Chapter Text
“Did you hear?” Layla said, her voice low and conspiratorial. “Word on the street is the Radio Demon is going to off Geoff Dizzick on his broadcast tonight.”
Angel’s ears pricked up as he pulled on his leggings. He’d only been half listening to the water cooler gossip, but the mention of two very familiar names caught his attention.
“Fucking Dickslip?” One of the other girls – Ashlie, maybe? - exclaimed. “Wow, about time karma caught up with him. Remind me if that red stud ever drops in to give him a freebie.”
“Get in line.” Layla smirked.
“Bitch please, are y’all forgetting who he’s been rooming with?” Mikayla chimed in. “If Angel Dust can’t tap that, it’s untappable.” She shouted over “Right, Angie baby?”
Angel tossed them a conspiratorial smile.
“You know I don’t kiss an’ tell, girls.” He winked, tossing his bag over his shoulder to a chorus of giggles. “I’ll make sure’n pass on yer thanks though. See ya tommora.”
‘Dickslip’ Dizzick… Man, did Alastor know how to pick ‘em. He was famous around the entertainment district, and for all the wrong reasons. His hygiene was awful – the guy smelled like mildew and his dick was enough to make the most seasoned pro gag. He’d pay girls for vaginal sex and then ‘accidentally’ go in the back door (hence the nickname). But that didn’t mean the guys were safe either – Angel felt like he needed a shower after just thinking about some of the things Dickslip had made him do over the years. So his soul being torn apart and devoured by the Radio Demon? Couldn’t happen to a nicer guy. Which is how, for the first time, Angel found himself actually sitting down and listening to Alastor’s broadcast.
He had to hand it to him, the Strawberry Pimp put on a hell of a show.
Angel was hooked on every sound – every scream, every hoarse moan, every wet squelch, every manic peal of psychotic laughter. Alastor’s enthusiasm for his craft was infectious, and even if Angel hadn’t had a vested interest in hearing one of his most disgusting regulars skilfully eviscerated, he would still have found himself enraptured to the last, rasping breath (and so sue him if his interest wasn’t purely vengeful or artistic, as evidenced by the semi he’d been sporting since the first swipe of a blade). As the Radio Demon signed off, Angel as a found himself eager to congratulate his fellow entertainer on a job well done. He hadn’t only done Angel and his colleagues a sizeable favour, he’d sounded good while doing it – credit where credit was due, and all that.
He slipped out into the hallway and made his way past Alastor’s door toward the radio tower, figuring he was bound to run into him somewhere between the two. He was right, and as he was about to round the corner, he heard a familiar tuneful filtered humming.
“Hey Smiles!”
Alastor visibly startled, which was odd. Being that kind of powerful usually meant you didn’t need to be jumpy.
“Good evening, Angel.”
His response was stiff and cordial, but that was where the niceties ended as he continued on past Angel. Angel persisted, walking backwards in step with him.
“I jus’ wanted ta tell ya I caught yer show. Very nice work. The bit with the eyeballs was good an’ gross – like who needs a visual when ya got audio that crisp?”
“Thank you.”
Again, curt. Awkward. Dismissive. Angel was about to call him on it when he noticed something. Something his sex worker’s eyes naturally snagged on, and that almost had him stumbling into a wall.
Oh. That explains why he’s in such a hurry.
Also good fer him, cuz wow are those pants holdin’ on by a thread.
“I’ll, uh…” Angel stuttered as he tried to keep himself from sneaking a second peek. “I c’n see yer-” hard enough ta hammer in nails “Busy. I’ll catch ya later.”
He stopped and watched as Alastor continued on, the door to his room opening of it’s own accord at his approach and closing emphatically as a ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign poofed into existence on the doorknob.
Well, colour me intrigued. Maybe he ain’t so untappable after all.
---
Angel wasn’t an idiot: He knew now this wasn’t going to be like any other piss-easy seduction he’d pulled off. Alastor had rebuffed every move he’d put on him, but he’d been very obviously affected after his broadcast (Angel wasn’t one to kinkshame, especially if kinksame). So it only made sense that if he were ever going to be receptive to Angel’s advances, it would be after a broadcast when the blood was still warm on his hands.
Angel could work with that.
He bided his time, made sure to keep the flirting low-key through the week, and tuned in to his next week’s show. Another lowlife Angel recognised – not at first, but about 20 minutes in a sharp tug on his intestines made him give out a very, very similar noise to his cum noise, and Angel immediately recognised him as one of the assholes who’d landed on Consent’s banned list after he ignored a safeword (but who Val was happy to continue to provide with fresh ass and cunt as long as his cash was green). Once again, Alastor had exquisite taste in dickheads.
Angel spent most of the show lazily cupping and stroking himself, enjoying the little shiver of anticipation that ran through him whenever Alastor spoke to his victim or laughed. When Alastor started his sign off, Angel made his way down the hall to wait at Alastor’s door.
This time, he didn’t bother to disguise where his gaze was pointed. He even licked his lips.
“Need a hand wit’ that, big guy? I got a few ta spare.”
Beyond a startled response and (frankly adorable) rush of colour to his cheeks, Alastor hadn’t graced him with a response, but Angel hadn’t expected him to. This was just Angel’s way of making him aware that the way he was affected after a broadcast hadn’t escaped notice. More importantly, that Angel knew what got him going and wasn’t offput by it.
He’d expected the door that was slammed in his face, so he wasn’t disappointed, rather his confidence was boosted by the moment’s hesitation that preceded it.
By the time the next week rolled around, Angel knew for sure he’d gotten under Alastor’s skin. Because the Radio Demon’s victim this time wasn’t a regular in the club scene, or just some john with a bad reputation. This particular asshole had only had eyes for one pro since he’d landed down here fifteen years ago, and he’d been the worst night of Angel’s months ever since. A man of very particular tastes.
Well, he had been. Now he was nothing but meat and a voice lost in a cacophony.
Angel wondered if this was Alastor’s version of giving flowers before a first date.
Alastor didn’t look surprised to see Angel leaning against his doorframe this time.
“We have been cohabiting for several months now – tell me, why the sudden appreciation for late night strolls through the corridors?”
Angel shrugged.
“Maybe I like the scenery.”
“There are more salubrious places for an evening constitutional.”
“Then maybe I want an autograph.”
Alastor raised an eyebrow.
“If you ask at a more reasonable hour, in a less intimate locale than outside my bedchamber, I’d be happy to furnish you with one.”
Angel smirked.
“I don’t think yer understandin’ me. I don’t wantcha ta sign no autograph book. I wantcha ta sign me. Wit’ yer knife.” He moved in for the kill, so to speak. “Right…” He took Alastor’s hand and guided it down to the top of his thigh, fixing him with all eight bedroom eyes. “Here.”
Alastor swallows thickly, but doesn’t say anything.
Tellingly, though, he doesn’t remove his hand, either.
“I could beg. Or cry. I’m real pretty when I cry. I’d scream so good for ya while ya cut me up.” Alastor’s claws flex against his thigh and he bites back a moan, but Alastor’s composure remains in tact. Not that, huh? He switched tack. “But I seen the kindsa guys you like ta off, so if’n ya prefer...” He blinks innocently, all wide eyes and fluttering eyelashes. “I could be yer damsel in distress, willin’ ta do anythin-’...” His eyes turn heated and he bites his lip as he glances down, placing a hand against Alastor’s tented crotch. Oh Satan, please – I been such a good boy, let me have this… The moan that catches in Alastor’s throat as he presses down and the throbbing heat against his palm brings him back to himself. “Anythin’, ta thank the brave, gallant man who came ta my rescue.”
Alastor’s eyes were darker, his smile hungrier, not to mention what was pressed against Angel’s hand - all very, very good signs. But he wasn’t putty in Angel’s hands yet. That wouldn’t do.
C’mon baby, gimme somethin’ ta work with here.
“And if I don’t want you begging, or fighting back, or crying, or grateful?” Alastor moved his hand from Angel’s thigh to wrap his claws around Angel’s throat – just resting there, but even with no pressure Angel felt like there wasn’t enough air.
“How do ya want me?” He breathed.
Alastor’s gaze pierced. Angel’s body burned. Time stood still and he felt his heartbeat against Alastor’s claws as he waited for an answer. He half expected the fucker to leave him high and dry with an “I don’t” that they both would’ve known was bullshit. But instead...
“Fierce. Wicked. Savage. All of hell has seen your body. I want your venom.” He leaned in close enough that his lips brushed Angel’s as he spoke. “Show me your teeth.”