couple fingers viciously into the deepest bite wound, the one on his neck.

Vox hisses in pain. So Val is in that kind of mood today, huh? Poking at his sore spots just because he still hadn't been able to satisfy his libido this morning? Vox makes a mental note to send him flowers or something to prevent a fight, because he's not talking this one out. Velvette is staring at him with narrow eyes.

"How bad did he fuck you up? Why aren't you healing yourself?" she demands.

"I kind of wondered too," Val says, removing his fingers. "Vel, keep me updated, but I'm already late. I gotta go."

Val flicks his antenna again instead of kissing him goodbye. Yeah, he'll include some chocolates with the flowers. He really, really doesn't want to argue about this when he isn't even sure how he feels about it. In fact, thinking about it this much is already bad. Val sashays out the door towards the studio.

He can feel Velvette's gaze piercing into him even as he procrastinates answering by watching Val strut away, lost in his head.

"Vox. Answer me."

Vox sighs. No way he is evading this. "Just a small agreement that benefitted us both. It's complete now. The only consequence is that I'm gonna heal a little slower, but it's not that bad."

Velvette takes a step closer. Even though he knows he's taller, if he were to just stand, her aura towers over him.

"You're bleeding through your collar."

"Seriously?" Vox claps a hand over the bite wound Val had aggravated. Fucking asshole.

"How bad is 'not that bad'? Show me."

Vox hesitates. Velvette is apparently not playing games, because she glares and snaps her fingers, and cold air abruptly hits most of his skin. Vox refuses to give her a reaction, though inwardly, he thinks they're both glad that she has put him in some briefs while using her powers to bare the rest of him. He prefers boxers, but at least she didn't go full on tighty-whiteys.

"You look like shit," she says.

"Thanks," Vox says sweetly. "Give me my clothes back."

"Did you even shower after?"

No. He hadn't. "I got the blood off."

Velvette wrinkles where her nose would be if dolls had noses. "Probably licked it off like a freak."

Vox's screen flickers. Velvette's expression twists.

"Ew! You or him?"

"You think I like the taste of my own blood? Fucking please," Vox snarls.

"You let a cannibal lick the blood off the wounds HE FUCKING MADE!?"

"So?"

"Do you want an infection, huh? Probably gets you off too, yeah? Ugh. Go take a fucking shower! In peroxide!"

Vox dodges as she snaps and hurls a wad of summoned bandages at him. She has a valid point, but she's still beginning to irk him. He's really not in a mood to have shit thrown at him.

"I'll shower after my next meeting," he says dismissively.

Vel glares at him, pulls out her phone, jabs her fingers into it a few times.

"Cancelled it. Go shower now."

She did not just fucking do that. He whips out his phone to confirm, and finds that the meeting has indeed been removed from his calendar. He opens his mouth to speak, but she beats him to the punch.

"That was fucking stupid, Vox. Letting yourself get fucked up like this."

Vox stands abruptly, towering over her. "You think I don't FUCKING know that!? It's already done with, I have a life to get back to. Give me my fucking clothes back."

She doesn't budge an inch. "Only if they're coming right the fuck back off again. Go shower, Vox."

Vox snarls and caves. "Fine. I fucking hate you."

Velvette snaps, and now he's wearing a luxuriously soft, navy bathrobe. "Love you too. Piss off, go bathe."

She flips him off before turning on her heel and stalking off. Oh, he could strangle her. He could also kiss her, because this outfit is feather soft on his abused body, and it'll be much easier to remove than the layers he had struggled his way into this morning after Val left the bedroom in a huff.

Vox zaps himself through the tech littering Vee tower and out of a security camera that monitors a hallway near one of the nice, private bathrooms that only the Vees themselves and a couple select employees have access to. He has been using that form of transportation as much as possible today; it's less painful than walking. He can't hurt when he doesn't have a physical body. There's no camera inside the bathroom itself, though, so he does still have to walk to approach it.

He places a cyan claw on the security device and pulses his signal into it. It unlocks for him. Val and Velvette have keycards, but he doesn't need one.

He deadbolts the door behind himself. Vel and Val may have been allowed to see the state he is in, but the Vees do not show weakness in front of their employees. It wouldn't do to have cleaning staff come stumbling in on him. He'd have to kill them, and that would be annoying to deal with.

Fantastic. Now he is officially alone with his thoughts.

He removes the bathrobe and hangs it up, catching a look at himself in the mirror. His screen isn't shattered anymore. However, the rest of him is at that stage of healing that looks worse before it looks better. He doesn't bruise like a normal person, or at least it doesn't show up like a normal person. His blood is red, but his cybernetic components are cyan like his claws. Webs of cyan lace through the dark bruises covering his body now, a sign of his systems desperately trying to heal the damage with the power he had hooked up this morning. The broken skin hasn't stitched itself back together yet like it should've. At full capacity, he should've been healed up in around a day, but as it stands, the deep bite wound on his neck is lazily welling a little new blood from Val's little gesture. He screws his eyes shut at the sudden, gut-twistingly intense desire for Alastor to sit in his lap and lick the blood off again.

No. That can't be how this goes. It's over. Alastor will never again touch him with any genuine tenderness. Yesterday had not been a return to the softness he had once been shown by the other demon. The whole thing was a transaction; Alastor was only interested because it directly benefitted him, Vox knows this. And yet... logic doesn't touch the black hole of want and regret that finally collapsed into a singularity the second his claws had dropped away from Alastor's throat in an admittance that he couldn't kill him.

He punches the mirror. It shatters, glass crunching under his knuckles. That didn't make him feel any better at all. Fuck. He shakes shards of glass off of his hand. His knuckles are bleeding a little. He really doesn't need do be adding more injuries for his overworked system to repair.

Speak of healing, he pulls consciously at that power of his souls again, checking how much more he has access to. He's pleasantly surprised to find it nearing half capacity. Good, it's coming back quicker. At this rate he should be fixed up quickly enough that he won't have to cancel more live appearances than he already has.

He turns away from the busted mirror to turn the shower on as hot as it'll go. Maybe the heat can burn away the phantom traces of Alastor's shadows on him, burn away the echo of his warmth pressed against Vox's chest, burn away the memory of his mouth on Vox's neck. (He doesn't want that. He wants to remember for ever and ever, but forgetting is the only thing that he can think of to ease the pain.)

The room quickly fills with steam. Vox plugs up the bits of himself that aren't waterproof with custom molded silicone from the drawer with his name on it. (He only needs the one drawer, and he puts his shit away when he's done. Vel and Val have multiple drawers each, and even still, their makeup products clutter the counters.)

He steps into the shower, letting hot water run over him, purging raw wounds. He relishes in the painful sting of it. This is what it feels like to love someone like Alastor, and he needs to remember that. It's pain in every form. He had been playing with fire to let himself enjoy Alastor's attention, and by Satan had he gotten burned. Now that he has tasted how delicious and bitter it is to give himself up to the radio demon, that hunger for more will never be sated.

He tilts his head back, letting the water land directly on his screen, dripping off the bottom of his monitor. If some of that water is a little more salty than the rest, no one, not even him, has to know.