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One of Alastor's lesser known personality quirks? He liked to fidget.
Oh, he'd deny it if anybody said anything about it, would claim he wasn't some unruly schoolboy unable to sit still while the teacher gave her lesson – but it was true. Vox had spent long enough with him to know just how true it was, and it was honestly a little endearing.
Sometimes.
It was really dependent on what, exactly, he wanted to fidget with that day. That was the measure of how endearing it was. If he was tearing at the edges of the meeting notes they'd been given when they'd first gotten to Carmilla's, that was fine. If he was spinning a little fidget toy or playing with a tech deck, or Hell, even shoving his hand into Vox's jacket pocket and rubbing the pads of his fingers over the inside fabric – all of that was fine.
What was less fine was when he decided his hands needed to wander elsewhere. When they needed to spider-crawl up Vox's thighs, squeezing at the muscle of his legs or slipping up under his shirt to scrape sharp claws over the smooth expanse of skin below his navel. Now don't get him wrong, Vox wouldn't normally protest at Alastor's groping – he could grope away, if he wanted to get all touchy and use Vox's body as some kind of stress relief, he was usually the first one to encourage the behaviour.
The problem was–
“Vox? Did you have anything to contribute?”
Vox's screen stuttered, soft static fuzzing his glass for a moment as he tried to drag his attention away from the claws hooked under his waistband. Carmilla was looking at him like she expected an answer, and he didn't even know what the fuck she'd been going on about. A glance at the board behind her had a few headshots of sinners he didn't recognise, so maybe something about potential new Overlords? Or people she wanted assassinated, who knew with her.
It was pretty clear Alastor wasn't paying any attention – though he didn't seem all that mindful of what his right hand was doing, either. He looked like a TV set on standby, the buzz of his static sounding like one, too. His chin was propped on his other palm, and though he was looking at the board Carmilla stood in front of, his eyes were wearing that dull kind of glaze. You've heard of the phrase 'the lights are on but nobody's home'?
Well, when Alastor got like this, Vox wasn't completely sure the lights were even connected.
“Uh–” Vox started, wincing inwardly at his own uncertainty. That was not ideal for his brand. “Remind me. Who are these fucks? Your little speech was obviously just so fucking boring that it soared clean through my memory banks.” He pasted a grin onto his face, winning himself a few muffled snickers from around the room as Zestial narrowed his eyes and Carmilla rolled hers.
“If you don't – is everything alright?”
A valid question on her part, because Vox's knee had just hit the underside of the table hard enough to rattle the water glasses set in front of each council member. His claws scraped long lines in the surface of it, and he forced himself to pull them from the wood, nudging Alastor's knee with his under the table in a silent demand to fucking stop.
Alastor did not stop. His thumb rubbed over the fabric stretched over Vox's groin again, and it was about to become a lot more strained if he kept that up. When Vox's knee hit his, the bastard only twisted his body away and crossed one leg over the other.
Vox forced a chuckle. “Everything's fine. Why don't you continue your little meeting, so we can all get out of here sooner rather than later? I'm sure–”
Zip.
He swallowed, painfully aware of the number of eyes glued to him, unable to ignore the heat skittering down his spine and the tingles running over his thighs at the scrutiny. At the very fact that all anyone would need to do was glance under the table, and they'd see red-tipped claws pushing their way under the waistband of his (VoxTek branded, thank you very much) undershorts. It was all he could do not to groan when Alastor's fingers brushed the head of his cock, and the traitorous thing was thickening as quickly as his heart could pump blood through his veins, eager for the attention.
Coolant pooled at the back of his throat, but it wasn't helping him. He swallowed, involuntarily spreading his legs just that little bit wider, so that Alastor might have easier access.
“I'm sure we all have better things to be doing,” Vox managed to get out, his voice glitching a little, filters distorting his words. It was nothing too out of the ordinary, not for him, and for once he was grateful that the other Overlords had such fickle attention spans. He'd normally protest the loss of attention, the way Carmilla called them back to the topic at hand–
But he was dealing with a very different, much more hands-on topic, and he folded his claws together in front of his screen as he let out a shaky breath.
You fucking brat, he wanted to blurt, but that would only make the others wonder what was going on. Worse – it might make Alastor stop, and as ill-timed as this was, Vox was absolutely addicted to the feeling of those slim fingers wrapping themselves around his cock, the pad of Alastor's thumb smearing idly through the wet beading at his tip. He spared the other man a glance – and he wasn't sure whether or not to be offended by the fact that Alastor's expression hadn't changed in the slightest.
He still looked downright bored, barely even present, half asleep as his usually impeccable posture wilted a fraction. Until he was very nearly slouching, or as close as he ever came to it, his shoulders drooping slightly where he rested his elbow on the table. He had his palm pressed over his mouth, so even his permanent smile wasn't helping him look any more aware – and Vox remembered another scenario in which Alastor had his hand shoved over his own mouth, trying to stifle the soft whimpers and staticky crackles he let out with every jolt of his body–
Well, now, that mental image wasn't helping him keep his cool. Warmth pounded down his abdomen, settling into a tight glut low in the pit of his stomach. Electricity buzzed up his antenna as Alastor squeezed – as his wandering, idle fingers tightened around Vox's cock, kneading him like some kind of fidget toy. He was completely hard, now, so if that was what Alastor had wanted then Vox hoped he was fucking happy.
It would be fine. He could absolutely get through this meeting with a little bit of fidgeting, a little bit of squeezing. So long as Alastor didn't start–
“Fuck!” Vox gasped, scratching the back of his hand with his own claw. The discussion in the room went silent, Carmilla's impatient gaze turned his way, and Vox gritted his teeth against the pleasure spiking through his veins at the movement of Alastor's hand. At those lazy strokes, the curl of his fist far too warm and not nearly tight enough to give him anything close to relief.
“I mean.” Vox gestured at the board, even as one of Alastor's ears twitched briefly his way. That was the only acknowledgement he gave as to what he was doing, completely unaffected by the way he was slowly driving Vox mad. “Fuck them. Right? If they're gonna be a problem, just fucking kill them.” He really hoped he was at least in the same ballpark as whatever the fuck that bitch had been talking about.
“Yeah!” Thank fuck for Hatchet. Always up for the murder option. Vox dug into his internal controls as Carmilla's attention snapped away, putting himself on mute. Not something he did lightly, but in this case it seemed warranted.
Sparks ran up his frame again as Alastor squeezed the base of his cock once more, dragging his palm back up and smearing pre-come down Vox's shaft. The slide of his hand was sticky, tugging unpleasantly at Vox's skin, but he couldn't exactly tell Alastor to hold up a second, to spit into his hand a little first. Pleasure darted over his nerves, pleasure tinged with hints of pain, and he knew that was Alastor's favourite. Fucking masochist had warped Vox's mind, but still his hips tried to rock into the loose grip of Alastor's claws.
He forced himself to stay still – to lace his claws together again, to lift his hands to his screen and plant his own elbows on the table. His arms shook, metal claws tapping against his screen as he tried to school his expression into neutrality and landed somewhere in distressed. Brows furrowed, mouth stretched into a thin line over the bottom of his screen – if he was lucky, they'd think he was reviewing some internal communication.
If he was even luckier, this meeting would last long enough that he'd be painting the underside of this shitty desk with his come. It probably wouldn't be the first time someone had done such a thing, and it almost definitely wouldn't be the last. The fans in his head whirred, vents along his ribs opening a little wider to try and expel the heat curling through his body, but it was pointless. Warm air puffed against the inside of his shirt, and Alastor's expression still hadn't fucking changed.
He had to know what he was doing, surely? This couldn't be completely absent-minded; Alastor never zoned out to such an extent. Even when he was sleeping he was half-alert, so some part of him had to be doing this on purpose.
Vox's screen glitched for a moment, static fuzzing over his face as heat throbbed around the base of his spine. His pulse was thumping against his skin, like it was trying to break out into the world and make a name for itself without him, and every beat of his heart echoed in his cock. He stared at the table in front of him, focusing on the claw marks he'd left – before glancing over at Alastor, at those primly crossed legs and swallowing at the thought of the almost identical claw marks he was sure Alastor still had on his thighs.
If Alastor felt his attention, it didn't show. He was still staring blankly towards the front of the room, lids almost closed over dull eyes. His static didn't even pop or crackle when he tightened the curl of his fingers, his wrist loose as he increased his pace a little. A swipe of his thumb over Vox's slit had him biting into his own lip, whatever he had that passed for blood dripping down his screen as his left eye briefly swirled.
He couldn't even pretend to concentrate on the meeting. His world had narrowed to the sight of those claw marks – and the feeling of Alastor's fingers around his cock, the knot in the pit of his stomach tightening even further. He was going to kill Alastor once they got out of this fucking building. Or fuck him. Or one, then the other, in whatever order took his fancy. Alastor would probably laugh while Vox choked him out, and – fuck.
If he hadn't already muted himself, that would have just given the game away. Vox's throat vibrated with a whine, his own comparatively muted static flaring around him. Alastor's ears pricked a little higher, proving that the asshole was definitely aware of what he was doing to Vox. Was receiving his pleasure loud and clear, and Vox still wasn't giving up on the idea of killing him.
After, though – he couldn't kill him in the middle of this meeting, especially not when those infuriating fingers were still wrapped around his dick. Sweat beaded on the back of his neck, soaking into his shirt collar as he gave up on all pretence of listening – not that he'd been doing a very good job of it before – and sank into the pleasure coiling around his spine and over his hips. His cock throbbed in Alastor's grip, his mouth watering at the thought of how sticky the other man's knuckles would be when he pulled his hand back.
Alastor never looked better than when he was wearing Vox's come, and it might have been that thought that sent him over the edge – or it might've just been that his body couldn't take it any longer, his antenna sparking and his screen blacking out as his dick pulsed and throbbed in Alastor's hand. His stomach tightened as he fought the urge to pump his hips, every inch of him trembling as he spurted his climax up against the underside of the table. His visual sensors had gone offline, but he was sure his screen was booting up again – could almost hear the others vague chatter past the muffled ring of feedback in his audio receptors.
Fuck.
Finally, he could see again, and he would have uttered a protest at the way Alastor wiped his hand on the bottom of Vox's vest – but red eyes flashed his way as Alastor adjusted himself in his seat, uncrossing his legs and blithely ignoring the speech Carmilla was still giving as he twisted his body towards Vox. He lowered the hand he'd had pressed over his mouth that whole time, teeth bared in a smug, self-satisfied grin – and scratched at the claw marks Vox had left in the table.
His message was the loudest thing Vox had ever heard go unspoken. Fucking brat. Alastor took a moment to tuck Vox's limp dick back into his pants, to drag his zipper up – before leaning past him, long arm stretching towards the jug of water in the centre of the table. Nobody else could see the way he lifted his right hand to his mouth; the way his tongue curled past jagged teeth and swiped over the faint sheen lining his knuckles – but the sight practically punched Vox in the guts all over again, his fans whirring to life once more in his head as Alastor sat back.
“Alastor. Do you have anything to add?” Carmilla's voice cut into the haze of Vox's pleasure like a whip, bringing him back down to Hell with a jolt. He angled his screen towards the table, trying to hide the faint flush brightening his expression – even as Alastor chuckled, pouring himself a glass of water and leaving a sticky smear on the handle of the jug when he placed it back down.
“Oh, no. I've been trying to recall the order of musical interludes in Brecht's theatrical masterpiece, The–”
“This meeting is finished,” Carmilla interrupted him, snapping her ledger closed with a barely concealed scowl of irritation. Relieved sighs and groans echoed around the room, none more relieved than Vox himself – as he hastily fumbled with his fly, making sure his zipper was fully done up and buttoned.
He pushed out his chair with a scrape, careful of where he stepped. Alastor was already on his feet, one claw tapping at his teeth as he tilted his head and waited for Vox to join him.
“Exhibitionist,” Vox accused in a mutter, the moment they were out of earshot. Alastor's eyes widened slightly, his grin sharpening.
“I wasn't the one who was... how would you put it... 'blowing my load' in front of an audience, now was I?” Alastor countered. His argument was cute, but it didn't absolve him of the accusation. He couldn't pretend at innocence, not when his hand still probably smelled like Vox's come.
“Oh? Is that a hint? Do you want me to make you scream in front of an audience? A new type of wailing to entertain your listeners?” Vox asked, lowering his voice as he wrapped a hand around Alastor's waist and tugged him closer. He was rewarded by the sight of Alastor's cheeks darkening, red blooming across them like a bloodstain.
“Vox,” Alastor chastised. Like he hadn't been the one jerking Vox off in front of their colleagues. Vox chuckled, letting the subject drop – but packing it away in the back of his mind for later consideration.
That hadn't been a no, after all.
~fin~