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Alastor had rid himself of the habit of sleeping soon after his death. He had never liked to allow himself any weakness, and when he figured sinners didn't really need to sleep, he just stopped. Yes, sleep was pleasant, resting for the mind and body regardless of it not being a biological urgency anymore, but not worth the risk of vulnerability.

Then he met Vox.

It wasn't enough to change Alastor's sleeping habits, mind you. Not early on. He had indulged in some napping after a long night of jokes and dances and drinks; but not too often. 

That was before. Then there was the now - the after. Nowadays, he slept with Vox every single night, had to relent to do so, because Vox never asked him to, and still needed him so obviously that denying him felt like stabbing needles under his nails. 

Vox was a terrible bed mate. He stole all the covers, talked in his sleep, and his screen was a nightmare to navigate around in the darkness. He was impossibly warm when he fell asleep and ice cold in the middle of the night, clingy like an octopus, whining whenever he was not holding Alastor somehow. He was grumpy in the morning, voice a low rumble that made more senseless noises than real words.

Alastor regretted not doing this sooner.

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Vox feels his heart beating in his throat as he knocks on the door. Alastor takes his sweet time answering, of course, because he's a little shit who's still testing how far he can take it until Vox snaps. He knows, he's not stupid, and he took it as a challenge.
(Yes, he has a habit of seeing the red flags and jumping into them enthusiastically, so what.)

This might be it, though. In a way, he is also testing Alastor. If he reacts badly... well, better sooner than later. It would hurt less.

When Alastor finally opens the door, Vox fixes his posture, raising his chin and looking at him with a challenge in his eyes. Alastor gives him a once-over and doesn't show any kind of surprise or reaction, barely changing his expression.

"Vox, always a pleasure, I am sure," he says with his teasing chuckle, and motions for him to get inside, "Why, I have almost missed your ramblings!"

Vox blinks. Okay. So this was the scenario that was actually happening. Fine. He can work with ignoring the elephant in the room – they had done it for months already, anyway. He was tired of it, that much was true, but…

“I take it you’re fully healed, now?” The question has him falter in his steps. The tone is nonchalant, and Alastor is looking at him now, and – the smug bastard is showing off, and Vox doesn’t know what to do with the fact he is evidently more concerned about making it known he had figured it all out, being the Omniscient Radio Demon etcetera, than about the fact Vox walked into his home with a distinctly different body than the one he had the last time he saw him. He nods, wary.

“Wonderful. There’s someone I want you to meet. It wouldn’t do not to have you in top form.” With that, Alastor is looking at him again – assessing him, or… Vox has no idea what is it that is happening, at this point. “A visit to the tailor might be in order. It’s about time we put you in a nice suit, don’t you think?”

Vox hesitates for a moment, before giving Alastor a firm nod. “That’d be nice,” he says. He threw away most of his clothes anyway, now that he can finally wear something his size.
He feels like he should say something more – or, not exactly should, but wants to – but this feels both monumental and fragile and he thinks Alastor knows, because underneath the smile that only shows ease, he can feel his static being… agitated, in a way he has rarely felt it. He considers it.

“Thank you,” he says, measuring his voice on the line between soft and unbothered, and Alastor gestures as if it to say that it’s not a big deal.

Maybe it isn’t.

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"Vox..." Alastor chastised as the other demon straddled him, smirking. He tried to give him an irritated look, but the way Vox's hands tugged at his hair felt quite nice. He liked the weight of his body, the feeling of warm air coming from his vents, how Vox was able to kiss and nuzzle against his ears in this position. He relaxed, but then tensed up again when Vox slipped forward on his lap. He gripped his arms, ready to push him away, and then frowned. He did push him back, not out of discomfort, but instead to give him a puzzled look and glance down, frowning even more when he just saw his pants stretched over... a flat space. He snapped his eyes back to his face, and Vox looked a funny mix of proud and sheepish.

"Huh, so, I kinda did an upgrade?" He said, a tentative smile on his screen.

"An upgrade." Alastor repeated, flatly. "Do you mean..." He couldn't stop himself from glancing again between his legs.

"No!" Vox answered quickly, wincing. "I mean, not that, if you are thinking of... huh... Well, maybe it would technically be a downgrade, because I didn't add anything, I took something away, so it's like a new model but without a feature...?"
"Vox." Alastor said, holding his wrists gently to stop his anxious gesturing and rambling.
"...It was making you uncomfortable, and it's not like it's permanent, I can still attach it again whenever I want to, but I thought, maybe when we are together, you know -" he moved his hand in an attempt at gesturing again, "- and there's just nothing now, so you don't have to worry about, ah, other kind of unwanted reactions. I mean - you are still - but yeah. No erections poking at you when you were having a good time. Yay?"

"You took your dick away," Alastor said slowly, looking at Vox and trying to figure out how it was possible for him to be this amount of insane. "For me."

Vox opened his mouth, then closed it, and shrugged. Alastor took a deep breath.
"You are an insufferable, obsessive, utterly crazy specimen of demon, do you know that?" He said stiffly, before letting his head rest on Vox's shoulder. It was just... a lot. Vox always was, he was overwhelming, attentive and caring and impulsive and always finding the most unhinged solutions for things that shouldn't have been his problem to fix in the first place.

"Are you mad?" He heard the tentative question, and regrettably, his heart melted just a little more. He moved his hands up Vox's back, pulling him closer, placing a light kiss on the side of his screen.
"What do i have to do with you?" He murmured, and he felt Vox relax in his hold, a relieved little chuckle against his cheek.
"Whatever you want, baby," he said, playful, and Alastor huffed, and closed his eyes to better focus on the feeling of Vox’s heartbeat against his chest, its quick rhythm matching his own.

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He should have seen it coming. No, he did see it coming; he knew his friendship with Rosie wasn't going to last much after the shitshow with Alastor. Still, he didn't expect her to try to - to push him into the arms of failure, just for her selfish desire to keep him leashed, to have him depend on her, badly hidden under words about self-care and appreciating what you have, whatever the fuck that meant. 

He didn't need to "slow down". He was racing for the fucking stars and he was not going to allow anyone to stop him.

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Kissing Vox was electrifying, literally and metaphorically. Alastor laughed against the tingling feeling on his tongue, licking Vox's lips and nipping on the lower one, relinquishing the way Vox groaned against his mouth, sparks dancing around his screen. He had never thought he would like kissing so much, and certainly a lot of it was due to the drugs buzzing in his veins, but he didn't care at the moment. He let his hands wander over Vox's body, reaching under clothes to get that intoxicating feeling of smooth, warm skin under his fingers. He pushed his shirt up, tracing every line and angle, a flutter of excitement vibrating in his chest when he brushed a nipple and Vox let out a breathless sigh. He lowered his head to lap at it with his tongue, and Vox arched and cursed, before reaching to grab Alastor’s shoulders and pushing him back.

"Al, I - we should stop," he said, a strange look on his face. "We're high, and I don't - let's not cross the line."
Alastor chuckled, tilting his head and letting his hands caress Vox's torso, claws grazing lightly over skin. It was endearing, Vox's politeness, but they had certainly crossed that specific line already, didn't they?

Vox grabbed his wrists, not harshly, but firmly.
"I mean it, Al. I think - it's probably time to call it a night. I should go home."
It felt like being dropped into a lake in the middle of december - ice cold water choking him, making him painfully aware of the heat between his legs and against his thigh, where he was straddling Vox's lap. He flinched, feeling his ears lower against his skull.

"Right. Of course." He said, clearing his throat, sliding off Vox and sitting on the couch, leaving an empty space between them. It felt wrong, and his head was blurry, a heavy weight pressing behind his eyes while a sense of dread and sadness sat deep in his chest. He clenched his fists. What was happening? Damn. This was always the part he hated about molly.

He didn’t look at Vox as he heard him stand up, choosing instead to lay down on the now empty couch, putting a hand over his face and affecting tiredness.
"Huh. I'll see you tomorrow?" He heard Vox say, uncertain, and he gave an uncommited hum in reply. He heard him zap away through the power lines a few moments later, and sighed, hiding his face in the couch. Being alone felt ten times worse, and that senseless, awful hurt was already making his eyes leak. Fuck.

It was going to pass, at least. Just some hours, and the drug would be out of his system, and he would feel normal again. Just another night of reckless hedonism and its consequences. Nothing of importance, in the grand scheme of things.

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Vox wakes up to the feeling of pleasure pooling in his belly, and he startles, looking down with wide eyes and being welcomed by the picture of Valentino between his legs. 

"What... Stop," he says, voice still hoarse from sleep, and makes half an attempt to push him away, but the guy doesn't have any hair to tug on, so he ends up just weakly pushing his head. Valentino reacts by moving back just an inch, looking up at him with a pout. 

"I spent the whole night wanting to suck your cock," he says, "please?" 

"What," Vox chokes out, because Valentino has his mouth on him again, but he's... that isn't... nobody has ever said that, not when he is fully bare like this, his strap still in the drawer, and he - well, it's not like he can complain, since it is not, objectively, the right term. 

It feels so weird, to have a tongue licking him there, and Valentino is being messy with it, his spit dripping down, likely mixing with the arousal that Vox feels in the warm thrumming of his hole, but he can't exactly tell the two apart. It feels good, so good he is already restraining himself from thrusting into Val's mouth, and fuck, he has missed it. 

Val gives him a particularly strong suck, and Vox can't control his hips from arching up. Valentino looks at him, and his eyes are hungry.

"Fuck my mouth," he says, voice sweet and husky with want, and Vox stops thinking.

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She stared at her hands, tracing the claws with the pads of her fingers. She had claws. They were made of metal, and they had cut through the guy’s face as it was nothing, a simple slap leading to bones showing through skin and blood. They were dangerous. She had to learn how to use them. 

She looked at herself in the broken mirror she’d found in the alley. The same sharp claws were on her feet, which were bleeding cyan blood. She had broken her heels when she… fell? Her dress was drenched in blood, too – red, that one. It added to the aesthetic of dystopic horror that was staring back at her from the reflection. 

A TV screen. 

The words her boss had said to her, all condescension and affected apology, echoed in her mind. 

Sweetie, you don’t have the look for TV.

Someone clearly had a sense of humour.

She brushed her claws on her screen, the tinkling sound making her curious, and tapped lightly on it. She could feel the touch on her cheek, but only cold, flat glass met her fingers. The picture in front of her blinked when she did, looked as startled as she felt, and still it looked nothing like her. There wasn’t anything resembling what she used to look like – no soft cheekbones, or heart shaped lips. No round, blue eyes. She didn’t even have hair anymore. Well, that’d be a good riddance, not having to put rollers on. 

The half attempt at a joke hit her, making her red, cartoonish eyes widen in realisation. She didn’t have to curl her hair anymore. She didn’t have to put make up on, or do her skin care routine, or take measurements of her body to be sure she was still in good shape for her husband. She let her eyes assess the rest of her body – she was so tall, broader in the shoulders, the cut of her light blue dress ill-fitting, but a pretty contrast to her new navy skin. She looked nothing like she used to. Nobody could recognize her – nobody would meet her and know what she had looked like, before. 

She felt her lips curl into a wide smile, even if they weren’t physical. She glanced at the corpse of the guy she had killed. He wasn’t going to miss his clothes, was he?

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When Alastor drifts back to consciusness, it's to the feeling of calm, soothing bliss, the ghosts of marks and pain where his skin is usually a tight, prickling chokehold against his ribs. He stretches, relishing the deep soreness, and glances at the bed table, the garish digital clock showing: 3.00 am. 

He makes the math. They had started at noon. 

He blinks. 

"How long did I sleep?" He asks, frowning.

"Just a couple hours," Vox answers absent-mindedly. Alastor looks up at him from where he's curled by his side. He looks tired, but he's smiling at him with an aura of fond contentment. 

"You should sleep," Alastor points out, "Why are you still awake?" 

"I was watching you," Vox shrugs, "Waiting for you to wake up. Bath or food first?" 

Alastor closes his eyes, and turns his face to hide it into the mattress, for good measure. It's nice, soft. Vox chuckles. The prick. 

He wants to ask him how and why is he doing this, giving Alastor what he needs with infuriating precision and then having the audacity to keep doing it without an apparent need for a break. He wants to chastise him about how he needs to rest, or he will collapse at work again and Alastor will have to retrieve him, again. He wants to - he doesn't know, maybe offer something in return, maybe finally get a realistic response to his questions that is not: "Because it's you."

He doesn't say any of that, moves his head to the side just enough to murmur a 'bath', and then hides again in Vox's shoulder when he lifts him in his arms.

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Vox was focused with a stern determination on giving off a vibe of ease and relaxation and not have his body be stiff as a board. One would think being so anxiously intent on relaxing to be a contradiction, but… yeah, it was as ineffective as it sounded. No big deal. If there was something Vox had in excess, it was stubbornness. So, he was not going to panic like an idiot, he was going to calm the fuck down. Deep breaths, right? That’s what the videos said: inhale for four, exhale for five, or something. Focus on what you can feel – yeah, that was not a good idea, because all Vox could feel was Alastor’s body pressed against his, throwing off heat like a furnace, lightly snoring against his neck and tickling his screen with the tip of his ears. 

When his friend went from giving him the Angry Stare and drunkenly trying to get his glass back to collapsing on his chest and hugging him like a koala, Vox had not seen it coming. He might have freaked out a bit, sue him. Their legs were intertwined, for fuck's sake. Also, his left hand was tingling. It would have been acceptable if it was due to Alastor’s weight, but nope, the guy weighted basically nothing, it was just Vox’s stupid brain sending impulses to his body and demanding he reciprocated the cuddles. Ridiculous. This was not – it wasn’t. Absolutely, completely, unequivocally not going to happen. 

He could only groan internally – forcing himself to keep it in as to not annoy the asshole who was using him as a pillow – when his hand moved and started playing with Alastor’s hair. Fuck his life, really.

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He couldn’t remember what happened – just pain, and screams, and fear, and then all fading into nothing. He didn’t know where he was or if his heart was still beating or if this was it, this was what second death felt like. The only thing he knew was that there was a hand holding his – warm and delicate.

His mind was too hazy for real thoughts, but when it managed to form something resembling one, all he could think was that he wanted, he needed it to be Alastor’s. Because if it was, that would mean something.

(It would, right? It had to.)

Yet, he couldn’t see him, couldn’t see anything, he was blind and deaf and trapped in the heartless nothing, and he didn’t know.

He didn’t know.

He wanted to know. But knowing meant facing it, the meaning or lack thereof, and it was too terrifying to bear. So he kept drifting, treasuring the soft, faint warmth.

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"Do you want to know the gender?" The question takes Vox by surprise, for some reason - he had been wondering when that would come up, but Sinners' pregnancies were so rare, they had few informations about things like developmental stages or whatever. He looks at Alastor, questioning, and he just shrugs, squeezing his hand as to tell him he doesn't mind either way. 

"Yes," Vox says, looking at the doctor again, who smiles softly.

"It's a girl," she says, and wow, Vox didn't know he could fall more in love with their baby. It feels more real, knowing this, and he thinks he likes the idea, would have loved them however, but it sounds nice, a little girl. Their little girl. 

"Well," Alastor says, "I guess we'll know that for sure only whey they are a bit older, mh?" 

Vox snaps his head up to look at him, at his confident smile and insecure eyes, and fuck. He's... damn. 

"I love you so fucking much," he exhales, squeezing his hand back, and Alastor’s smile softens, turns more genuine and relaxed, and Vox feels so in love he thinks he might melt.

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Alastor was glaring at him. Oh, if looks could kill... then this one wouldn't be very effective, with the way Alastor was tucked under the covers, hair messy and a red running nose. 

"Oh, don't give me that look, Al," Vox chuckled, "I promise, some vegetables won't kill you. I don't exactly want a reprise of what your flu thought about eating sinner meat right now." 

Alastor huffed, an ear flicking in annoyance, and sagged down more into the bed. 

Damn, why does he have to look so cute? Vox thought, not for the first time today (or in general, but let's not digress). Alastor looked so small on the luxuriously big mattress, fluffy covers surrounding him. He made a funny face, scrunching up his nose for a moment, and then sneezed with a little jump. 

I am going to die, was Vox's next overdramatic realisation, followed by an internal sigh. It would be a flattering unique experience, to be killed by the Radio Demon's secret weapon of being mortally adorable. 

The thought he was likely the only demon allowed to see him like this made Vox's insides warm and fluttery. He gave him a soft smile, sitting on the bed by his side and handling him the bowl of soup.

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When his internal diagnostic software gave him the notification, Vox didn’t believe it to be right. It was nonsensical – impossible. Except then he got it confirmed by multiple doctors, and so now he had to face that it was real. 

Vox didn’t want it to be real. He wanted it to be a dream, because in a dream, Alastor would be happy about it, he would be ecstatic and hold him and say the sweetest sappy shit – but this was reality, and if there was something he knew Alastor not to be, it was paternal. 

He tried to keep the tears from falling from his eyes, knowing that if he let the dam broke, he wouldn’t be able to stop, his body curling into a ball by instinct, trying to shield the little life growing inside him from the reality of the world.

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"Alastor? Are you there?" Charlie's voice comes from outside the door, and Alastor freezes, eyes going wide. Vox, the absolute prick he is, gets off his cock just enough to chuckle against it, winking at him with mischief, and then swallows him until he hits the back of his throat. Alastor has to bite his fist hard enough he draws blood to manage to stifle his moan. He keeps his eyes shut, because he is not going to look at Vox's smug face.
This is the last time they're doing this, he swears.

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Vox was fully focused on surveying his stocks when a notification from the AI forced him to pay attention to his body again. Everything was pretty much the same - Val was still arching and moaning in front of him, the air of the bedroom was still thick and suffocating with smoke and the smell of sex, his thighs were a bit more sore than when he had decided he had given enough of his attention to his partner and he could very well let the software handle the rest of the business.

Unfortunately, he still had to reconnect the sensory system to his dick to climax, as he trusted the program to have correctly picked the right time. He did so progressively, so the sensation would not be as intense as to make him falter. When it was completely on and he was settled, he took back the control over his movements, gripping Valentino's hips and quickening his thrusts. The hot tightness around his dick did indeed feel nice. Climaxing also felt nice, in that slightly uncomfortable way, the brief loss of control always sitting weird in his stomach. 

Valentino had came as well, multiple times, as was expected and perfectly provided, so that was another thing to check off the list of what he had to do today. 

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When Alastor was seven years old, his parents had found him in their backyard, hands soaked in blood, while he cut incisions on the body of the stray cat he just killed, wondering how long it would take until it stopped bleeding. 

He thinks the heavy slap to his cheek had felt more painful than the usual ones. He certainly remembers it better, while most of the others had faded into a blur. Perhaps because that one felt slightly more deserved. 

"Fucking psychopath," his father had spat between grit teeth, throwing him on the ground, and Alastor had waited for the next part of the punishment, frowning when it didn't came. 

He also remembers the despair stricken look in his mother's eyes.

That night, she had not been home, which was unsettling. Even more so, his father seemed to be cooking. 

It started making sense when he saw the stained white fur on the counter. 

Bile filled his throat, and he tried to swallow down his nausea, sitting at the table. He had stared at the plate his father had put in front of him, failing to force himself to eat. 

"Well? You killed it, might as well eat it. We don't waste food in this house." 

Alastor smiled wickedly at the memory, stirring the meat in the pot. Now that was a lesson he had taken to his grave! 

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It had taken little more than a month for Vox to snap. He didn’t care that Alastor was going to kill him, torture him and laugh at his screams, as soon as he got over the shock of Vox pouncing on him – he just wanted to cause as much damage as possible, clawing at his chest and at his stupid, infuriating smile, hitting every inch he could reach. 

It went on for probably less than a minute, but fuck if it was satisfying to see that smug bastard flinch in pain while his skin opened under his razor sharp claws. Vox laughed, before the breath was choked out of him by a shadow gripping his torso and raising him in the air. He watched as Alastor stood up from where they had both fell on the floor, adjusting his suit and cleaning his monocle. Always such a drama queen. It would be a fucking holiday to be free of him for a while, really. 

Alastor looked at him, then, finally, with a curious tilt of his head, assessing his expression. He seemed pleased by it, because he hummed in acknowledgement of whatever the fuck he was seeing, and let his tentacle let Vox go, making him fall on the floor with an oof. 

“Well, that was refreshing!” He said, all cheerful tone and twirling of his microphone, “I had been wondering when you’d finally fight back." He traced the wound on his cheek, which was already closed, just a fading red line, and licked the blood off his finger with a smile that could only be described as teasing. 

This fucking guy. He was infuriating, arrogant, entitled, sadistic, confusing, bewilderingly charming. In that moment, Vox knew he was stuck with him, as long as Alastor chose so – or as long as Vox made himself worthy of that curious, fascinated look in his eyes. He didn't know if the prospect was more terrifying or thrilling. 

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Vox finished reading through the code again, scanning every line, making sure everything was going to work. There was an almost overwhelming feeling of peace in having made the decision. It had to happen, but it had took him years to finally act on it. In a matter of minutes, it was going to be over. Once and for good, a closed - no, better. An erased chapter. He took a deep breath and launched the program.

DELETE ALL FILES?

It was with relief, nothing else, that he pressed OKAY.

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Vox can feel every inch going in, and it hurts so bad, it burns, and it just doesn't stop. He doesn't know how long Alastor has been playing with him, could have been hours, only his heart beat and the quiet dripping of his blood to mark the time. 

"Stay still." Alastor says, a warning. The touch of his hand on his hip is light, gentle, and it restrains Vox's movements just as much as a rough push would have. Perhaps better. It's grounding, and Vox is grateful. 

It's not that he wants it - but he can't stop coming back for more. Alastor's attention is a drug, and he's addicted to how naked it makes him feel, how free. (Sometimes, even worthy of it.)

"Are you ready for the next part, my dear?" Alastor asks, and it's the cruelty in his eyes more than the pain that makes Vox's heart stop. 

"Please," he begs. Please, want me. Please, look at me. Please, don't ever stop. 

The last plead, the more important one, doesn't have the right to be worded, not even in his mind. 

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"Hey V, I am ordering lunch. What do you want?"
"Oh, anything goes, thanks, Vel. Just pick something that can be reheated, I have to finish some things."
"...Vox, you haven't spent a moment away from work for two fucking weeks."
"Don't be ridiculous, that's not true."
"When was the last time you had lunch with us, then?"
"..."
"Just, take a break for one hour and take your ass up here. Lunch break is dull without you to make fun of."
"Okay, right. I'll be up in ten."

He never showed up.

It was a good thing Velvette always had a strong grip on her powers, because she could feel the flood of reels and posts about what a shitty partner Vox was in the back of her mind. She pinched the bridge of her nose with a sigh. She knew he cared for them - loved them, in his way. That wasn't the issue: it was directing some of that to himself what Vox seemed unable to do. Or letting them show they cared for him, too.

She sighed, looking at her agenda. She had to go back to work. She scrolled over the list of her projects. There. That was something she could use Vox's feedback on - she didn't actually need it, really, but at least that way she'd get to spend some time with him.

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Vox was lying on his side, head propped up on one hand, watching Alastor sleep while engaging in his second favourite hobby: refining and perfecting the outline of one of his utopic projects.

It was a crime Alastor didn't allow Vox to film him. He would make it perfect: black and white, a couple of retro looking settings, an easy plotline to make his character shine without losing the audience's attention. He could even get away with the film being mute, a wink to his famous taste for the vintage; he was expressive and fascinating enough to hold people's breath without needing to talk, as proved by the way he was doing it now, Vox unable to tear his eyes away for even a second. Wanting to capture him on film was just second nature; but this, this picture of Alastor sleeping peacefully, smile just a soft little curve of his lips, sprawled on the bed in a mess of long scrawny limbs and still so graceful - this was a privilege for his eyes only; one he was so grateful for.

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Vox had fucked up.

He had fucked up bad, and he was so pathetic he couldn't even bring himself to face it, opting instead to busy his mind with shitty TV shows while sulking in his misery. He had tried to work, to write, but he couldn't focus. It felt... pointless. 

He was jumping through channels mindlessly when familiar shadows appeared in front of him, the last person he wanted to see materializing in his living room. 

"Good evening, chum," Alastor greeted him with very obviously forced cheer. His eyes wandered over the apartment, taking in its state of disarray, and then paused on Vox, an eyebrow arched. Fuck. He knew he looked like shit. He was wearing baggy sweatpants and an oversized shirt, and he didn't remember when he had changed last. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. 

"Well, isn't this a sad picture," Alastor said, lightly, "Can I know what is the cause of your sorry state? Why, I have never seen you look so horrible." 

Vox felt the burn of embarrassment heating up his chest, and snapped between grinded teeth: "Al, fuck, you can't just show up here uninvited." 

Alastor’s expression turned cold. His whole stance stiffened, and he twirled his microphone as he did when he wanted to take the attention away from himself. 

"I had just been wondering why you had disappeared after...well," he stopped with a flinch. "I see my presence is unwelcome, so I'll take my leave." 

Fuck. 

"Alastor, wait -" Vox instinctively reached for him, trying to stop him, but Alastor had already vanished. 

Fuck.

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"Alas-zz-tor!" Vox screams as he cums again - his CPU has stopped counting after the eighth orgasm, closing business with an offended ERROR message and leaving him to deal with the consequences of his choices alone.

Something's wrong, darling?, Alastor's amused voice broadcasts directly into his mind, Alastor's tongue too busy thrusting deep - and fuck, if it's long, Vox can feel the tip of it tickling his cervix - into his cunt.

He should have known better than anyone not to make a bet with the Radio Demon - but he was so sure he was going to win. And yeah, perhaps he lost some braincells to arousal and didn't think anything of Alastor's: "Should I go first, then?" other than how fucking hot it was going to be. It's not Vox's fault. He's blaming his dick for this one.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," he curses, arching his back, as Alastor changes position and starts sucking on his clit so hard one would think he's trying to see if he can tear it off. The nth orgasm hits Vox like a punch in the guts, and of course Alastor doesn't stop, or gets even the slightest bit gentler, lips closed tight around the oversensitive flesh. Vox sobs, the pleasure leaving space to pain, and he tries, he does, but then Alastor is hitting it with the tip of his tongue, too, and --

"Szztop, stop, stop," Vox whimpers, trying to pull away, as he's been doing for what feels like hours - but they agreed on the terms, so it's just now that Alastor backs off, licking his lips obscenely, the very picture of smug.

Well, there were worse ways of losing a bet.

Except --

"So, I'd like to collect, now," Alastor says, all dulcet tones and glinting eyes and gleeful, cruel smile.

Fuck. 

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Vox had been weird all evening. There was a tension in his shoulders, something strained in his voice, in his movements. Alastor had tried to ask, but Vox had dismissed him, saying he was fine. It made Alastor quite angry, to have him lie to him, but he was trying, so he kept it to himself.

It became harder and yet easier when they went to bed, because the way Vox curled on his side, facing away from him, was... well, it still made him angry, very much so, but something else was tapering it. He slipped under the covers, silent. He was not equipped for this, he had never been. If Vox just talked to him - he could kill whoever had made him upset, and that would probably make him feel better.

A sad whine came from the corner of the room. Vark had his head raised from his pet bed, looking at Vox with the most sad puppy expression in the world. Alastor curled his lips in distaste, and then glanced at Vox.

"Vark," Alastor called, firm, making the shark turn to him, "Up," he tried, patting the bed. Vark looked as baffled as a pet can look, which was surprisingly a lot, but didn't lose time in crawling on the bed and lying on Vox's side, nuzzling against his hand and licking it.

"You hate having him on the bed," Vox pointed out, sounding shocked and small. Alastor felt his cheeks warm a little.
"Yeah, well. Don't get used to it," he said primly, before laying down, not quite against Vox's body, but letting their legs touch. He recognised Vox's intentions immediately, the beginning of him moving to turn around, and put a hand on his back to stop him.
"Absolutely not. I am not kissing you with that thing in the bed," he warned, and Vox's chuckle made him relax just a bit. He turned his tone into something softer.
"Sleep now, lapin."

Vox reached back with a hand, and Alastor squeezed it, before taking it and firmly putting it on Vark again.

Chapter Text

The first time Alastor had killed someone, he was sixteen.
He had always been a bit of a precocious kid, so he didn't think it was worrisome.
Well. Not that part, probably.

It wasn't the first time he had used his blade on human skin, to cut and watch the blood spill in wonder. Actually, it wasn't quite a blade, the first time. He was eight, and stealing a blade felt quite daring, back then.

The crash of the bottle breaking on the floor had made him flinch more than his father's yell, since the last one was expected. He had been quick to clean up the mess, busying himself to get out of the way of his parents arguing. The shards of glass had glimmered, and he had followed a mindless impulse, and hid one in his pocket.

He had been sent to his room soon after, and with the door closed and a chair against it to keep it as such, he had taken the piece of glass out, looking at it. It was pretty, the way the broken edge was just a bit of a different colour. He moved it around in his hands, looking at it from different angles, careful as not to pick at his skin. Cuts on the palms were so annoying. He knew, being used to cooking, and climbing on trees that were always a bit too high, making them the perfect hiding place.

He suddenly had an image at the forefront of his mind - meat separating in a clean line around the blade - and felt curious. He flinched at a loud noise coming from downstairs, and narrowed his eyes, lifting his short pants leg enough to reveal the skin that was usually hidden.

He had been a bit too enthusiastic with the first cut, not expecting the sharp glass to cut quite so sharply.

He got the gist of it after some practice.

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Being friends with the Radio Demon came with a wide array of perks. Power. Reputation. Protection. Recently, it also came with snuggles and full on make out sessions. (Vox didn't hallucinate that. He checked his recordings to make sure.) 

It also came with a good amount of confusion and frustration, because Alastor was as much a good kisser as he was seemingly determined in doing nothing more than kissing, and it was alright. Really. (Anyway, friends didn't do... the things a couple does. A man and a woman, as that. So, it was fine.) 

Meaning that when, during one of their friendly, fully innocent and platonic putting their tongues in each other's mouths, he had felt Alastor's hand slipping under the waistband of his pants, Vox had frozen. This wasn't something they did. Right? He should... stop this. ...Right?

Alastor moved away from his mouth, looking at him with eyes that were a bit half-lidded and... something else. Vox caught his ears rise up from where they had lowered on his head. A sign Alastor was trying to look more composed. 

"Apologies," he said, clearing his throat and looking away. Okay, this was clearly a hallucination. Alastor didn't do sheepish. What the fuck? ...He didn't have any right to look so damn adorable, no, that was just unfair. Vox cleared his throat as well, and he felt Alastor putting more space between them, and nu-uh. No. Not going to happen. 

"It's okay," Vox whispered. Why did he sound like that? He wasn't a teenage girl, for fuck's sake. He cleared his throat again. Slipped into a lower tone. "You can... Huh." Yeah, not much use for it if he couldn't find any words to say. 

He went for the only feasible possibility and reached for another kiss, pulling Alastor against himself until he felt him relax. All soft and pliant, apart from a specific part of him that was definitely not soft, and also felt very demanding against his thigh. 

So... This was something they did now, then.

It was still completely platonic, though.

Chapter Text

Nothing. The word echoed in Vox's mind, his voice, not his voice, their voice - nothing, nothing, nothing, with a shadow of worthless and not enough. It was loud as a shout and quiet as a whisper and it didn't stop. He just wanted for it to stop - just some silence. For a while - just for once.

You mean nothing to me.

It was a relief to finally feel anger, a balm for his heart, filling the cracks and nothingness and making him stand up from the couch after who knows how much time spent in loathsome sulking.

He was going to become everything.

Chapter Text

Vox pulled harshly on his chain, choking him and dragging him across the ground until he was at his feet. He yanked his hair, shooting pain into his scalp, forcing him to lift his head and look at him. His expression was almost bored, under the mocking smirk. He looked repulsed.

It's not him.

The strike to his cheek came after that, making him fall on the shapeless ground. There was the hard sound of footsteps, and then a shoe pressing on his face, pushing down so hard Alastor wondered if it would crack his skull.

"So pathetic," Vox's deep voice assessed, condescending, "I don't know why I bother. You are just a broken toy at this point, aren't you? Filthy. Worthless."

Alastor squeezed his eyes shut.

It's not him.

It's not him, it's not him, it's not him.

He didn't know why it wasn’t working. He thought he could beat this one, but his useless, broken mind kept him from escaping. He knew it wasn’t Vox. And yet, he was still trapped in this endless trial.

The shoe lifted from his face, and the impostor who wasn’t Vox, but looked like him, sounded like him, even talked like him sometimes, changing tactic and using such soft, loving words - his claws dug into his hips, raising them up.

Alastor braced himself for another round, trying to keep chanting those words in his head.

Chapter Text

Alastor moved so quickly, like a snake striking at his prey, a shadow closing around Valentino's neck, choking him, while others slithered around his wrists and ankles, raising his body in the air. Alastor's claws cut through his chest like it was nothing, the loud, deafening noise of bones breaking echoing in the air, and then he bit down on one of his arms with a growl, and Vox closed his eyes. He heard the wet, weird snap of Alastor tearing Valentino's arm off before turning off his audio inputs. He couldn't listen to this, couldn't watch it, he just hugged his knees against his chest and waited for it to be over. 

After what felt like hours and also no time at all, he felt something touching him. He flinched, opening his eyes and seeing Alastor's demonic form hovering over him, drenched in blood, teeth painted red, smile manic and dials spinning wildly in his eyes. 

"I am sorry," Vox choked out, looking up with wide, pleading eyes, "I am sorry, I swear, I told him no, I - I tried to stop him, I did, I'm sorry -" 

He felt Alastor's giant hand around him, gripping him, and he kept talking, praying that Alastor would believe him. "I swear, Alastor, he didn't let me - I didn't want to, I swear, I am so sorry -"

He felt Alastor raise his body, and a moment later, he was being held against his chest, Alastor's heart thrumming quick and loud and making Vox's body jump with each beat. He felt his torso rising and lowering with his breaths, deep ones, and he leaned against it, trying to force himself to stop shaking. He didn't know how long they stayed like this, but eventually, he felt Alastor’s frequency reaching for his with frantic hurry, grazing against his body like it was checking for injuries. He answered with his own signal, harmosing with him, and Alastor started to get smaller, slowly. He didn't leave him, when he was back to his usual size, instead tightening his hold, hands splayed on his back to pull him closer.

"Fuck," Alastor cursed breathily, squeezing him, "Fuck, Vox, I am sorry, I didn't mean to scare you, I just - I - I couldn't think," he exhaled a shaky breath and moved back enough to be able to look at Vox. He looked scared himself, eyes wide, face pale under the blood on his chin. He raised a hand to his screen, moving it on the frame in a caress. Vox didn't know what look was on his own face, but something in it made Alastor flinch. 

"We'll talk about this," he murmured, and flinched again at how Vox tensed in his arms. "I am not mad, Vox, god, you shouldn't even think I could -" he cursed again, closing his eyes. "Later. I - Can I take you home? Please." 

Vox nodded, leaning his screen against Alastor's cheek.

Chapter Text

Vox woke up to the feeling of something weighting down on his screen, blinding him. He didn't use his screen for breathing, so that wasn't an issue, but it was in the way of his cameras. Weird. And perhaps a bit worrying, too. He could feel Alastor's body wrapped around him though, the bony limbs and weight - or lack thereof - familiar, so he was in their bed and not held captive somewhere.
He carefully explored his current predicament by touching the thing on his screen with a hand, finding it to be soft. He explored more, and touched flesh and the sharp angle of bone, and Alastor made a sound of protest at having a hand shoved in his face.
...did the prick put a pillow on his screen?
Yes. Yes, he did.
Vox rolled his eyes, half exasperated and half fond, and didn't move it. 

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"Y'know," Vox had said, with a bit of a slur, head reclined on the back of the couch, looking one second away from falling asleep. "Maybe one day you'll meet the one. The - the one girl who makes the bad guy's cold heart melt, or whatever."
"Oh, I doubt it," Alastor had chuckled, and they had both fallen asleep moments later, each leaning on one side of the couch, knees lightly touching.

It had been simple, then, and fun, and light. Spending the days and nights talking, and bickering, and laughing, and dancing, lowering his defenses and not bothering about expectations. Enjoying the pleasure of Vox's company, his attention, his wit, his intelligence, his patience, the way he always challenged him while still respecting his boundaries.

Now those ridiculous words were haunting his mind, making things complicated, and Alastor didn't want this. He had never wanted this.

He was confident he could just will it to go away, though. Determination can lead you anywhere, they were both the proof of it. This... weakness, loathsome and dangerous, was going to pass, to wither and die, he just needed to ignore it until it did.

Chapter Text

All the pain that had consumed his body for hours had disappeared, the whole focus of Vox’s attention, of his existence, being the little creature Alastor was holding in his arms. It didn’t matter that he was half covered in cyan blood, Vox could only see her, and how carefully Alastor was holding her, a hand cradling her head against his chest. Her head that was a tiny, little television screen. Vox’s overwhelm took a new flavour, a deep enrooted fear making him swallow, because this was unexpected – would Alastor… 

“She’s beautiful,” Alastor murmured, breathless with something that sounded like awe. He cursed softly, and then made a face, one hand twitching like he was going to cover her ears. 

“You are going to have to watch your language,” he grumbled, and Vox laughed, fear melting into affection, a love so intense he felt dizzy with it. 

“I want to hold her,” he said, the urge now taking priority over anything else. Alastor looked almost surprised, the prick, looking at Vox with a little pout. The baby - their baby, fuck, it was real, she was here – whined, started crying, and Alastor made a panicked expression, quickly handling her to Vox. 

She stopped crying the second Vox had her in his arms, her frequency buzzing lightly against his skin. She was here, and Vox loved her with his entire soul, and Alastor loved her, he loved them, and maybe Vox was an asshole for having been terrified about it, about what Alastor would do when their baby stopped being an idea and turned into reality. It didn’t matter right now, because Alastor was sitting on the bed next to them, and Vox only had eyes for her but he could feel the waves of love and reverence coming from him - he wondered if she could feel it too, if she knew they were each a note of a perfect harmony that Vox was going to protect with his life.

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For all that Alastor’s whole Radio Demon schtick is talking, the guy is the shittiest communicator ever in other areas. Namely, the area he had pulled Vox in when he had decided to kiss him, and then keep kissing him every day since.
Not that Vox is exactly an unenthusiastic victim.

He would have liked some actual words happening from time to time, because if with any other person, making out every day for a week would be a clear indication they are into you, with Alastor… Who knows. It doesn’t seem likely.

But it’s not an issue! Not at all. They are having fun, it’s nice, everything is good and fine and Vox is not going crazy with unanswered questions at all. It’s not like he’s afraid of losing whatever this is. That kind of insecurities are for lesser demons, not him. He’s not a needy, pathetic pussy. If Alastor wants chaotic hedonism, that is perfectly fine - actually, that is exactly what Vox wants too.

He’s completely at ease and relaxed when he knocks on Alastor’s door and he didn’t spend even a second overthinking what line of action would have been the best between arriving perfectly on time, a couple minutes early, or a couple minutes late. They have dinner together all the time! Nothing different about this one.

When Alastor invites him in with that soft look, ears drooping slightly and smile small and closed lipped, that never fails in making Vox blush and stutter - that’s the exact reason Alastor uses it, probably, the prick loves to see him make a fool of himself.

Vox takes his eyes away from him with no difficulty at all, and catches sight of the small table with its gorgeous sapphire cloth and fancy china and a single, lit candle in the centre. …Is that a tuna casserole?

Alastor’s shadow gestures for him to take off his coat, hangs it, and pulls his chair out for him. Alastor starts rambling about what he cooked, trying and failing to hide the glare he gives his shadow, and looking anywhere but at Vox.

Vox swallows. Looks at the candle on the table. Clears his throat.

Maybe he should casually mention something over dinner. Towards the end, after a nice amount of wine has been drank and Alastor is less likely to go for his throat. Something vague and perfectly nonchalant that translates into ‘what the fuck is going on?’. But worded better. He’s an exceptionally good communicator, he’ll figure it out.

Chapter Text

"Vox..."

He jolted awake - even in the deepest of sleep, he had programmed himself to always wake up if Alastor called for him.

He focused his attention on him, taking in the way his hands were gripping his shirt, how he hid his face in his chest, trembling slightly. Another nightmare - they had disappeared for a while. Alastor mumbled other broken words, half of it indistinguishable, but he could hear a ‘stop’ and his name again.

He took a deep breath, steadying himself, gently unclenching Alastor's hands from his shirt, before teleporting to the other side of the room with a flash.

"Alastor," he called, tuning into the right frequency to wake him. It worked immediately, and Alastor jolted up with a growl, antlers immediately branching out, body stretching and shadows thickening around him. He looked at Vox with dials in his eyes, smile wide and menacing.

"Al, love, it was a dream. You are safe. Nobody is going to hurt you," he kept his tone steady and soft, his cables ready to get out if needed. They had developed a system. It took Alastor some moments to realise where he was, to believe this wasn't another deception, and when Vox had insisted on staying by his side and trying to comfort him, he had only attacked him, every time. Vox had agreed to this at last, because even if he didn't care about getting hurt, Alastor's distress in doing so was enough to convince him this was better, as much as it broke his heart to not be holding him.

He did what he could, instead, reaching out with static, letting it slither across Alastor's frame lightly, showing him this was real, channelling all his love and care into their frequency, a lullaby of I love you and You are safe and I'll protect you, always, always, always.

He saw Alastor blink, expression shifting from dazed to confused to more and more focused. He slowly returned to his normal size, clenching his fists on the mattress, breathing loudly.

"Come here," it was a murmur, said without looking at Vox, and it filled him with so much warmth it almost hid the sadness, the rage he was keeping down, pointless right now, when Alastor needed him calm. Just that, just knowing Alastor wanted him, again, still, he was asking for him, he was not pushing him away ("Not ever again", he had promised, he had, but it was so hard to believe) - it was still so overwhelming Vox walked to the bed with slightly wobbly steps.

Alastor pulled him under the covers, settling against his side, a hand tracing the circuit tracks on his chest, the other holding his waist. They held each other until they fell asleep, lulled by the soft, slow melody of a love song Alastor was broadcasting in their minds.

Chapter Text

The long, deep thrusts of Angel’s cock inside of him are agonisingly slow, each one hitting his prostate perfectly, over and over again, making him tremble and arch against the bed. Vox's dick is pulsing with arousal as he's kept on the edge, the cock ring preventing him from coming - it's been so long he lost track of it, went from thinking he was going to lose his mind to not thinking at all. He can only whine, a loud, desperate sound, as he clenches his fists around the sheets, tearing them apart with his claws. Angel stops his squirming by putting more weight on the hold on his wrists and pushing his head down with a hand.

“Angel, please,” he begs again, his voice distorted. He moves his hips back, trying to entice him to go faster, but to no avail.

“Cute,” Angel says with a chuckle. “You're so desperate you've forgotten who holds the power here?”

The hand on his back moves to his screen and makes him turn towards Alastor, who is watching them with his head resting gracefully on one hand, the glint in his eyes looking more amused than aroused. Vox feels like the next moan is punched out of him, so little control he has on his voice, knees so weak he can barely hold himself up. Angel grips his hips and pulls them up roughly, using another hand to grab and squeeze his side so hard it makes him sob.

"Please," he says again, trying and failing to keep Alastor's gaze, "Please, sir, please, let me come, I'm so hard, please."

"Eyes open," is Alastor response, the bored tilt of his voice making Vox's cock twitch. Vox wants him so much, loves having his eyes on him like this – it doesn’t matter why, what matters is he’s watching him, and being the focus of his attention is everything. It's not only relief that makes his heart beat louder when Alastor does a conceding gesture to Angel – he had been good, he had satisfied him, he’s being rewarded – the pride and gratitude he feels so overwhelming he doesn’t even realise his dick is free from the ring for a moment. He does, though, when the next thrust pushes him over the edge, waves of pleasure rippling through him as he comes, vision going white. It takes him a moment to reboot, and he shivers and writhes against Angel's hold, while the spider demon keeps fucking him, hard, a punishing rhythm that is too much, the ecstasy of his orgasm turning into a torturous, overwhelming pain shooting from deep inside him and lighting up every single nerve in his body.

"Stop," he whimpers, "Stop, fuck, it's too much – I can’t --"

He realises he had closed his eyes when he feels slim fingers pulling up his head with a firm yet delicate movement. He looks at Alastor, who's in front of him now, sitting on the bed, and he can see the hunger and pleasure in his eyes now, he's so close.

"Beg," he orders him, and Vox complies, a stream of pleases coming out of his mouth, broken by a cry when Angel starts touching his cock too, and it hurts, pulses as it tries to get hard again.

"Keep going," he feels Alastor words more than hearing them, how amused he sounds, and the tears are now streaming free on his cheeks. He feels Alastor’s hand gently drying them with his thumb, the sensation somehow clear even as he’s trying not to choke from the pain-pleasure that Angel keeps inflicting on him. He keeps begging, tries to push the words out between sobs, tries to keep his eyes open as best as he can, desperate to please Alastor, to gift him his full obedience. Gorgeous he hears, not a physical voice but his tone is so honest, so certain, it makes Vox melt. It’s the gentlest push - it’s exactly what he needed.

He's not sure when it all stopped. He comes back to himself to the feeling of hands caressing the back of his head, of the smooth fabric of Alastor's shirt against his face. There's the softness of Angel's fur against his back, his gentle hold of his waist, and he melts into the touch, into the affection and love engulfing him from all sides. He's still floating, and yet their hands are keeping him grounded. There's the faint feeling of lips grazing the top of his case, and a mirroring kiss on the back of his neck. He is not capable of words yet, but he hears theirs, the mix of praise and thank yous that Angel whispers against his back, each sealed with a kiss, and that Alastor is broadcasting to him through their frequency. It's still weird, having them thank him, feeling how they mean it. He has yet to fully believe he deserves any of it. That he’s allowed to have this – to keep this.

It's becoming easier, though - they are teaching him how to.

Chapter Text

When Vox had, completely unprompted, Alastor would like to point out, decided to plant himself half on his lap and lay down in a disheveled mess on the couch, legs stretched on top of his, Alastor should have said something. Better, he should have broken said legs. Or at least complained about the liberties Vox was taking and his complete lack of class.

Yet, he said nothing, and he blames the rye. It's the alcohol buzzing pleasantly in his veins that's making him soft and permissive. It certainly has nothing to do with the fact that Vox looks... well. He does have a look. His smile is wide and free and glowing with happiness, his screen is flushed red by the combination of tipsiness and laughter, he's rambling ten words per minute while illustrating them with wide gestures, and he's positively gorgeous.

...In an objective way.

He feels his own cheeks warm, and he curses the rye.