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Spectral arms wrap around him but even more curiouse they reach behind him and wrap around his shadow. His soul. He feels it instantly. An uncanny shift in his very being as he experiences a warmth wrapped burst of pain. It has something awakening within him that he had thought aught not to be of consequence.
But then the arms move away as the entity further expands upon its terms and Alastor writes it off. It was nothing, truly. His beating heart, the sweaty palms that such a touch had wrought was simply adrenaline leftovers from his most recent kill.
He recalls it fondly as oh yes, Mr. Johnson had to have cared for his presence when his knife was stabbing through his chest. It has excitement rising from within and so it must be true. The demon from below's spectral hand curls underneath his jaw and ends in an outstretched hand.
His dirtied soul for an eternity of fun and whatever he so wishes upon death?
"It's a deal," Alastor says with a shake of his hand and it's about the easiest words he's ever said. An unhinged laugh bubbles from his throat at the victory.
The entity from the other side laughs with him. A polite, less manic feminine sound. It's so unassumeing he can't help but to think that once he gets down there things will be a cinch. But the entity is no pushover it seems.
The somehow solid static hand clutched in his seperates itself only for the tendrils that make up its arms to wrap around him once more. They bind his arms at his sides and force him to his knees with a loud slam.
His knees ache with the impact but the voice merely laughs. An uncanny screech cuts through it as it jovially says, "I'll be taking that now."
The tendrils shift along his skin and even through his clothes their touch is near burning. Hot and heavy with an unholy yet familiar presence. It is from a radio after all, his most precious confidant when people can't seem to get their heads out of their own asses. He's spent so long adoring such a contraption he sees no reason for it not to extend to another manifestation of it.
Still, his humanity, what little of it is left, writhes with discomfort at being confined. The demon's hold is strong he can't do a thing against it, a fact it very well knows. He wonders if its hold will leave marks upon his skin. He'll have to think of one hell of an excuse for them should they appear.
The tendrils turned arms reach and they firmly wrap around his soul. He shivers at the feeling and the radio coos a distorted sound. It almost sounds like a ploy at comfort. He doesn't need it. But the tendrils sear him and it doubles when they begin to pull.
The pain is bright hot and unlike anything he's ever felt before. It reverberates throughout his entire body as one pulsing ache. It thrums in time with his wild heartbeat but even that cannot hide what's beginning to swell within his slacks.
Cold horror cracks over his body for as the pain persists, as the tendrils continues to tug and rip his humanity away, what he had written off as adreline is making itself known as much more than that. He shifts with discomfort just as there's another painful tug and he nearly falls forwards with the force of the warring sensations sent through him.
Pain, pleasure and cold hard dread. A mishmash of the human experience. The tugging ceases and he feels as if he can breath again. Confusion blips into his awareness now that every sense isn't focused behind and between his legs. At some point without his notice his breathes had turned to pants.
But his confusion only doubles as one of the hands moves. It drags itself from his soul and and across his skin in a slow drag. It's hot touch leaves the feeling of static in its wake. He can only watch as it draws closer and closer to that which he dare not acknowledge.
It settles between his legs, touching upon what it shouldn't. He grunts in response and tries to move himself. To get away from the too knowing hand but the binds firmly hold him in place.
The hand upon him shifts and although he tries to stop it, a breathy moan escapes his lips. He grits his teeth at his unbecoming response while shame settles heavy in his gut. He can't, he shouldn't he- he cant afford to feel such baseless desires. He thought he was above lust and useless urges. That unlike his favored prey he had control over all his facilities.
Yet, here, now of all places his body has determined he decidedly isn't. That he's just like the rest of them. An animal smothered in instincts and urges. And all it took was a little pain to unearth it.
He feels dizzy with the revelation, lightheaded and wrong footed. He's certain that if he were standing he would have stumbled. Being on his knees is a small mercy in that regard. He works his mouth open, to try and smooth away as to why such a thing is occurring in the demon's presence. To put his voice to good use but the demon responds before he can.
"You continue to surprise me," the voice coos with too much interest for his liking.
"I can assure you it's not what you think it is," he blurts before he can think any better of it. Shame had spurred his words and it is shame that holds him still. It colors his cheeks and takes away his reason as the hand rests heavy on his crotch. There is no explaining away of the hard evidence. He was foolish enough to try.
The demon does not take kindly to it. He can feel it as a squeeze of the bonds around his soul and the sound of a dial tuned into a dead airway. That eerie not quite silence. "Oh, darling," the voice says saccrid sweet but it is far from kind. "I hold your soul. I know everything."
Another sound is choked from him as the arms turned bonds maneuver him. They force his legs to part so he cannot hide himself between his clenched together thighs anymore. A tug and his head is angled downwards as he looks at what he had denied. He's creating an impressive tent in his pants, hard and straining that he can feel every bit of. The hand slotted right beside it.
He hates that the demons molds him so easily. That with what feels like a twitch he's poised like some doll. A corpse more like for the ugly rotting feeling that's taken hold of his insides. The demon is not done however, the tendril wrapped around his soul tugs and he watches in precise detail how his body reacts.
His hips jerk forwards, a lame thrust towards the latest source of stimulation as his cock damn well twitches. Pleasure curls with the pain at the base of his spine and he sucks in a breath to withold another moan. The demon titters with a mean laugh that floats all around him. He hardly hears it with the shame stuffing his ears but when it speaks it's words lack any of the mirth it's laugh had held no matter how cruel.
"Do not lie to me again, doll," the feminine voice spits.
Alastor shivers at the name it's seen fit to give him and his voice finally works. "Understood," he shakily exhales and the demon falls silent except for the crackle of the radio it eminates from. It does not need words to instill the fear it so desires.
It has him ensnared in every sense. Body, mind and soul as his heart beats a steady warning. The warning extends further than the internal as a cold sweat drenches his back. It has his shirt and vest sticking uncomfortably to his skin. It has his thighs beginning to tremble from the position and a crick announcing itself at the base of his neck from the pose the demon holds him in. He can't do a thing about it.
He agreed to its terms and now it's come to collect. The schematics as to how are of little consequence, to back out would mean death with no insurance for his assured after. So Alastor shuts his mouth and grits his teeth for what's to come. He's sacrificed far too much for something as simple as an ill-timed boner to ruin it.
He waits until his muscles burn, until his strained hard-on pulses with a need he's never had to deal with before. It is torture. His arms are bound at his side so relief does not come. And it will not unless the demon deems it so. He reckons its delighted with his suffering, with the way he can't help but to shuffle against the hardwood as he attempts to lean the barest amount. A bloodied floor isn't ideal but it is something solid, he could make friction.
He gets another laugh for his efforts and it's pitying and cruel and everything he hates so why does it make the ache lessen? He growls but the demon continues to withhold speech as it finally acts instead.
The hand slotted between his thighs moves but not where he was hoping it would go. It bypasses his straining shame and instead goes above it, to the button of his pants. There it begins to undo them, unbuttoning and tugging at his clothes just enough until Alastor is revealed to the open air.
It's such an odd course of action, surprisingly polite, that he's struck dumb. It pauses once more forcing him to reckon with his unconstrained lust. He knew he was hard, he's no dummy, but to see it unveiled is another thing entirely.
His cock is swollen with it, veins rippling up it's side as the head is flushed red. It looks about as painful as it feels and worse, pre-cum coats it. The clear substance is hard to spot but he catches the way it glimmers in the candlelight. Not to mention the burst of warmth that had escaped upon its unveiling. The heat that was trapped between it and his clothes. It brings the smell of musk and sweat with it.
Alastor can feel his face grow hot with embarrassment for how thoroughly the demon has gotten to him. But he has no chance to ponder as said demon grabs ahold of him with a firm grip. Both hands do, one his cock the other his soul.
He merely watches as his body reacts to the tug the hands give. Pleasure eminates up from his cock just in time to mingle with the pain his soul gives him. A deep wrongness creeps up his spine and to his scalp in what feels like the buzz of dead air. His soul is not made of flesh and blood. Alastor knows this, he knows, yet it feels just the same.
He can feel the sinewy elastic pull as muscles or flesh resist against the demon's tug. Can almost hear the wet smack of a slab of flesh rended. Feel the warm trickle of blood. The wrongness, the instincts that plead with him to make it stop slink into his stomach as a weight. Only for his pleasure to dance around it, to have the weight shift towards a more pleasent avenue.
They're at odds with one another and his body is caught in the crosshairs. His body jerks forwards, that far too latent sense to get away manifested, while his hips fight to stay exactly as they are. Within another's warm inviting touch of which it's static nature is an added benefit. Alastor feels another moan threaten to bubble up and he bites his lip so hard he tastes the tang of blood.
It only serves to fuel the instinctual. Pleasure far outweighing the pain, or perhaps they've melded into one.
The sensations dance along his skin in the tremors of his thighs. It's in the sweat that slides along his back and in each panted breath. Cold telling fear pangs in his chest and how pathetic is that? All his years and it's something to do with plain ol lust that has him squirming and pliant. Alastor is beginning to suspect he's lost his mind.
He must have for when the demon continues, when the hands tug as one upon his physical form and not, he anticipates it. Some part of him looks forward to it. Has the demon stripped him of all reason? Has it truly reduced him to such a state?
The radio the demon's reach extends from bursts with a crackle of static. He cannot parse if it is meant to be a warning of a sortor not but it brings him a sense of comfort. Something to soothe his overtaxed mind into a lull as his body takes over.
The hands begin again, and they do not stop. It is steady but meticulously so. One goes as does the other. A constant barrage of sensations that his skin cannot take. He bites down harder as his body jerks to and fro. To slide away from his soon to be rended soul and towards the touch at the same time.
It makes the tremors in his thighs worse, the bands of pressure from the spectral restraints dig deeper and Hells below it's hand on his cock is casting a spell all its own. It's drawing forth pleasure he's never experienced thus far. Alastor has partaken in his own flesh, the need has arisen albeit rarely, but this is not that.
It is warm, nearly unbearable, and it carries the fuzz of a freshly awakened radio. The same static that tingles through his skin and makes his heart croon with delight. He watches the hand now as it works. The yellow glow it sports casts odd shadows upon him as it's very form fizzles. He hears the steady static hum stall and that's when the glow lessens.
He feels something knock at the back of his skull with the information but he cannot head it anymore. That is as far as that thought goes for he cannot think through what the demon enacts on him.
Every tug is as viscous as much as it is pleasurable. The steady tugs to his soul are working swimmingly. He can feel something within him shifting, lessening as it's torn away tug by tug. He can feel the sweat increase as it drips down his face, as his breathes are but muted pants and grunts around his captured lips.
The radio crackles with what might be a laugh and still the sound carries comfort. It is the thing he admires most. Those invisible unseen waves that connect so much. They wrap around him now in its warm cruel embrace.
The next tug to his being registers as particularly harsh. It brings the sting of tears to his eyes as the trickle of imagined blood turns to a gush. Its as if he's taken a cleaver directly down the center of his spine. The tension of his skin, tendons and muscles broken with one clean motion and now he's left splayed and raw. A bleeding wire, live with electric painful pleasure.
The crackle of static spikes and the demon's voice rings out. He hears it directly behind an ear, can feel the presence of another body in the room. "Come now, show Rosie that wonderous voice of yours," it whispers.
The words are loud and quiet all at once. They're full of static yet it's the clearest speech he's ever heard, even more than that of an actual face to face conversation. But he knows what she asks and he has given her much, is going to give her what amounts to everything, but he can't bring himself to give her this.
The bonds tighten and his breath is choked out of him in the squeeze. "I'll remember such insolence, Alastor."
He hates what hearing his name uttered by her voice does to him. He should have predicted that she'd take to the challenge he's presented. Take to it she does.
The hand around him ceases its gripping pumps in favor of paying attention to his tip. The spectral fingers run along his head's edge. That alone has him jerking in the holds once more but then it's his soul's turn. For where he feels flayed open and raw her touch extends to it with gusto.
He knows that hand hasn't moved from his soul, logically he knows even if he can't see it but it feels as if it has. It feels like her hand is traversing down the length of his spine, fingertips and nails scratching against each bony protrusion as they go. He can feel the vibrations of the non-touch ring through him and the hold on his lips loosens.
The devil knows it, for her touch grows crueler. His tip continues to be fondled but she's added back the strokes. Upon his soul she tugs and those searching fingers feel as though they dip into his muscles.
His lips slip from between his teeth. "Ah-" he moans loud and quivering but it was enough. She got what she so sought. The damn inside of him breaks and any resistence he still had surrenders to the sensations coursing through him.
Tears slip down his face at the overwhelming nature of it all. The hand upon his soul tugs harder and it feels as if claws are ripping into his already exposed skin. Digging in deep and severing his sinewy muscles with delightful bone deep pain. It travels up his back and to his gut in hot searing pulses. Unconciously he bucks and trembles at her touch. He's stopped from actually moving by the restraints.
The hand upon his cock is worse. The hand moves expertly, with grace that is unfitting of such an act but oh so right. It glides along his length and touches him just so, enough to drive him mad but not enough to send him into utter bliss. This he can see, unlike his soul.
The static fluttering yellow engulfs his heated skin. Bits of his tanned flesh peak through with every stroke and it sends pleasure straight to his core. And it may be his own failing mind but he feels as though his shadow moves all its own in response. His cock is quite the sight like this. It's lust hasn't lessened an ounce despite the stretch of time it's received attention. It's proudly erect in a way that still brings a blip of shame with its tellingly flushed state.
Near its base his pubes peek out from his parted clothes. The hair has become matted with wetness, his pre-cum that ever flows as he's kept on the parapace of release. Beside that is two lines of the demon's restraints, they frame him like it's a pretty sight. He groans a guttural noise and the hands fizz with what he thinks is delight.
He lets the noises freely tumble from between his battered lips. He holds no sound back as the hands continue their work on him and he is rewarded for it. They slide and they pull and his body is captured in bliss. Tears fall and sweat clings to his skin but he's stopped caring about such things. How can he, when she attends to him like this?
The fingers in his soul dig, a tightened grip that sends the imaged blood pooling around his legs, and he utters a singular name. "Ro- Rosie," he says the name ragged and utterly unworthy of a broadcast but it is spoken.
He doesn't know why he says it. Perhaps it's to precure more favor or simply because she is all that holds his attention now.
He can feel that this is nearing its end. His soul is almost extracted, the emptiness it's leaving in its wake is telling. A muted prickly sensation all along his back like a limb fallen asleep. Distant. Likewise, his cock has long since been ready to burst and he's not sure how much the demon will have a say on when it does anymore. His body has limits and she is thoroughly testing them.
He feels both grips tighten at the spoken name, speeding up in a way that steals his breath. He gasps and flinches in the bruising hold but her voice rings out like a balm meant to sooth. "There it is."
And then one great tug is given and it is complete. A tension is broken as his soul is fully severed. A pain so unfathomably great shakes through every limb and Alastor is a goner. He cums, violently pushed over the edge as he sees stars and static. He jolts as the waves crash through him no gentler than her hands. It is painful in its unfurling.
The restraints leave him and he crashes to the floor a panting, sweaty mess. A stickiness now coats his front and paints the floor. It mingles with the coagulated blood of his latest victim and the smell stings his nose but all he can focus on is that her touch had left him.
He looks up at the radio to see the tendrils retreating. His soul clutched in one of those hands. Something foreign grips his chest at the sight but she speaks one last time and that chases it away.
"I'll be seeing you, pet," she says and with a fizzle and a pop the arms disappear. The radio goes dead.
Alastor lays there, panting and shaking a mess in every sense. His limbs cannot move as soreness seizes every muscle. His glasses push into his face with the awkward angle but his eyes stay trained on the radio. His sole source of comfort over the years, his longest and arguably only friend. He wills it to answer to him, to bring him comfort once more like it always has. It stares back uncaring and silent to his plight.
He knows he's being foolish. It is a thing not a who and it will not turn on unless he gets up. But his limbs spasm and he knows movement is a long ways yet. He watches as an arc of yellow static buzzes out from it and the radio face lights up with life. Music from his favored station swells into the room and he sighs in content.
He has a mess to clean up, himself, the floor, the piles of failed summoning's behind him and a startling discovery about himself to ponder but that can wait. For now he lays there, his body warm with the kind that only release brings and he sinks into the sound of his radio.
__________
Alastor dies the next day.
At one point he’s living and breathing then with a bang he’s not. He feels himself fall through the Earth, his body twisting and changing as gravity loses all meaning. His flesh burns, stinging with a raw tenderness that speaks of something new. His eyes cannot stay open against the winds that whip around him. He closes them and waits.
The next he’s aching and waking up on solid ground. Heat hangs in the air and it nearly reminds him of home. He opens his eyes and takes stock of himself. Nothing is glaringly broken but the fur is new, as is the appearance of his birthday suit. At least his facilities seem to be in order.
He hears a familiar chuckle but he hasn’t the chance to look before cloth is thrown over his head. A fetching black and red suit that fits him well. More than by happenstance. He gets the message. He gladly fits it over himself with limbs that don’t feel like his own. When he surfaces from the jumble of cloth he sees the one who had laughed.
Rosie, his mind supplies for he knows the instant he lays eyes on her. He finally has a face to the voice. And it is a good face, he decides. His eyes drag along her form as he takes it in.
She's covered nearly head to toe, only her head and hands left uncovered. Her skin is gray with death, the coloring of old bleached bones. She's sporting a dress that's before his time. Puffed sleeves, a high neckline, cinched waist and a dramatically poofed posterior before it tapers back down to hug her legs. Her dress matches his suit, reds and blacks but with an addition of mauve.
Atop her head sits an elaborate hat. Feathers flair from and they're held together by an artfully placed skull. It looks human but its size is small. He'd think it to be of a child's if it weren't Hell. Beneath that is her hair, bone white and cropped short. It's curled ends wisp around her face and frame the beauty laid bare.
Her noir coated lips are pulled into a savage grin. Her mouth full of razor sharp teeth and he has no inclination that she wouldn't use them. What strikes him the most is her eyes. They have no pupil or sclera to speak of only a deep pit of total darknesses. Her eyes shine with the wetness of something moist but he sees nothing of her within them.
Alastor sees only his own desires, wants and aspirations reflected back in startling clarity. Inexplicably a warm something wriggles low in his stomach at the sight. He feels his cheeks flushing with that something and the woman's smile sharpens, the skin around her eyes crinkling.
“You just couldn’t wait to see me,” she says with a wink and an extended beckoning hand.
Alastor scrambles up the side of the crater he had created upon landing, and takes her offered hand. It is a brief touch, a kindness to help him out of the sunken Earth. Or perhaps it’s concern for the pristine condition of the loaned clothes. Either way it sends confusing emotions through him to have felt her touch again. It flares the blush.
Now standing bedside her and on solid ground one thing becomes clear. Planning was involved with this little reunion. On some level she knew she’d see him much sooner than he himself had thought. Her words and the fact that she had an outfit prepared for him make that rather clear.
“Don’t look so put out dear, I missed that face of yours truth be told," she says with a wave of a hand. "And I was reuniting you with someone who missed you very much.”
He hasn’t the time to ponder what that means for a shape lashes out from her shadow. He feels a tug in his being and he knows instantly what it is. It’s changed and warped, perhaps not even entirely the singular thing it once was but it’s him. His soul.
It moves across the ground and when it collides with where his shadow should be all feels right. A wrong corrected.
“Hmm,” he hums and the current of static never fails to delight. “Well played.”
Rosie smiles at him, full of teeth and a knowing of what he’s pieced together. It doesn’t make a lick of difference. His anger refuses to hold for he would have done just the same. Alastor holds his arm out and she takes it with a huff of approval. She leads them away from the crater.
"We have some work to do you and I," she says and Alastor looks forward to what that might be as they stroll towards a quaint looking town.