Chapter Text
Where is my love life?
Where can it be?
There must be something wrong with the machinery
Where is my love life?
Tell me, where has it gone?
Somebody please, please tell me what the hell is wrong
***
Vox knows how important trust is. It's the cornerstone of good business; you can make up for quality with aesthetics, you can counter disinterest with artificial hype, you can challenge planned obsolescence with an insinuation of the questioner's inability to afford the newer model, but there is no easy fix for a lack of integrity. And what's on the line is much, much more than just business; it's his foundation.
Vox has always been a climber. Not so much in a physical sense, but in an aspirational one. For all of his career, he has been scaling the tallest mountain there could be; the one in his mind. Death had been little more than a detour, with the caveat that all of his pitons, all his gear, all the rope he'd lent himself, got wiped away. And who had just so happened to be there with spare equipment but The Radio Demon himself? Whether providence or perniciousness, Alastor's ulterior motive had the same effect for Vox; all that is his life is like a precarious cabin, hastily strapped together from what trees were within swinging distance. Without the structure of his greatest friend, his closest rival, his secret devotion, what little that could differentiate Vox from any other gutter trash slides down the mountainside in a hail of gilded plywood.
Alastor knows good business as well as Vox does. He values trust above even manners, decorum, familiarity. He refuses to progress with technology because he cannot understand it, and he cannot trust what he cannot understand. Vox will never abandon the endless march of progress; it is too alluring a shortcut to power for someone so lacking in the will to seize it for himself. It makes no difference if the power is synthetic or organic, all that matters is that it rivals Alastor's. But it takes a year for semiconductors to shrink and devalue. For now, Vox is left with no other way to keep Alastor close but to ply for his favor. Sure, they spend days together without Alastor going back to his apartment; they occasionally even sleep in the same space, slipping into unconsciousness in a heap on the couch, a tenth of rye whiskey sloshing in the bottle still loosely clutched in Vox's rigor-mortis claws. But there's yet to be intimacy, beyond the intangible bonds one can easily deny. Intimacy is an expression of trust, after all, and trust is a series of transactions. For the average sucker, these weren't material exchanges; it's an expression of common interest, a bond over something shared, something seen, something known. Alastor isn't a sucker, he knows all too well when someone's playing him. He needs something material, something he can hold in his hands, something he can manipulate the same way he does playing cards or egos.
And thanks to one of the few things the Television Demon knows more about than the Radio Demon, there's just such a thing. Tonight's an occasion for giving gifts; there's a gala organized by Zestial that Alastor has been invited to attend, and Vox was graciously registered as Alastor's plus one. It's polite, upscale, downright upper-crust type sh*t to mark the occasion with a small token, right? In the hallway of Vox's apartment, he nervously taps his foot against the floor, Alastor getting himself ready in the bedroom. "Vox," he calls from the other side of the door, "I can hear your heel scratching the carpet like a scampering dog, I'm sure that you can give me just a few more minutes to finish."
"S-Sure I can, Al, just excited is all. I've never been to a shindig like this."
"And should you arrive so obviously fidgety, the old lords of Hell will make ripping you apart part of the hors d'oeuvres."
"Not all of us can be so easily charming, Al," Vox mutters.
"Charm is never easy, old pal. What you mean to say is 'not all of us can make being charming look so effortless'."
"Now you're making vanity look good," Vox flusters.
"Don't say that before you've seen me," Alastor teases. There's the muffled sounds of an ensemble falling into place, and finally, he unlocks the door, stepping out. He's chosen a red vest with a soft silk sheen, a black tie in the seam standing out against a dark grey undershirt, tucked neatly into dark slacks, faint grey pinstripes piped along the legs. He's draped himself in a black topcoat; it should hang heavy on his slender frame, but thanks to the tailoring, it complements him in all the right areas. Accentuating it all is a deep beige scarf, loosely knotted around his neck, fringed at the edges. Vox is already stunned, his voice trapped in his organic, and thusly fallible, throat. Alastor adjusts his circular glasses, that gold-framed pair he only brings out for special occasions, the same red glass as his trademark monocle.
"Al, you look..."
"No need to search for a superlative, darling. Your lack of having one ready to go told me everything I need to know." Alastor is already moving past him in the hall, his stride confident and certain. Vox struggles to catch up, knowing Al is just expecting him to be on his way to get ready, himself.
"Al, Alastor, hold on," Vox calls out, grabbing for his friend's hand.
"Hmm?" The Radio Demon spins around, an inquisitive, interested look on his face. Vox hardly ever behaves in such a forward manner.
"There's... something I wanted to give you, to celebrate the occasion."
"Well my goodness, look at you Vox, still old-fashioned after all this time!"
"C'mon Al, you don't have to break my balls, this is really important to me."
"I'm sure it is, dear Vox! I want to have something we can laugh about when we tell this story to our friends in the future. For someone who spends so much time making plans, I'm surprised you don't consider such things."
"Of course I do, Al. That's exactly why I'm giving you this."
"Well, don't keep me in suspense, then. Let's see it!"
Vox presents the wrapped box, done up in glossy purple paper with a black bow. Alastor takes a moment to run a finger over it, admiring its form, before slicing it with a swipe of his claw, revealing a plain black box, satin along the top section. Alastor lifts it gently, unearthing the treasure; a sleek remote, shiny black plastic, the kind that would catch fingerprints but for the fact that Alastor has none, a thin red stripe down the center, fading into a series of buttons. It has no number pad, but it does have clearly marked buttons. There are the typical pictograms, an up and down arrow for switching channels, plus and minus for volume control, a speaker with a slash through it for mute, a button for powering off the display, and perhaps most interestingly, a series of emoticons.
"I'm not a fool, Vox, I understand what this could be used for, but I certainly hope you haven't gotten me a television as a companion to this gift."
"No, no, course not, Al, I know you don't go for that stuff. You already have a television, after all..."
"So you're implying that this remote controls..."
"It does. I know that having control is something really important to you, so I figured... maybe I could show you that you can control me."
A wicked grin bisects Alastor's lips. "Oh Vox, what a thoughtful gift. Shall we test it out?"
"Of course! I mean, I know you want to get an idea of how it works!"
Alastor begins experimenting, starting with the channel switching options. With each press, Vox dons a different persona, his programming switching circuits to open pathways into stores of information he's kept on standby. First, he shifts to a color commentator, wildly recounting sports statistics, making predictions of how games will turn out. Another click, and he's reciting the weather for the upcoming week: hot, like f*cking always, maybe some rain going into Thursday night. One last press, and Vox is throwing run-on sentences about financial bets into the ether, talking without breathing about stock options, market trends and dividends. Finally, Alastor reverts him back to channel zero.
"Quite the interesting device. I must admit, Vox, this is a very thoughtful gift. Had I known you were planning on presenting something like this, I'd have prepared something for you."
"No no, Al, it's fine! I've been looking for a reason to give it to you for a while, anyhow, this just gave me a good excuse. Just being able to go with you to this feels like a gift."
"Well look at you, so sentimental. To think I awaken such fealty in you, my favorite receiver."
Vox feels a twinge at Alastor's pet name, his favorite double entendre. "I've never made it a secret how you make me feel, Al."
"So you haven't! If this token is something you're giving me hoping it will deepen our relationship, you need not go to such lengths. I am not totally blind to matters of the heart, you know. I understand what's happening here, where this might be leading. There's a certain inevitability to this. Perhaps I am just afraid to hear it spoken."
Vox's heart is alive and thrashing in its cage, displacing the air in his lungs, making it impossible to think of a response. He wants to speak those words, make that inevitability tangible, irrevocable, unavoidable. Instead, he flounders in a static ocean.
"Goodness, it seems that was just what you wanted to hear. Why not calm yourself down by actually getting dressed for the evening?"
Vox shuffles to the bedroom, shutting the door behind it. He leans against it for a moment, trying to get his heart under control. Damn his organic holdouts, the parts of him that could never be binary, controlled by a different sort of impulse. He feels reckless, needy, desperate, bitter. Four degrees of complication buzz in his head, overlapping signals trading phrases. "Never good enough, need him to see, need to be stronger, don't want to feel this way." It's overwhelming. There's a bottle of brandy on the dresser, and Vox takes an unhealthy draught of it. If he can't make his own courage, he'll find an acceptable substitute. The summit has never been closer.
Vox yanks back the folding doors of his closet, digging through his formal attire. Since he's seen Alastor's outfit, he endeavors to make it clear they came as a pair. He settles on a pink vest, a black tie to match Alastor's, black undershirt, and black slacks, no pinstripes. His own piece de resistance, a black trench coat, less bespoke than Alastor's but still quite an eye-catcher, at least in Vox's mind, completes the look. He laces his shoes, spritzes himself with Channel #5, and steels his nerves. Alastor's got control now, just like he's been wanting. Time to see if the hook was well-baited.
Stepping into the hallway, Vox can see the couch from where he is. Alastor's lounging, lively jazz bleeding from the phonograph he'd brought from his own dwelling. He perks up when he hears steps down the corridor. "Well, look who cleans up nice! And matching with me, no less. I suppose you know good taste when you see it."
"C'mon, Al, of course I'd want to match with you."
"It suits you, Vox."
"What does, Al?" Another reason for Vox's heart to run away with him.
Alastor doesn't reply. Instead, he stands up, snatching his cane from its resting spot against the couch, stowing Vox's remote in his pocket. "About time to depart, isn't it?"
"Yeah, I'm ready."
Vox moves in closer, but doesn't enter Alastor's space. He waits for Alastor to come to him, putting an arm across his shoulders. The link forged, Vox feels his physical form disintegrate into the lightless void Alastor has made his conveyance. It is an impossible sensation, to have his eyes open and yet see absolutely nothing, completely dependent on the whims of his better to guide him through. In another second, light returns to Vox's world, Alastor's arm slow to unwind itself from around him. A subtlety Vox notices immediately.
Zestial's residence is expectedly primal and ancient. It evokes the architecture of a ziggurat were it to be cast in obsidian, surrounded by a deep and wide moat of neon-green spider's webbing. A long bridge has been lowered to allow entrance to the hallowed space, with the Overlord himself watching the door. Alastor's blinked them out of subspace about twenty paces away from it, and leans into Vox, whispering into his receiver.
"Do not be intimidated by him. He feeds off fear, he respects those that give respect in kind, but are not frightened of him."
Par for the course in Hell, it would seem. They make the walk to where Zestial stands. Vox has heard stories, some apocryphal, some firsthand accounts, but seeing him up close is a different matter entirely. Tall, black, imposing, deeply unholy. Two narrowed sets of eyes focus on his latest quarry.
"Alastor, thou blesses us with thine attendance. A good evening bidden to thy companion, as well." He bows to Alastor.
"Zestial, the pleasure is all ours, I assure you. This is my very good friend, Vox, a bit of an up-and-comer, if I could be so bold. Aspirations of becoming an overlord, even!" Vox, not wanting to reveal his nervousness, bows to the Overlord. "I've heard a lot about you, it's a privilege to put a name to the face."
Zestial acknowledges him with a nod. "Interested in power, eh? A wise decision, then, to align oneself with one such as thee."
"Oh, Zestial, you always have been a flatterer," Alastor replies.
"Undoubtedly. The grounds and lower floors of my estate are open to thee, but pray, permit an Overlord his privacy and leave the upper area undisturbed."
"We are grateful for your hospitality," and Alastor gives him a farewell nod, letting Vox follow at his heels as they cross the bridge and into the courtyard. The grounds are fit for a manor, magnificently appointed features and perfectly trimmed hedges dotting the landscape. It would be a marvel on Earth, never mind Hell. In the right circ*mstances, Vox can't help but think, it would be downright romantic.
"So, this guy... seems like he's a big deal?"
"Zestial? Perhaps the biggest deal in hell apart from Lucifer himself. The oldest overlord, for starters."
"Never seen you legitimately respect anyone the way you do him, Al."
"Are you suggesting that you can tell when I'm being genuine and when I'm not?"
"Why would you think I couldn't?"
"It is a sobering thought, to know you see performances for what they are. Perhaps I simply don't want to think anyone can."
Vox can't hold himself back. The atmosphere feels right; night in an ethereal garden, after a show of loyalty, submissiveness, with someone that's been going home less and less in favor of his couch. "I'm not just anyone. I get you, Al. I see what's really going on underneath the smile, the showmanship, the assuredness."
"This is the improper venue, Vox..." Chastising his form, but not his substance. So he recognizes the grain of truth, but resents it being presented in public.
"I get that, I do. I've been waiting a while to tell you, and..."
Vox tries to keep going, but finds his words lose all of their momentum, as though his mouth has been sealed shut. He feels his mouth shaping the phonemes, but hears no syllables. He sees the remote in Alastor's hand, his thumb still poised over the mute button. Gripping it in his fist, Alastor moves closer, hovering over Vox, whispering again. "I mean it, now. This is not the place. There will be time. Banish the thought for me, do you understand?" Vox nods, unable to communicate any other way.
Alastor presses the button again, and Vox mumbles "Sorry, Al."
"That's another thing. You'll have to abandon that nickname for the time being; I'd ask you to refer to me as Alastor. The pet names will be our little secret; no one else gets to know what you do." He knows just how to placate Vox; how ironic, that Vox should think he knows when Alastor's playing a role, but he always melts at Alastor's first suggestion of their relationship being special, only for their eyes, unworthy of outsider's scrutiny.
Or maybe Vox simply knows something Alastor has yet to accept.
Departing Zestial's garden, they continue into the building itself. The foyer is decorated for a reception, finely clothed tables arranged in a pentagram formation, shadowy spiderlings already carting around aperitifs and refreshments. The hall is a spacious square, high carved doorways leading to other portions of the house, a spiral staircase tucked away in a far corner. The space is lit by iron chandeliers with burning torches ensconced along them. Alastor plucks a flute of champagne from a passing apparition, while Vox opts for a co*cktail from the open bar. Many of the early arrivals are those that Alastor would prefer not to speak with; some are overlords whose territory he'd encroached on, or had plans to do so. Others are ones whom he'd be better off leaving alone, those too well-entrenched from sheer power or age. None of his favorites have arrived yet, save the host of this get-together.
"Want to find a place to sit?" Vox asks, hoping that Alastor's discomfort can afford him an opportunity to highlight him being a comfort.
"Provided that it has a view of the entrance, I don't see why not." They settle in at an empty table with a few degrees of separation from those already in attendance. Alastor's idly swirling his bubbly around his glass, while Vox takes measured sips of his old-fashioned. With how focused the Television Demon is on his companion, he can tell how focused Alastor is on the door.
"Hoping to see someone else?"
"I am, an old acquaintance of mine. I've been meaning to introduce you two for some time."
"I guess that's Hell's version of meeting the parents, huh?"
"Simmer down, dear friend. It is a step in that direction, if it pleases you to think of it that way. Do not forget that our alliance is a matter of business as well as pleasure."
Hearing Alastor's subtle enunciation of "pleasure", coupled with the private, delicious knowledge that he is the only one that understands the trifle of implications built from that single phrase settles Vox down enough for him to take his eyes off Alastor. When his gaze drifts, he happens upon a familiar face: Coming back from another room, he sees the antennae and signature white-and-black furred boa of a true sleazebag of a sinner; Valentino. He's dressed for the occasion, the black sleeves of his four-armed sweater rolled up past his forearms, his belt buckle and necklace flashy gold, his claws painted the same accent color, his feathered hat fashionably askew. A cigarette smolders in a long holder clenched listlessly between his index and middle finger on his upper right hand.
Alastor senses the change in Vox's body language almost immediately. His head snaps in Vox's direction as his companion waves to the moth. "Just what do you think you're doing?"
"I know this guy. You said we're networking, right? You're introducing me to one of your friends, I'm introducing you to one of mine. Consider this the business side of things."
Alastor rolls his eyes, but offers no other resistance. He slips into his public face as easily as putting on a glove, and turns to receive this creature. There's a complication before he's even opened his mouth; he's taken Vox into a hug, something far more touchy than a polite greeting between business partners. He hears a pet name purred, "mi lucecita", unsure of the exact translation but having some rough ideas. It kicks his heart into a stutter, nearly enough to make him bolt out of his seat, but instead he turns, commanding his smile to remain perfectly straight. "Well, how lovely for Vox to run into an acquaintance, I'm sure he's mentioned me."
"Oh, he may have," the moth croons, every dragged vowel slimy with forced seduction. It may as well be claws grinding against a chalkboard, the way it hits Alastor's ears. "We just talk about so much when you put us together, it can be hard to remember everything."
Vox, observant enough to know that this could go south, puts himself between them like a buffer. "Well, let's fix that right now, huh? Alastor, this is Valentino, we tried a few business ventures about a decade ago that didn't pan out; Valentino, this is my good friend and business associate, Alastor."
Val offers a hand, and Alastor takes it. His claws are pointed, but lack a cutting edge; they're for teasing, not tearing. His mouth must be how he defends himself, although whether the tongue or the teeth pick up more of the slack remains to be seen. His ring finger is bare; one less weak point to exploit should the need arise. After a few obligatory angle changes to the handshake, Alastor takes his hand away, vowing to burn that glove as soon as he can. He'd prided himself on his nose for smells in life, and he had yet to be let down by it now, which was why he trusted the intuition he gathered from Val's sickly saccharine scent: You draw in more flies with honey than vinegar. The moth takes a seat, on Vox's other side. Alastor is hoping that if he stares enough daggers, it will lead to Val's death by a thousand cuts. "So... Valentino, was it? What sort of business do you get up to?"
"Well, sex sells, you know. It was true up there and it's even truer down here. Vox here knows how to read format changes, and I bugged him for the best stuff to start putting my movies onto. That's about it. But I feel like something big is around the corner, something that I'll need a lot of help with."
"You're making a lot of plans, for someone that isn't even an Overlord yet. Have anyone backing you?"
"I'm in the business of filming getting on your knees, not doing it myself. I'm sure you were an up-and-comer once, too, did you have anyone backing you?"
"Of course I didn't. Back in those days, you had to make a name for yourself by yourself, or you'd just get eaten."
"Well, thank God we've evolved past such barbarism, hmm?"
He's not even going to eat him, he's going to feed his f*cking arms to him one at a time, slicing off piece after piece. He can feel his smile twitching at the corners; he looses a bit of pressure, trying to relax his tense stance. "Hardly barbarism! Why, if you ask me, it assured that the strongest among us got the rewards we so rightly earned. It seems far more barbarous to deny those with the will to succeed the opportunity."
"Refined words for such a primal outlook," Val purrs, taking another drag off his cigarette. "How convenient that your deserved victory just so happens to be deserved by you."
Alastor's eye is twitching now. "And the victory you plan to secure is one that you don't?"
Val chuckles, smoke hissing from between his bared teeth. "At least I can admit I can't do it alone."
"Yes, how very noble, the p*rnographer will remain morally sound. If we're done waxing philosophical, I'm sure you didn't come all this way just to inundate us with meandering musings about equality."
"I'm sure I don't know what you mean, despiadado, I'm just here to have a good time. I thought that's what we were all here for. If you wish to make more work for yourself, I suppose I admire your faith in there being yet another chance at life after this one."
"Alright, Val, you don't need to needle him on, c'mon. Are you having a good time with this?" Vox interjects, trying to resuscitate the disaster he's blaming himself for inciting.
"Who could have fun when there's no challenge?" Val muses, standing from his seat. "It was nice to see you, Vox. I'm sure we'll be in touch, lucecita." He doesn't acknowledge Alastor at all before he walks away, off to make himself someone else's problem.
Vox has known Alastor long enough to know he speaks with his eyes, and he does not need to meet them to know that Alastor is furious. "Look, Al, if I had known he was going to-."
"Do not apologize, Vox. And do not use that name."
Vox blinks, confused. He's seen Alastor's temper and lived to tell the tale so many times that he knew exactly what needed to happen to talk him down, ready to ply him with assurances that Val was all bark and no bite, that he was disrespectful to everyone, that Alastor doesn't need to be reminded how powerful he really is. "Alastor, I know you're mad-"
"Well of course I'm mad, I'm irritated that your moth flapped his mouth rather than his wings, I'm upset this is the first I'm hearing of him, and I'm livid that I cannot make an example of him here. I'm incredibly disappointed that you would think it necessary to call him off on my behalf. But I would be far more distraught were word to get out that The Radio Demon was witnessed causing a scene. So I will ask you, calmly, what possible use you could have for such a petulant little worm?"
"I met him at the casino, he seemed interesting-"
"The only thing that's interesting about that insect is that no one has disemboweled him."
"Agreed, he's an asshole, just lemme finish, please. He stood out, alright? Snappy dresser, 'f*ck you' attitude, seemed like he'd be a good mark for a deal or an alliance, and I was right, the guy has a knack for winning over perverts. He's got a market I know you wouldn't touch with a ten-foot pole cornered. He's useful, that's it! That's why I didn't even mention him, he's got nothing right now."
"A market I wouldn't touch, hmm? Is that what this is all about?" Alastor's words have been tinged with ice since Val's cold shoulder, but this one was a entirely different beast. His tone is like that of a parent catching their child in a lie.
"Of course not! It's about having our angles covered, Alastor, you're blowing this out of proportion."
"And wouldn't that be convenient for you, were it the case? I saw the way he touched you, the way he called you that pet name."
"He's a touchy guy, he's in p*rn for god's sakes, he'd probably hug you the next time he saw you out of habit!"
"Only if he doesn't value the use of his arms."
"Yeah, you've made your point, you don't like him."
"I see no reason to feel otherwise. And I see no reason to doubt my intuition. Just because I don't engage with matters of the heart does not mean I don't recognize them for what they are."
"Why are you being so possessive, exactly? We're not dating; you're the one who always insists that it wouldn't be a good idea. Let's say I was f*cking this guy for some reason, wouldn't that a good thing, to have me off your back about wanting to take things further? I'd have something else to focus all of it on, and everything else would still stay the same."
"That's not... it doesn't..."
Did Vox just fluster Alastor? Did his rhetoric really get the best of him? This has never happened before; Alastor always keeps the upper hand, always has the perfect cutting rebuttal to put Vox back in his place. Vox is enraptured as Alastor struggles to come up with the right response, wanting very much to regain his control, wondering what lengths the Radio Demon would go to.
Alastor quiets for a moment, his smile fraying at the corners. He retrieves the remote from his pocket, hitting mute on Vox once again. "Perhaps it is in my best, interest, then, to make sure that you never think of anyone else." Vox looks at him, the realization in his eyes, his mouth moving but no sound coming out, and tries to maintain his composure. Alastor's teeth are bared again, his smile stitched back to working condition. "It seems I need to give you something you'll never forget, then. Make your head full of me day and night."
There's a skittering, low and subdued, underneath the table. Vox feels something wriggling with want against the leg of his trousers, working its way up with visceral knowledge, carnal desire. His eyes tell the story, are you really doing this now? But it's not really about pleasing Vox, although Alastor is certain it will. It's about sending a message, reclaiming the game board, cornering the King in this chess game they've waged all this time. Alastor isn't letting up, refusing to hesitate. The fleshy blackness finds the hole in Vox's pant leg, worming along the narrow path, viscous and warm against his leg. Vox can feel his heart humming in his chest, the pace increasing steadily, his breathing frantic but making no sound. The tentacle stops outside his underwear, kneading its tip against Vox's waking demonhood.
Vox's hand is under the table, on Alastor's leg, clenching against it. Alastor sets on hand on top of it, holding him firmly in place. Lay down and accept your discipline, his assured grip warns. The tentacle keeps busy, finding a way through the final barrier, wrapping around Vox's erection, tugging against it with unrefined movements. Vox can't moan, but his body speaks its pleasure in no uncertain terms, his hips pushing against the amorphous appendage, his fingers clutching the fabric of Alastor's pants. He's already trembling softly, while Alastor swirls his champagne with his free hand, taking a nonchalant sip. He's starting to get the idea that Vox is enjoying his punishment a bit too much, so he decides to make things interesting. He palms the remote, bumping up Vox's volume. A single quiet whimper comes out of his speakers before he snaps to attention, realizing the game Alastor is playing. The volume goes up and up, until it's nearly at it maximum.
Alastor's not done, either. His shadow slips away to its domain on the other side of the tablecloth, its ethereal fingers working the zipper of Vox's slacks. Vox is practically digging in his nails at this point, giving Alastor a look the Radio Demon has never seen from him. The tentacle and Vox's co*ck come spilling out, Alastor's shadow getting a grip on it. It has a taste, considers the salty musk, and then wraps its maw around it, nestling it into its corporeal safekeeping. Vox bucks in his chair, but manages to keep his voice under control. The shadow gets to work, eager to participate in this act of sadism. Vox doesn't quite see it that way, however, pleasure impulses firing all over his tensed body. He doesn't have much longer, and there's no way for him to say so, to fully appreciate this moment. He should be angry with Alastor, but all he wants to do is call out his name, this party and every guest at it be damned. Instead, he shudders in his lower half, Alastor's shadow laying claim to his bounty before a drop can defile their gracious host's space. Alastor can feel all of it: every twitch from Vox, the heat of it sliding down his shadow's intangible form, the way Vox is holding his leg like it's the last bastion of gravity tying him to the ground. It's absolutely delicious, all of it.
"Did we learn a lesson?" Alastor asks him, the remote poised in his hand.
Vox nods, embarrassed, ashamed, lustful. Always back for more.
***
The rest of the party is nothing but obligation. It's a whirlwind for Vox, caught up in Alastor's unique brand of castigation. He meets Rosie, exchanges pleasantries, has a few more drinks. Eventually, it's time for them to leave, Alastor whisking him back to his apartment. Vox is in a daze; overstimulated and undernourished. He doesn't move away from Alastor, he wants to be closer, to be comforted by his warden, to be affirmed by his denier. His arm stays around him.
"I can't believe you did that, Al."
"It was quite the thrill," The Radio Demon relents.
"No, I mean, just... That's the first time you've ever..."
Alastor sighs, knowing this was inevitable. "I suppose I realized that I've taken you for granted. That there are things that could take you away from me. I don't want that. I want to... keep you."
"As what, Al? A pet? A little zoo exhibit? Your dress up doll?"
"No, no," Alastor tries. This isn't like him, this is not the script he wrote for himself so many years ago. He cannot improvise without knowing his motivation. But perhaps it's buried somewhere, such an addendum. A stipulation in the contract. "You are my... partner. You said it yourself, that you see me for what I really am. I am afraid to show you, to not be in control. If we are equals, you can turn on me."
"I would never, Al. Ever. Not because I'm afraid of you. I'm just afraid of... hurting you. I... I mean, Al, I l-"
Alastor hits the mute button before he can finish. He startles at being silenced yet again, and gives Alastor that same look of hurt betrayal.
"I can't hear that yet. Banish the thought for now. Let your actions speak on your behalf." Alastor pulls Vox into him, their lips touching for the first time. Each tastes of distilled spirit and unrefined soul. There's a heat and a chill, an excitement and an apprehensiveness, a want and a desperate, clawing need. They can't pull themselves apart, it seems wrong to, when this feels so right. They fall onto the couch, never coming up for air as they fumble with each-other's clothes. Vox can only talk with his hands, touching every inch of Alastor's flesh as his clothes fall away to reveal it. He wants to drink the sensation in, drown in it, dissolve into it. Whatever brings him closer, whatever makes them one specimen, whatever crystalizes this moment in amber.
They're down to their underwear now, Vox's desire obvious and firm, Alastor's merely curious. Alastor finally pulls away, his palm tracing circles around the fabric of Vox's briefs. "Once wasn't enough, was it, dear?"
Vox's mouth is open, wordless, breathless. He's deferring entirely to Alastor, hoping for more, begging him to cross that threshold with him. Alastor takes pity, pulling him free, stroking him gently, inexperienced but determined. Vox's expression is so pathetic, Alastor unmutes him, reveling in the soft panting that greets him. This is an interesting reaction; he's intimidated him before, driven him to speechlessness, but this passionate surrender is quite a thrill. He wants to make a mess of that face, of that mouth, of that body. Ruin all of it and then stitch it back together. Emboldened, he pulls down his own briefs, bringing their two parts together, stroking himself against Vox's throbbing shaft.
"Al," Vox breathes, "are you sure you wanna..."
"Do I ever do anything I'm not certain of?" Alastor shushes him, focusing on the feeling of where their skin meets, frotting himself against it, wanting to chase that fleeting spot of pleasure blossoming in him. All they can do now is breathe, not wanting to ruin this moment with a lot of talk. Alastor doesn't know how to say he's sorry, and Vox can't admit he doesn't need to hear him say it. All there is is the soft sound of them trading pants and moans, the feeling building up in the both of them. Nothing lasts forever, least of all perfection, and the mementos leak out in a crescendo of pleasured sounds, Vox's arriving seconds before Alastor's. It's confusing, intoxicating, and he wants more, feeling a strange rush watching their pearly fluids mix together in the small of Vox's navel. Not now, with how he's deflating and sensitive, but this could be the start of something marvelous. He lays down against Vox, both of them planting loving kisses into eachother's skin, across scar tissue and burns. Vox is still on mute, but Alastor can feel the stamp left behind with each peck: I love you, I love you, I love you, His response is marked just as clearly, divinity willing; I know, I know, I know.
***
Chauvinistic computer
It's time someone programmed you
You fall in love too fast and hate too soon
And take for granted the feeling's mutual
The feeling's mutual!
We're computers too
Just like you, Computer Blue
***
Computer Blue, Prince.
