Chapter Text
"Oh, come now, Vox," Alastor chuckled, swirling the amber liquid in his glass with a lazy flick of his wrist. "You've been staring at me all evening with those big, glitchy eyes of yours. Spit it out before I lose interest." His grin widened, razor-sharp and unnerving in the dim glow of the bar’s neon signs.
Vox swallowed hard, fingers tightening around his own drink until the glass creaked. The static buzz of his screen flickered, just a fraction, barely noticeable, but Alastor noticed everything. "I, " Vox started, voice glitching before he forced it steady. "I like you. More than, more than just business partners." The admission spilled out, raw and unpolished, before he could stop it. He half-expected laughter, or worse, that knife-edged smile to twist into something cruel. Instead, Alastor’s eyes gleamed, something calculating behind the amusement.
Alastor set his drink down with deliberate slowness, the clink of glass against wood echoing louder than it should. "Well now," he purred, leaning forward just enough to make Vox’s circuits overheat. "That is interesting." His fingers drummed against the bar, each tap a metronome counting down to something inevitable. "But aren’t you seeing that, Valentino bird?"
Vox’s screen flickered violently, a burst of distorted pixels betraying his panic. "That’s, that’s just business! You know how he is... and he's a moth, not a bird"
"That's not what- nevermind" Alastor sighed, waving his hand dismissively. "Here's what I propose." He leaned in closer, his breath unnervingly warm against Vox's screen. "I just need to know if you truly want me" The neon lights overhead flickered, casting jagged shadows across his sharp features. "Enough to commit."
Vox's cooling fans whirred louder, drowning out the bar's ambient noise. "Commit?" His voice cracked, betraying the way his processors scrambled to compute this turn of events.
Alastor's grin stretched impossibly wider, his teeth glinting. "A deal, darling. You obey my every command, no questions asked, and I'll be yours. Publicly." His fingers tapped against Vox's wrist, sending electric jolts up the media demon's arm. "Think of it as... courtship with conditions."
Vox could sense an ulterior motive, as if he would ever make a deal with the radio demon, especially one that forfeits all of his power...
"Tell me, darling, are you willing to prove your devotion to me?" The way he said it, all sugar-coated danger, made Vox’s fans whirr louder and completely dismiss any rational thought.
Vox’s fingers twitched, hesitating only a second before he seized Alastor’s sleeve, grip tight enough to wrinkle the fabric. "You’re serious? You, you’d actually be mine?" The static in his voice pitched higher, giddy and desperate, like a malfunctioning toy. Alastor’s grin didn’t waver, but his eyes flickered, just once, toward the bar’s antique clock, as if calculating the time left on some unseen hourglass.
"Every command," Alastor murmured, leaning in so close his breath fogged Vox’s screen. "No arguments. No resistance." His fingers trailed up Vox’s arm, claws pricking just shy of breaking skin. "And in return, I’ll let you parade me around like a prized pet. Fair trade, wouldn’t you say?" The words dripped with honeyed malice, but Vox was too busy short-circuiting at the thought, Alastor, his Alastor, draped over his arm at every gala, every broadcast, smirking just for him.
"C-Call me darling again" Vox breathed needily.
Alastor chuckled, low and rich, savoring the way Vox shivered at the sound. "Darling," he crooned, drawing the word out like syrup, just to watch Vox's screen flicker blue with arousal. The bar around them seemed to fade into indistinct noise, the clink of glasses and murmur of conversations reduced to static in Vox's overheating processors. His fingers trembled where they clutched Alastor's sleeve, his cooling fans roaring like a jet engine.
Alastor's claw traced the edge of Vox's screen, lingering where the metal met sensitive wiring. "Do we have a deal then?" His voice dropped to a whisper, intimate as a lover's, though his smile remained sharp enough to flay skin.
Vox nodded frantically, too far gone to care about the predatory gleam in Alastor's eyes. "Yes, yes, whatever you want, " The words dissolved into static as Alastor's free hand slid between them, palm upturned. A contract shimmered into existence, glowing faintly red, its edges curling like burnt paper.
"Oh, I do love it when you're eager," Alastor murmured, watching with amusement as Vox didn't even read the terms before shaking his hand with Alasor's. The second their palms touched, the contract dissolved in a puff of sulfur-scented smoke, its magic settling into Vox's circuitry with a jolt that made his back arch.
Across the bar, unnoticed by either of them, Rosie lifted her teacup in a silent toast to Alastor, her smile knowing.
Vox orders them both another round, his fingers lingering against Alastor's as he pushes the fresh glass toward him. The neon glow paints Alastor's face in streaks of pink and cyan, softening the edges of his grin into something almost fond. Almost. Vox doesn't care, he's too busy memorizing the way Alastor's throat moves when he swallows, the faint static crackle of his voice when he leans in to murmur, "You're staring again, darling." The term of endearment sends another wave of glitches through Vox's display, his cooling fans kicking into overdrive.
Vox couldn't stop tracing the rim of his glass, the ice long melted into lukewarm dilution, too enthralled by the way Alastor's claws tapped an idle rhythm against the polished wood. Every so often, those crimson eyes would flicker up to meet his gaze, and Vox's screen would stutter, his internal fans whining like a kicked puppy. "You're awfully quiet," Alastor mused, tilting his head just enough to make the neon reflections slide across his cheekbones. "Regretting our little arrangement already?" The tease in his voice was deliberate, barbed, but Vox was too intoxicated, on the proximity, on the promise, to care.
"Never," Vox breathed, static lacing the word as he reached out, unable to resist brushing his fingers against Alastor's wrist. The contact sent a jolt through him, his screen flickering cyan blush at the edges. "Just thinking how lucky I am." The lie tasted sweet on his tongue, luck had nothing to do with it. He'd sold his pride for this, and right now, drowning in Alastor's attention, he couldn't bring himself to care.
Alastor's grin curled, slow and satisfied, as he lifted his glass to his lips. The ice clinked, a crystalline sound that seemed to echo in the space between them. "Mm. Lucky indeed." His gaze slid sideways, catching Rosie's eye over the rim of his drink.
Vox didn't notice. He was too busy tracing the condensation on his glass, imagining it was Alastor's skin beneath his fingertips. "This place is getting dull," he muttered, gesturing vaguely at the bar's dwindling crowd. The neon lights buzzed overhead, casting jagged shadows that made Alastor's teeth gleam sharper. "We could... go somewhere else. My penthouse has a view of the, "
"Tempting," Alastor interrupted, tapping a claw against Vox's screen, just hard enough to make the pixels ripple. "But I'd rather have you all to myself." He leaned in, close enough that Vox could see the faint glow of radio dials in his pupils.
Alastor's fingers curl around Vox's tie, pulling him closer until their noses nearly touch. The scent of ozone and old whiskey clings to him, intoxicating in its wrongness. "My place is quieter," Alastor suggests, voice lilting like it's an afterthought. His free hand trails down Vox's chest, claws catching on buttons. "Unless you'd rather go bar hopping, and watch me drink myself silly?" The challenge is obvious, the dare implicit. Vox's screen flashes a dozen colours at once, his grip on Alastor's waist tight enough to dent the fabric.
They leave through the back alley, where the neon spills in puddles of melted colour across the pavement. Vox stumbles once, his heel catching on uneven concrete, and Alastor catches him by the elbow with a chuckle that crackles like static. "Careful, darling," he murmurs, fingers tightening just enough to leave crescent indents in the metal beneath Vox's sleeve. The media demon doesn't mind, leaning into the touch with a sigh that glitches at the edges. His screen flickers a cyan-blue when Alastor's thumb brushes the inside of his wrist, tracing the sensitive wiring there.
Alastor's room smells like old books and damp wood, the air thick with the scent of ozone from his ever-present radio distortion. Vox barely registers the decor, antique furniture draped in moth-eaten velvet, shelves lined with jars of things that blink back at him, too focused on the way Alastor's claws card through his antennae as they stumble through the doorway. "You're shaking," Alastor observes, grinning when Vox's screen flickers blue with embarrassment. "Excited, darling?"
Vox doesn't trust his voice, so he nods instead, static buzzing at the edges of his screen as Alastor's claws scrape gently down his back. The room tilts when Alastor pushes him onto the bed, its antique frame groaning under their combined weight. Velvet curtains sway in a nonexistent breeze, casting shifting shadows across Alastor's face as he looms over Vox, all sharp angles and sharper smiles. "Let's see how obedient you really are," Alastor murmurs, fingers tracing the seam where Vox's screen meets his collar. The touch sends sparks skittering through his circuits, his cooling fans stuttering to keep up.
Vox reaches for him, hands clumsy with want, but Alastor catches his wrists with a chuckle that crackles like a tuned radio. "Ah-ah," he chides, pressing Vox's palms flat against the moth-eaten quilt. "You agreed to follow my commands, remember?" His grin widens when Vox whines, a high-pitched glitch of sound, but doesn't struggle. "Good boy." The praise burns hotter than any insult, and Vox's screen flares with cyan-blue blush, his antennae twitching beneath Alastor's teasing fingers.
Alastor takes his time unraveling Vox, peeling back layers with the precision of a surgeon and the cruelty of a cat toying with its prey. His claws trace lazy circles over Vox’s screen, savoring every hitch in the static, every glitch that betrays the media demon’s desperation. “You’re so eager, darling,” he murmurs, voice dripping with false affection. “Tell me, does Valentino ever make you tremble like this?” The barb lands true, and Vox’s screen flares red before flickering back to blue, his cooling fans stuttering in protest. Alastor chuckles, leaning in until his breath ghosts over Vox’s speakers. “No? I didn’t think so.”
The bed creaks as Alastor shifts, straddling Vox’s hips with deliberate slowness. His fingers curl around the media demon’s tie again, tightening just shy of choking. “Such a pretty thing,” he muses, tilting Vox’s head back to expose the vulnerable wiring beneath his chin. “All mine.” The attraction in his voice is a lie, but Vox doesn’t care, can’t care, not when Alastor’s teeth graze the edge of his screen, sending sparks skittering through his circuits. His hands twitch against the quilt, aching to touch, but he obeys, just as promised.
Alastor’s laughter crackles against Vox’s neck, a staticky hum that vibrates through his plating. “Good,” he purrs, dragging a claw down the center of Vox’s chest, catching on every button until they pop loose. “So well-behaved.” There’s no heat in the touch, no desire beyond the clinical thrill of control, but Vox shudders anyway, his screen flickering wildly. Alastor watches the display with detached amusement, tracing the seam of Vox’s collar with idle curiosity. “Tell me, darling, what do you want?” The question is a trap, and they both know it.
Vox’s voice glitches, raw with static. “Y-you. Just you.” It’s pathetic, needy, and Alastor’s grin sharpens. He leans in, close enough that their noses brush, but there’s no kiss, just the ghost of his breath, warm and tinged with whiskey. “How sweet,” he coos, fingers sliding up to cradle Vox’s jaw. “But you’ll have to be more specific.” His thumb presses against the corner of Vox’s screen, right where the pixels stutter most. “Unless you’d rather I decide for you?”
The threat, or promise, makes Vox’s fans stutter. He swallows hard, static buzzing in his throat. “Hold me,” he manages, the words barely audible over the whir of his overheating systems. “Just... hold me.” It’s a pathetic request, beneath the Radio Demon’s dignity, but Alastor’s smile doesn’t waver. He hums, considering, before sliding off Vox’s lap to stretch out beside him, one arm draped lazily over the media demon’s waist. “Like this?” His voice is all mock innocence, but his claws dig in just enough to leave marks.
Vox nods frantically, curling into the touch like a starved thing. Alastor’s chest vibrates with silent laughter, but he doesn’t pull away, letting Vox press closer, tucking his face into the crook of his neck. The scent of old paper and ozone fills his sensors, and for once, the static in his mind quiets. Alastor’s fingers card through his antennae, slow and methodical, like he’s tuning a radio. “Pathetic,” he murmurs, but there’s no bite to it, just the same detached amusement he reserves for particularly interesting moths caught in his web.
Outside, the neon glow of Pentagram City pulses through the cracked curtains, painting them both in lurid hues. Vox doesn’t notice, too absorbed in the rhythm of Alastor’s breath, the way his claws occasionally catch on a wire, sending jolts of pleasure-pain down his spine. It’s not passion, not love, but it’s enough. For now.
Alastor exhales, long and slow, his fingers tracing idle patterns across Vox’s screen. “You’re overheating,” he notes, voice laced with amusement as Vox’s cooling fans whine pathetically. “Perhaps you ought to, ”
“No,” Vox interrupts, static lacing the word. He tightens his grip on Alastor’s waist, fingers denting the fabric. “Not yet.” The thought of pulling away, of breaking this fragile illusion, is unbearable. Alastor lets him cling, his grin sharpening when Vox nuzzles against his collarbone like a needy pet.
“Greedy thing,” Alastor murmurs, though his claws continue their lazy exploration, skirting the edges of Vox’s screen where the pixels flicker most erratically. There’s no urgency in his touch, no hunger, just a detached sort of fascination, like a scientist observing an experiment. Vox doesn’t care. He presses closer, savoring the warmth of Alastor’s body, the way his laughter vibrates through them both like a poorly tuned frequency.
Hours blur, marked only by the distant hum of the city and the occasional creak of the bedsprings as Vox shifts to tuck himself more securely against Alastor’s side. The Radio Demon indulges him, draping an arm over his shoulders with theatrical exaggeration. “Comfortable?” he drawls, the question dripping with sarcasm. Vox’s screen dims to a contented blue. “Yeah,” he mutters, static softening the word into something embarrassingly tender.
Alastor watches him with detached amusement, claws still tracing meaningless patterns across Vox’s shoulders. The media demon shivers at the contact, though Alastor’s touch holds no heat, just the clinical precision of someone handling an interesting specimen. “You’re like a cat,” Vox murmurs, daring to nuzzle against Alastor’s collarbone. “All claws and no cuddles.”
The Radio Demon chuckles, a sound like radio interference. “And you’re like a kicked puppy.” He flicks Vox’s antennae, watching the way it makes his screen flicker. “Desperate for scraps.”
Vox doesn’t deny it. He basks in the closeness, the rare permission to exist in Alastor’s space without consequence. His fingers twitch against Alastor’s waist, resisting the urge to grip tighter, to press closer. “Can’t help it,” he admits, voice glitching around the edges. “You’re… you.”
Alastor hums, noncommittal, his gaze drifting to the ceiling where shadows dance in the neon spill from the window. He doesn’t push Vox away, but neither does he reciprocate, his hands remain idle, his posture relaxed in a way that suggests he could get up at any moment and leave Vox aching.
Vox knows better than to ask for more. He savors what he’s given: the weight of Alastor’s arm draped over him, the occasional scrape of claws against his plating, the way Alastor’s breath stirs the air between them, warm and tinged with whiskey. It’s enough.
Outside, the city pulses with its usual chaos, but here, in this dim room, time stretches thin. Vox memorizes the way Alastor’s chest rises and falls, the static hum beneath his skin, the sharp angles of his jaw cast in neon hues.
Alastor’s claws pause their idle tracing. “Getting sentimental, darling?” His voice is light but mocking.
Vox exhaled, a burst of static escaping his speakers as he curled tighter against Alastor's side. The Radio Demon's claws had stilled, but the weight of his arm remained, a mockery of intimacy that Vox clung to anyway. "Sentimental?" he echoed, voice glitching around the edges. "Maybe." He dared to press his forehead against Alastor's shoulder, savoring the way the fabric smelled faintly of ozone and old parchment.
Alastor chuckled, the sound crackling like a dial tuning between stations. "How quaint." His fingers resumed their idle exploration, tracing the seams of Vox's plating with detached curiosity. "You do realize this changes nothing, darling. Our deal stands." The reminder was unnecessary, Vox could still feel the contract humming in his circuitry, a persistent buzz beneath his skin.
"I know," Vox muttered, static lacing the words. He didn't care. Not when Alastor's thumb brushed the sensitive wiring behind his ear, not when the dim glow of the city painted them both in fleeting neon. His screen flickered cyan, casting faint reflections across Alastor's cheekbones. "Just... let me have this, Al."
Alastor's grin sharpened, but he didn't pull away. "What a lug," he murmured, though his claws gentled, twirling around Vox's antennae with curiosity.
Vox didn't argue. He focused instead on the rhythm of Alastor's breath, the occasional staticky hum that vibrated through his chest. The room smelled like old wood and damp velvet, the air thick with the scent of whiskey lingering on Alastor's lips. Vox traced idle patterns against Alastor's waist, careful not to cling too tightly, not to ask for more than he was given.
Alastor's claws pressed lightly against Vox's screen, just enough to make the pixels ripple. "Tell me, darling," he murmured, voice dripping with false sweetness, "what's going on in that scrambled little head of yours?" His grin was sharp, amused, but his fingers stilled, a silent warning.
Vox swallowed, static crackling in his throat. "Just... thinking," he admitted, pulse humming beneath his plating. His fingers twitched, aching to slide higher, to pull Alastor closer, but he didn't. Couldn't. The contract buzzed in his circuits, a low, insistent reminder: *obey.*
Alastor chuckled, tilting Vox's chin up with one claw. "Poor thing," he cooed, thumb brushing the seam of his screen. "So desperate for something I won't give." There was no cruelty in it, just fact, clinical, detached. His other hand traced Vox's collarbone, claws skirting dangerously close to exposed wiring. "But you'll behave, won't you?"
Vox shuddered, screen flickering blue. "Yeah," he breathed, static distorting the word. He forced his hands to stay still, forced himself not to press closer, not to beg. Alastor's fingers curled around his tie again, tightening just enough to make his fans stutter, then loosened, a mockery of affection.
"Good boy," Alastor purred, leaning back against the headboard. His grin never wavered, but his eyes, sharp, calculating, never left Vox's face. "Now, tell me something interesting."
Vox hesitated, processors scrambling. He wanted to protest, to whine, to demand more, but the contract hummed louder, a warning beneath his skin. So he obeyed. He talked. Rambled, really, about broadcasts, about rivals, about anything that wasn't the way Alastor's thigh brushed against his. Alastor listened, amused, occasionally humming in feigned interest. His claws never stopped their idle exploration, tracing circuits, skimming seams, never lingering, never pressing. A tease. A taunt.
And Vox let him. Because he had no choice.
And because, even like this, even starving, it was still the closest he'd ever been.