Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Alastor likes to have fun. Fun for him these days mostly involves drinking to his heart's content, dancing, and loudly singing and playing the piano with his good friend Vincent. He'd long since put the other overlords in their place, far below himself.

Vincent was different from the rest of them. Sure, in a few short years he'd become a formidable overlord in his own right, but he'd never stepped on Alastor's toes in particular. That doesn't mean he stayed away from Alastor, far from it. Vincent seemed to go out of his way to talk to Alastor. He found it annoying at first, and was certainly wary of his intentions, but as time passed and it remained just that, just talking, the more Alastor grew a certain fondness and curiosity for the yammering TV-head.

He let Vincent buy him a drink on a whim one day, and from then on, they were practically joined at the hip. Vincent became nothing short of an open book once Alastor returned even a mild interest in him, even learning his real name fairly early. To others, he was Vox, an up-and-coming overlord not to be trifled with, but to Alastor, he was Vincent.

And he was the only one allowed to call him that.

And that made Alastor feel very special.

It made him feel special hearing about and seeing Vox climb the ranks, mercilessly claim territory and souls, and at the end of the day, have Vincent drink and dance and sing with him, leaving the eternal power struggle of Hell behind.

It made him feel… real.

The term "friends" hadn't exactly crossed Alastor's mind. Alastor's abundance of caution made him very slow to definitively put anyone in that category.

But that doesn't matter. Vincent is fun. And that's really all Alastor had ever wanted out of the afterlife: fun.

And when Alastor has enough fun, he lets himself do unusual and spontaneous things. Like planting a kiss on the side of Vincent's head after a fit of laughter and a terribly bloody bar fight caused by a conflict in musical taste.

Vincent freezes stiff the moment Alastor's lips make contact. Alastor's arm remains lazily slung over Vincent's shoulder as he raises an eyebrow at the reaction.

"Y'look… positively ill," Alastor drunkenly points out. "Is my breath that bad?"

Vincent's screen lights up across the center in a blue blush. Instead of responding with words, he takes Alastor's face in both of his hands and pulls him in for a kiss on the mouth.

Alastor is used to Vincent being touchy, but this is… new.

Hungry and desperate in a way Alastor isn't used to from him.

If there were any alive to witness this, Alastor might have shoved Vincent off. But coming off the high of a fight, surrounded by the corpses of anyone who might toss them a curious look, and both of them being pretty drunk, he allows it to happen.

The static of Vincent's screen tickles his nose and lips. He can feel the short fur on his face standing on end. Vincent's screen is smooth, but warm. Vincent doesn't have the lips to reach out for a kiss, he's just pressing his and Alastor's faces together, eyes screwed shut, clearly lost in the impulse of the action.

Alastor closes his eyes and puts his hands on the sides of Vincent's head, kissing him back.

When he's had enough, he pulls himself back a bit while gently pushing Vincent's head away.

"How odd," Alastor says. He thinks he says it endearingly, but Vincent's expression becomes…

Something strangely vulnerable, and quite juvenile. His eyes widen and he looks away, blush growing brighter as he takes a step back and turns around, crossing his arms in front of himself. His posture is somewhat hunched, almost… ashamed.

"Haha! Yeah, that was p-pretty weird," Vincent says, trying to force a nonchalant tone, but he is not as good as Alastor at maintaining an even composure. He seems hurt. "Fffuck, I must be… drunk. Bad."

Alastor raises an eyebrow. Something has happened, and he's not terribly sure what. "…So is my breath bad?" he asks somewhat impatiently.

"No, it's—" Alastor's breath was… it tasted like every drink they'd had that night. Tasted like cigarettes and blood and it took every ounce of Vincent's self-control and a heavy dose of terror to not shove his tongue down Alastor's throat and suck the breath out of him. And he is truly terrified of that desire. Alastor is… he's… he's a guy.

"It's?" Alastor prods.

"You said it's odd!" Vincent's arms tighten against himself. It stung. It hurt. He's odd, he's gay, he's a faggot.

Alastor rolls his eyes. "Well I've never kissed a TV before."

Vincent pauses, arms relaxing somewhat. The… TV is the odd part. Not… did Alastor not think…?

"I s'ppose that was rude," Alastor muses, scratching his head. "Odd. Not unpleasant. Kind of fun."

Sparks jump between Vincent's antennae as he dares a look back at Alastor. "… Fun?"

Alastor sidles up to Vincent again and wraps his arm around his shoulder, pulling him in close. He licks a stripe of blood from the bar fight off the side of Vincent's head, earning him a cascade of small, tingling shocks along his tongue.

"So much electricity running through that head of yours, I can feel it." Another lick, lapping up more blood. Vincent goes tense again, his expression something Alastor can't quite parse. Fear, maybe. But why would he feel that? There's something under the fear he doesn't know…

"I have to go!" Vincent exclaims at the third lick. He's gone almost cross-eyed. He yanks himself away from Alastor's affections and zaps himself rather suddenly out of the bar.

Alastor blinks. How odd. Vincent almost never left first, not without a farewell conversation that always added at least an hour extra to their time together.

He catches his reflection in the glass of a framed picture on the wall. His hair is standing up on all ends, charged with static.

Further experimentation required.

Vox retreats to his bedroom, locks his door, closes every curtain, double checks the door is locked, before throwing himself on his bed and screaming into a pillow.

"What the fuuuck was thaaat??" He can feel himself growing hotter by the second. His gills vent as much heat as they can, but his shirt is in the way. He tears it off in frustration, throwing it clear across the room.

He flops onto his back now. His pants are made too tight by the growing tent at his groin.

He covers his face in embarrassment, until it gets to be too much and he has to unzip his pants, taking his dick in hand, slowly stroking.

One hand idly explores his chest, the other gaining pace as he calls out Alastor's name softly.

He closes his eyes tightly, trying to imagine his hands are Alastor's, thinking vividly of the taste of alcohol and smoke and blood.

And he does something truly shameful. He uses his ability to mimic voices to call out his own name in Alastor's voice.

His back arches and he cums, painting his abdomen with his own mess. He feels immediately disgusting.

"How odd," he says in Alastor's voice, mocking himself. Tears start rolling down his screen as he sobs pathetically.

Up until now, he's been able to repress his desire for Alastor, or at least deny it. Tonight the floodgates were wrenched open. He knows on some level it's silly, to feel so guilty. He's in Hell, who fucking cares if he likes guys. But every moment in his life that ever beat him back into the closet plays in his mind on a loop. This is wrong, this is immoral, he's a pathetic sissy for wanting this. No one will love him back, because it's unnatural. Alastor was just being nice. Just sparing his feelings by blaming it on the TV. Surely.

He takes a long, freezing shower, trying to wash off the disgust, but it clings to him. He can still feel Alastor's lips on his screen.

He cries himself to sleep.

Vincent is notably absent the next couple of days. The first day, Alastor finds relaxation in the sudden abundance of quiet time. Perhaps Vincent's hangover was particularly nasty. He'd be back tomorrow.

Tomorrow comes, and not a peep from Vincent. Alastor finds himself at the bar, playing piano and singing tunes as he often did, even before Vincent.

But he does not dance. He doesn't have his dance partner. The night feels… hollow. He observes the other drunkards letting loose with each other. He does not drink more than one glass of whiskey.

His face is reflected back at him in the bottom of the empty glass. His smile is his usual one. His neutral one. The one he has when he is not moved much towards either joy or anger. Apathetic.

He decides to call it an early night.

No use staying when he's not really having fun.

Vincent, we are going out tonight.

Vox startles in the middle of a live broadcast. He'd been presenting some new product his company had come out with, an entertainment system, but the sudden message from Alastor makes him lose his train of thought. The pause is small, but awkward, and very noticeable. He resets his smile and continues on.

Vox, I know you can hear me.

Oh, fuck, he called him by his Hell name, he's in trouble. Alastor must be watching the broadcast. He knows he's at work, he's messing with him.

Vox snarls and hides it in a wide smile.

"Dear viewers, I hear what you're saying! When will this latest and greatest in TV technology be available for purchase for your home? Midnight, tonight, be there or be square! Don't be left without one! Trust me with your entertainment systems!"

The broadcast ends.

Midnight is far too late, Alastor chimes.

Tough shit, I gotta be at the midnight release. Face of the company, and all. Vox takes a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and sticks one in his mouth, lighting the end with a spark as he walks off-set.

I'll be there.

He feels a blush rising on his screen. Vox shoves away an assistant who's trying to tell him the next thing on his schedule, and walks faster to lock himself in his office for a bit.

You really don't have to do that, I'll meet you later, Vox tries. It'll probably bore you anyways.

No, I'll come support you and your little TV-thing. It's really no trouble. Though Alastor's tone makes it seem like he has an ulterior motive. And he doesn't seem exactly happy.

Vox knows there's not much he can do to stop Alastor.

I'll see you there. Vox tries to hide his nervousness and school his tone into something at least neutral.

Vox groans as he sits down at his desk, planting his elbows on the surface and cradling his head in his hands. Mercifully, Alastor does not reply further.

He feels like Alastor is making fun of him. He sucks down the rest of the cigarette and lights another.

He's going to be there, and he's going to embarrass him. Or Vox will embarrass himself. Everyone will know.

How odd. The sentence replays in his head. How odd.

"Shut up," he grumbles to himself.

He's put a target on his back by ignoring Alastor for several days, he supposes. Now Alastor is coming to haunt him, to have his fun.

Vox's mind builds a monster out of Alastor. Makes him someone he has to be careful of, makes him someone who will hurt him if given the chance. With any luck it will keep his body from wanting him when he finally sees him again. Keep him from thinking about the taste of his mouth and the feeling of his lips.

Alastor does not show up a second before midnight, and not a second after. As soon as Vox turns the latch on the inside of the Voxtek store and opens the doors for the long line of eager customers, Alastor rises out of the shadows and is there, right next to the door, right next to the line.

Everyone looks at him, and any excited chatter goes mute. You could hear a pin drop.

He's wearing something different tonight: a pink suit jacket with white pinstripes and long tails.

Vox's mouth hangs open, eyes scanning up and down. He dressed up? He's so cute. He's upstaging him. What's he doing?

Alastor looks out over the silent crowd. "… Well don't wait up on my account."

No one dares disobey an order from the Radio Demon, so the crowd moves, giving him a wide berth while they file in to get their hands on the new tech.

Vox sticks a smile back on his face and approaches Alastor with the lack of hesitation the public is used to seeing from them.

"Alastor! Fancy seeing you here," he says as they greet with a brief, casual handshake.

It is imperceptible to anyone looking, but Alastor can feel the minute trembling in Vox's fingers. He very slightly raises an eyebrow.

"Ready to head out?" Alastor says.

Vox's smile shrinks. "Like…now?"

"Your shop is open, isn't it? You've made your public appearance. Your little employees can handle the rest."

Vox hears the people passing by them whispering. They're whispering about him, about them. They have to be. What would it look like if he accepted? Alastor is… he's all dressed up. He's frankly adorable. His hair even has a subtle curl to it today, perfectly framing his face. They'd think they're going on a date or something. That's… he'd look gay.

Alastor is doing this on purpose. Some kind of weird test. Vox clenches his teeth and smiles wide again. He doesn't know what he needs to do to pass this test.

"I was planning on staying for a bit actually," Vox says, straightening his posture, adjusting the collar of his shirt. He's also dressed up, not in anything terribly formal, more fun. He wears a bright sky blue, long-sleeved button down with a nehru collar, with a scarf tied under it and the knot and tails peeking out the front. The shirt is tucked into black slacks held by a belt. "Let the fans bask in my presence for a bit."

Alastor's eyes narrow and he lets out a low hiss of static, characteristic of when he's irritated.

Then he shrugs, bonking Vox's screen lightly with the end of his mic staff, making the TV-head flinch briefly while Alastor slips by.

"I suppose I'll just have to stay and have a look around!" Alastor laughs, dipping into the store.

Vox's eyes widen. "Wait—"

But it's too late. He's in. Walking like he owns the place.

More whispering. Vox hears more whispering. A brief flash of rage crosses his face before he stamps it down again. He makes sure he's got a smile on before he follows.

Alastor has never been inside the Voxtek store. He made it a point to never stick his nose in Vox's professional endeavors, as Vox never stuck his nose in his. It was an effort to maintain the unspoken boundary in their relationship that kept the rat race of Hell out of what they had.

But now it's interfering with Alastor's fun.

He's not here on business, anyhow.

Vox doesn't know what Alastor is trying to achieve. This is uncharted territory in their relationship. This isn't the bar, they're not drunk, this is Vox's work, this is his business.

He should have just fucking gone with Alastor. Whatever rumors come out of this will eclipse anything that would have bubbled up about going on a "date".

And now he's forced to put on some kind of professional air in spite of Alastor. Alastor and his cute little suit. Sopping up all the attention. Including his.

Alastor looks around at all the various tech. It mostly has to do with television and sound. CRT TVs of varying quality and price points, sound systems, and even a few radios and record players. Not the old ones from his own era that he's so used to, but newer, more modern. The radios are made of brightly pastel-colored plastics and metal fixings. He picks up a pink one.

"So this is what people are listening to me on nowadays." Alastor holds the radio up in front of his chest and turns around to beam at Vox. "This one matches my outfit, don't you think?"

"It does," Vox acknowledges, catching up with Alastor. He looks between the radio and Alastor's smiling face. Does he actually like that thing? Not exactly manly…

What's he saying? Why is he surprised? Alastor is in a pink fucking suit.

Alastor glides to the register, cutting to the front of the line and purchasing the radio.

Vox is feeling… Second-hand embarrassment for him, or something like that. It's wrapped up in envy that Alastor just does whatever the fuck he wants. Envy of his command over a room without hardly ever having to speak. After he walks away from the counter and back to Vox's side, the sinners have turned their full attention to the stupid little radios. They want to buy that now, not the thing they're supposed to be buying.

Alastor snaps his fingers and sends the radio away to a pocket dimension. He smiles innocently at Vox.

A sustained arc of electricity floats between Vox's antennae as his eyes narrow and his smile grows sharper. He needs to get the situation back on track, get people focused again. He needs this new product to do well, it was fucking expensive to produce. But Alastor is like a gravity well, bending everything around him, including Vox. Vox doesn't want to take his eyes off Alastor, needs to make sure he knows whatever the fuck the Radio Demon is doing so he's not caught off-guard. Not like that has worked particularly well so far. But he can't think straight with Alastor there. He's not making good decisions and his typical bravado and salesmanship are meeting the brick wall of his paranoia that people are judging him, that he'll do something gay, that Alastor will do something to make him look gay.

Alastor raises an eyebrow at him. He's a bit baffled at how nervous Vincent seems. He seems almost alien. Alastor doesn't know what has changed, and it frustrates him. A low hum of static surfaces again. His lips pull back ever so slightly to reveal just a bit of his gums.

Vox catches it all. The eyebrow, the static, the lip curl. Alastor isn't happy. He feels some kind of knot forming in his stomach, his nerves threatening to boil over.

"These little radios are great, but," Vox says, finally getting himself to peel away from Alastor and do something. "Why don't I show you what we all came here for tonight?"

He walks to the display example of Voxtek's new product: a frankly giant piece of beautiful wooden furniture that includes a TV, radio, record player, high quality speakers, and a small shelf for media, all in one. No one is walking out of the store with one of these, it's being purchased for delivery.

The console is behind glass, surrounded by signage explaining its features.

"The new Voxtek All-in-One entertainment system!" Vox begins his schpeal. It's only partially directed at Alastor, it's mostly to get the crowd's attention back where it should be: giving him a bunch of money for a new expensive product. "All the best audio and video functionality in a beautiful, purpose-built case, ready to be plugged in and used as soon as you get it home. Even for the non-tech-savvy, it couldn't be easier to access audio-visual luxury!"

While Vox is talking, Alastor pilfers the keys to the case from behind the cashier's counter with a sneaky tentacle and unlocks the display case. He slides the glass aside silently, checking to see if it's plugged in.

Indeed, it is.

Vox finally notices what Alastor is up to, the crowd in front pointedly looking at what's happening behind instead of listening to him.

Vox glares daggers at Alastor, his smile the only thing hiding his rage from the public. What the fuck does Alastor think he's doing?

Alastor smiles and bats his eyes cutely as he reaches in to raise the top of the record player. A mild blush paints Vox's screen in spite of himself.

"Well I want to hear it," Alastor says, summoning a record from his pocket dimension into his hand. He sets the record onto the player and drops the needle down.

What begins to play is the music he and Vox would often dance to on their nights out. Their favorite music to dance to.

Alastor turns up the volume knob and bobs his head along with the tune.

Vox stares. His smile has since gone slack and his eyes gone wide. He's genuinely terrified now. His personal and professional life are mixing uncomfortably, in ways he doesn't want anybody to see. He knows he needs to keep his composure, but he can feel it slipping, feel the shame telling him to just kill everyone around him and start the fuck over.

But Alastor would never let him get away with that.

Alastor staightens his posture and adjusts his bowtie. He looks Vox dead in the eyes, his own half-lidded with mischief.

Well, are you going to ask me to dance? Alastor says into Vox's head.

Vox has never been more terrified in his life. He snaps his head back around to the crowd, shoving a smile back onto his face, and pointedly ignores Alastor. "Hear that sound quality!"

The crowd nods and oohs and ahhhs. Vox basks in it. He'll take anything he can get. Better than whispers.

Are you ahsamed to be seen with me in public? Alastor snaps, angry static filling Vox's head.

Vox's blood runs cold. He keeps yapping at the crowd. He can't stop talking or he'll crack.

Alastor's smile curls up into a full snarl. He is being ignored. He will not be ignored.

He places a hand on Vox's shoulder.

Vox stops talking. His eyes dart to Alastor's hand, then to Alastor. Alastor has toned down his snarl somewhat, but there's still an aggressive edge to it.

The crowd is whispering again. Vox can only imagine what they're saying. He is imagining what they're saying. He shouldn't be doing that. It's filling his head with so much noise, noise that threatens to bury him beneath it.

We're dancing. Alastor takes both of Vox's shoulders in his hands and turns him to face him. There's very minimal resistance. Alastor's hands slide down Vox's arms and into his hands. Don't look at them anymore. Understand?

This is everything Vox was afraid of. But he dare not disobey. He dare not cause a scene. That would be worse. So he looks at Alastor, only Alastor, and lets him pull him into a dance.

They had only ever danced while drunk before. Under the haze of alcohol, Vox could blame any of his emotions or actions on its influence. Whatever soft or lustful feelings could be brushed aside as not his own, symptoms of simple merriment that would be gone in the morning.

Those dances were faster, more energetic.

This dance is not terribly slow, but it is not the quick, sloppy endeavor they so often participated in. It is intentional. They are both stone-cold sober, and every touch, every glance, every feeling is undeniably real.

Alastor feels Vincent's body tremble imperceptibly under his touch. He never breaks eye contact with Vincent, and Vincent never breaks eye contact with him.

As they settle into a rhythm, Alastor's smile shrinks somewhat, closing his lips, his teeth no longer bared at Vox. His eyes soften into something fonder.

Vox doesn't know what to think. He wants to believe that Alastor is doing this out of malice, he's been building up that mindset all day, trying to defend himself from… something. From his own desires. But Alastor is looking at him like that. Alastor's hands are firm, but gentle, leading him with no hesitation through the dance. During moves where their bodies touch closely, Alastor's arms and hands exert a certain pressure against his back, pulling them even closer. Vox feels like he is being claimed, and he…

… He doesn't hate it.

The terror that this is happening in front of other people, other people that will surely be talking later, people who held more of his power in their hands than they realized, takes a back seat to Alastor's all-encompassing presence.

It is replaced by a new terror. Terror that his feelings are real. How every touch sends electric shocks through his spine, how Alastor's soft glances and warm smile make him feel real. His whole life has been an act, but not this, not right now. He is being flayed open and he never wants it to stop. He never wants to leave this dance, this world where only Alastor matters, and everyone else fades into the background. He doesn't know how to grapple with his feelings outside of this. He doesn't want to grapple with them in front of people. He doesn't want to gather his guts after they have been spilled so expertly.

He wants so badly to kiss Alastor as he is dipped low at the end of the song, but by then reality is creeping back in. His heart is racing and he can feel that there is an intense, unguarded blush heating up his screen.

He is expecting to hear whispers. He is expecting to hear laughter. But all he hears is applause.

Alastor pulls him back to standing, leaving his arm linked with Vincent's. Vincent looks over the crowd, then looks at Alastor, and… he smiles. Vincent does not pull away.

Vox lets out a boisterous, joyous laugh as his wires reach out in all directions to push every shelf and display case in the store to the side, opening up the floor. The next song on the record begins to play. "Don't be shy! Join on in!"

Vincent initiates the next dance, pulling Alastor out onto the now open floor. Others join in around them, turning a dry corporate sales event into a party.

Alastor is well content that Vincent has been reminded who the most important person in Hell is. He basks in the attention lavishing him the rest of the night, from those envying them, and from Vincent himself.

Adrenaline and the cheers from the crowd keep Vox afloat all night. The fear does not creep back in until the end, when people start to file out and return home. As the last person leaves and he locks the door behind, the weight settles squarely back on his shoulders.

He looks out at his few employees shoving the displays back into their original positions, milling about quietly after being forced to work all night, much longer than they had anticipated.

Alastor has not left yet. He's sitting on top of the wooden console in the display cabinet, glass doors shoved entirely aside, humming lightly to himself, eyes closed. He looks tired, but not exhausted. Content. His once neatly-brushed and styled hair has been jostled by a night of dancing, a few strands clinging to his face with sweat. He idly brushes them back and takes his monocle off to polish it.

What if they had only cheered because it was Alastor? No one disrespects the Radio Demon and lives to tell the tale. What were they saying now? A wave of embarrassment crashes over Vox as he thinks back on how… shameless it all was.

He wishes his emotions could just pick a side.

"Why don't you all go home? I'll take it from here," Vox says, addressing his employees. They nod and thank him, and file out the back door. Alastor waves to them as they leave, and they wave back, star-struck.

Even his own employees are more enthused with Alastor than they are with him.

Vox brings the window shutters down, leaving him and Alastor alone, away from prying eyes.

Most of the lights are off, save for a couple. Alastor sits directly under one of them, a cone of light illuminating him as he sits perfectly framed inside the open display case. Encapsulating his beauty and presence as something to envy, something to look at, but never touch. Too good for Vox. Something he cannot have.

The Radio Demon looks up and pats the space on the console next to him, inviting Vincent to sit.

Vincent hesitates briefly before closing the distance and sitting where requested. He keeps a professional distance between them, still, not letting his hips or legs touch Alastor's. He makes only brief, timid eye contact, and his smile is sheepish and forced.

Alastor is irritated by the sudden hesitance. He thought he'd fixed that. Normally, Alastor didn't mind seeming out of reach to others. Didn't mind the fear and deference offered to him by everyone he met. But Vincent isn't everyone. Vincent is someone who could look him in the eye and not flinch. Someone who could keep up.

Or, he was. He was before they'd kissed at the bar, then he wasn't, then he was again when they danced tonight. Now he's waning once more.

He doesn't want Vincent to disappear for several more days. He has to find out what went wrong.

So. He must repeat the scenario.

He kisses the side of Vincent's head. Same as last time, Vincent goes entirely stiff. Alastor raises an eyebrow and scoots closer, pressing their legs and shoulders together.

Vox is not nearly drunk enough for this. The touch of their bodies, the smell of Alastor's breath, the softness of Alastor's lips, is almost making him feel like he is, though. His head turns slightly and peers at Alastor through eyes wide enough that they've almost entirely shoved his mouth out of frame.

"You look positively ill," Alastor repeats the line from the last time. "I did make sure to brush my teeth well this morning."

Vox looks rapidly between Alastor's mouth and eyes.

Alastor isn't pulling away, sitting there like a statue, waiting for Vincent to make his next move.

Vox cups Alastor's face in his shaking hands. Alastor closes his eyes and lets Vincent support the weight of his head.

Vox is not drunk enough for this. It's worse: he wants this. He wants this so bad. Terror. Fear. Nerves. Is it really ok to touch, to let himself reach behind the glass of the display? Risk contaminating the perfection with himself?

Alastor can feel all of it through Vincent's palms. It's overall irritating, but it's also… he feels melancholy? That's new…

He feels somewhat rejected.

Alastor puts his hand on Vincent's waist, hoping to spur him into action, either pull away or forward. Something so he can decide what to do next.

Vox pulls forward. Presses their faces together. Squeezes his eyes shut. To his relief and terror, Alastor returns the kiss. The animal instinct takes over, pushing aside his inhibitions, focusing only on sensation, on pleasure, on the smell and taste of Alastor's breath. Vox grabs Alastor's waist and pulls their bodies together, while his tongue laps greedily at Alastor's mouth, wanting in.

To Alastor's surprise and delight, Vincent's tongue is just as static-y as the rest of his head, maybe moreso. He lets the tongue push into his own mouth, filling it with the prickly sensation of electricity and intense taste of metal.

And the taste of metal… oh, that taste… it ignites Alastor's own animal instincts, but of a different kind. His instinct to bite, his instinct to seek more of that flavor. Alastor lets out a low growl, pushing his own tongue into Vincent's mouth, delighted to find more of that flavor. His claws fly to Vincent's back and dig in, making him whimper. His teeth bite into Vincent's tongue, drawing blood, flooding their mouths with it.

It's sweet.

Vincent moans and whines as Alastor drinks, swallowing down his sweet-tasting blood. His body has gone pliant, letting Alastor squeeze him and ravish him. Shivers run up and down his spine and heat pools in his belly, his poor gills working overtime to regulate his temperature. His cock is hard.

Alastor needs more. He shoves Vincent down, laying him down on top of the console, climbing on top of him, straddling him, laying his fully body weight on top of him. Vincent's arms wrap tightly around Alastor, groping, feeling, his own claws digging into Alastor's back. His hips buck upwards, seeking friction, and Alastor sits, keeping them down. Vincent moans, feeling the pressure and heat on his arousal. Alastor's teeth sink into Vincent's shoulder, and he drinks, he drinks deeply. The sweetness is addictive.

Vincent might as well be on another plane of existence right now, above Heaven, above it all. If this is how he dies, he will die in pure bliss.

Blood drips down the console, pooling in the cabinet, dripping out to the floor.

Alastor can feel himself getting… dizzy. His head hurts. He grows progressively more nauseous. The world is growing dark.

It suddenly rips him out of his trance when he has the urge to vomit. Vincent's blood is poison, and his body is taking measures into its own hands to save him.

He sits up abruptly and leans off as far as possible before the torrent of freshly-consumed blood comes up, splattering on the floor.

This also brings Vox's stupor abruptly to a halt. The sudden ceasing of affections, Alastor wretching, coming back up with a bleary expression. Every ounce of bliss and confidence drains from his body at once.

Alastor thinks he's so disgusting he threw up. And Vox has a boner. And Alastor is sitting on it.

Alastor wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, the world coming back into focus. His gaze flits down to Vincent, and…

He looks completely mortified, on the verge of tears, even. Why—

Then Alastor feels it. He hadn't noticed before, he was too wrapped up in the high of tearing into fresh meat. But it's there, pressing up against his groin.

Alastor blushes, deep red, and slowly climbs off Vincent.

"Sorry about that, pal, I get all carried away when there's fresh blood~" Alastor sits back down on the console, brushing his now-frizzy hair out of his face, crossing one leg over the other. Between his thighs feels slick, wet. "Yours is particularly dangerous it seems."

Vincent isn't listening, it seems. He sits up on his elbows, looking around frantically, panting. No, hyperventilating. There are tears at the corners of his eyes.

"Vincent?" Alastor raises an eyebrow.

Vox sits up and curls in on himself, hiding his face in his hands, pushing himself up against the side and corner of the display cabinet, trying to shield his shame from view.

"No harm done, it's a natural reaction." Not one Alastor was necessarily expecting, but it doesn't truly bother him beyond the initial shock. He tries to pat Vincent's back reassuringly, but his hand is swatted away by wires.

"But you're a guy!" Vox wails. Wires lash out of Vox's back and fling one of the stupid little radios against a wall, shattering it.

Alastor's eyes narrow. Things are beginning to make sense. "Is that your problem? Seriously?"

"You barfed!" Another radio is sacrificed to the wall. "You keep kissing me to… to test me or some shit, huh? Was this your goal? Get me into it so you'd know for sure that I'm a fucking faggot so you can make fun of me?"

If he had more blood in his body, he might be outright attacking Alastor, just to get him to end it all.

Instead he cries. Angry, hot tears. Shoulders shuddering. A lifetime of fear tearing apart his insides. He expects Alastor to burst out laughing at him. Or hurt him.

But the laughter never comes. Hands are never laid on him. Alastor sits with him in silence, staring off at various things on the wall. Contemplating. Waiting.

This keeps happening. Alastor keeps doing things, keeps mirroring what Vox has played out in his head, but when the time comes that Alastor should be ruining him, revealing himself to be the complete monster Vox anticipated, he does not.

He doesn't know what to do with that.

And so he doesn't do anything with it. He just sits there. Crying. In front of the Radio Demon. And it's fine, somehow.

A few minutes pass. Alastor idly licks the blood off his claws. Sweet. He shouldn't be doing that. Not until he knows what it is. He sighs and wipes his claws with the tails of his jacket. A shame to waste such a sweet treat.

Vincent seems to take the sigh personally, curling up tighter and a spark flying between his antennae. Alastor rolls his eyes.

"I threw up because your blood is some kind of toxin, not for any other reason," he says, rubbing his head. A headache still lingers. Moving his head too fast still makes the room spin. He was certainly at least mildly poisoned before his body forced him to quit. He very well could have earned his first death in Hell from his own over-indulgence. Not a terribly dignified way for the Radio Demon to meet his match for the first time.

Alastor takes a pack of cigarettes out of his inner breast pocket, picking one out, putting it between his lips, and lighting it with a snap of green flame. He then holds the box out to Vincent. His thumb pushes a cigarette slightly out, ready to be taken.

Vox's hands lift from his screen enough to let him glance sideways at the offered cigarette. He stares at it a moment, flits his gaze between Alastor and the offering. Trying to determine intention. Alastor lazily puffs on his own cigarette, ears flopped backwards softly, not even really looking at him. He notes that Alastor's hair is standing up every which way from static charge. It's kind of funny. His lip twitches up at the sight before falling again.

Vox accepts the cigarette with a wary hand. As soon as it's in his grasp, Alastor is ready with a small green flame at the end of his thumb, tucking the box back into his palm.

Vox puts the cigarette to his lips, and leans over slightly to dip the end into the flame until it lights. He puffs it once, then retreats back into his curled position. One leg crossed over another, shoulders forward, head down. One arm curls around his midsection, holding a fistful of shirt at his side. The other hand is now busy with the cigarette.

"Why do you keep kissing me, man?" Vox says after several long draws on his cigarette, when he feels like he can finally speak without crying more.

"You acted so disproportionately weird the first time," Alastor shrugs. "You got me curious."

Vox only heard "you acted so weird" and stopped listening. His arm tightens around himself. "So you do think I'm weird," he bites.

Alastor huffs and pokes Vincent's antennae, giving him a sudden static shock, his own hair falling back down, no longer defying gravity.

"Ow!" Vox exclaims, hand flying up to cover his sensitive antennae. "What was that—"

"Earth to Vincent, are you even listening to me?" Alastor dramatically brings his mic up and taps it. "Hello? Is this thing on? You're the only one making this weird. Stop being a sulking weirdo about it!"

Vox isn't in the headspace to cut through to Alastor's meaning beyond the irritation in his tone. He just keeps hearing Alastor call him weird. He hisses, screen clouding with static, snarling and glaring.

"Oh, enough of that." Alastor palms Vox's screen and shoves him backwards, almost toppling him off the console. "Why are you so dead-set on ruining your own fun? It's sad."

"Because it's weird, like you keep saying." Alastor is not in fact saying that, not how Vox thinks he's saying it.

"I am not saying that—"

"Then what are you saying, huh?"

Alastor turns away and takes a long drag off his cigarette. Vincent is exhausting. But he is not letting Vincent run himself, run them into the ground, over this. This is… stupid. No, not stupid, that's the wrong word… He puffs on his cigarette, trying to find the words, find the feelings he's attatching to this.

It's sad. It makes him sad. He lets himself explore that feeling. Lets himself remember its source.

"… You think so cruelly about yourself," Alastor says after his silent pondering. His ears droop down further.

Vox's snarl softens, then is put away. His face is still contorted with wariness, tension, but something about Alastor's tone gives him pause.

Alastor takes another long drag before continuing. He does not look back at Vincent.

"I understand why. I do. Someone I was fond of in life was murdered for being gay. I kept my personal stylings more buttoned up, too. For safety." Alastor idly plays with he tail of his pink coat. As much as he preferred to look back on his life as full of merriment, full of smiling faces at the clubs he used to play his piano for, it did not stop the undercurrent of sadness that ripped through those people, ripped through him, when they were not in those rooms together.

The constant revelry kept him afloat. Kept them all afloat. Kept them from being consumed by the darkness. If he ever stopped, he would probably slowly go mad. The smile has to be fed constantly, it is a hungry beast.

This is the closest he's allowed himself to get to those emotions in quite some time.

A heavy, contemplative silence hangs between them. Vox feels he is experiencing something rare from Alastor. A brief peek behind the curtain at the completely normal man acting as the Wizard of Oz.

"We are not there, anymore, Vincent. Not on Earth. We can do anything we want down here." Alastor's ears go back up, smile wide, turning to look at Vincent once more. Pay no attention to that man behind the curtain. "I can wear a cute pink suit, I can cut my hair how I like, you can take pleasure in anyone you like, and we can destroy any who stand in the way of our fun, any who disrespect us."

Vox looks at him almost with stars in his eyes. He wants to feel that way. He truly does. He's afraid to. Every day of his life, he lived in a world that would cast him aside or worse if he allowed himself to be known. Lose his home as a teen. Lose his job as an adult. Lose his life or freedom at any point. The grooves are worn deep into his mind, first carved out by the tires of the truck his high school crush had been dragged behind until dead.

And he had helped. He had helped. To save his own skin, he drove.

"But there is not terribly much I can do if you are the one disrespecting yourself." Alastor pokes Vincent's screen between his eyes. "So that's Mister Faggot from now on, hm?"

Finally, he is able to pull a smile and a laugh out of Vincent. The laugh starts small, a scoff, evolving into a barely contained giggle, and finally escaping as the guffaw it wants to be. With the laugh comes new tears, not of shame, this time of relief, exhaustion. His lungs struggle for breath as the laugh becomes a sob.

Alastor smiles softly and stretches an arm out, inviting a hug, if Vincent wants it. Vincent immediately buries himself in the embrace, Alastor's arms feeling suddenly like the safest place in all of creation in that moment. His own arms wrap around Alastor in return, needy, shaking. If he had it his way, he would never let Alastor go.

Alastor feels a terrifying proximity to his own emotions, the ones he kept locked away for his own comfort. Opening the door a crack earlier had let them make a small nest in his heart that he is ill-equipped to remove at the moment. Vincent sobbing so openly, so unguarded into his shoulder is far more intense for him than any other touch of the night. He finds himself thinking tenderly, painfully, of his old friend Mimsy, similarly sobbing into him after a night he had cut a man's life short for beating her, for reasons not unrelated to their lifestyle. Relief. Exhaustion. Pain.

He thinks about the people he couldn't save. Either from others or from themselves. How he felt useless sometimes just playing his stupid piano. How futile it felt to kill and know there were more just like them, more than he could ever hope to stomp out of the world.

He has not seen Mimsy in Hell yet. Perhaps she has lived a good long life in his absence.

Vincent's body shuddering in his arms bores a hole clean through him. He had left his human life behind. It wasn't his life anymore, happy to forget about it. Happy to finally be able to merrily slaughter and torment anyone and everyone that had ever deserved it in his mind. But the pain has followed him, even here. Ever lurking in the corners of the world of merriment he'd built for himself.

Earth kept on rotating without him, powerless to stop it. His tune only played for the ears of those that had already been worn thin by the injustice of the world, now. His claws only rended the flesh of those who already had full lives of destroying the world, now.

The corners of his smile do not drop, but they tremble, and he shuts his eyes tight. He leans against the back wall of the cabinet they sit in, pulling Vincent with, hugging him tighter so he wouldn't pull away and see his face until he had stilled his heart once more. Put away feelings that did not serve him.

Alastor's shadow weeps in silence underneath the console.

For a while Vox and Alastor are hardly separate beings. Their hearts melt and bleed together. They are human again for a moment.

Eventually they pull away from each other, regaining individuality, resuming their roles as demons. Vox wipes at his screen, tries straightening his scarf. He looks down at his blood-stained clothes, his torn shirt, then at the pools of blood painting the console and seeping into the floor. He looks at the rest of the store, still only half-reset, two new dents on the wall and shattered bits of the radios that made them scattered nearby.

"This place is a fuckin mess…" Vox grumbles. He's so tired, he doesn't wanna clean this shit. He doesn't wanna hire anyone else in to clean and have questions. Maybe he'd just close the store tomorrow. Or today. It must be some early hour of the morning by now. He checks his watch. Yeah. He sighs.

"Why don't you head home and get some rest, pal?" Alastor says, tone as chipper as ever, as if nothing had happened. "I'll set my souls about cleaning this place. They can't much talk anymore, they'll be quite discrete."

Vox nods. "I… Thank you."

Alastor nods back.

Vox stands up, walking forward a few paces, preparing to zap himself out.

"Oh, Vincent?" Alastor says just before he leaves.

Vincent looks back.

"Please don't avoid me anymore. I enjoy your company."

Vincent blushes, nods, and is away in a bolt of electricity.

Once he is satisfied Vincent is gone, Alastor allows his shadow to come out from under the console. It still weeps, looking up at him from the floor.

"What?" he spits. "I told him I liked him, so can it."

It continues to mope and cry at his feet.

"We're not talking about this." Alastor stands on wobbly legs, stepping on his shadow, dissipating it for a moment before it reappears on the wall with the same expression. He sighs, ears pinning back in irritation.

"Whatever, cry it out, like a child, and get over it. Do not embarrass me."

He exerts his will on the shadow, forcing a smile back on its face, but its eyes still cry.

His lip curls up into a snarl, and he snaps his fingers to summon a band of puppets to clean. He directs them, leave the store spotless, and warps out, his melancholy shadow going with him.

Vox repeats what he'd done a few nights prior: secludes himself in his room to unwind the spring Alastor twisted ever so tightly in him. It takes several rounds to fully exhaust the energy that robs him of thought, succumbing to his own hands over and over. He doesn't even consider changing out of his shirt, even though his gills would prefer if he did, when Alastor had so lovingly shredded it for him to remember exactly where his claws had been embedded in his back, long after the wounds had healed over. He bites his own tongue, filling his mouth with blood again, not to drink, just to taste, to remember. Alastor's name is like a prayer on his lips. A mimicry of Alastor's voice calling out his name makes him feel terribly lonely.

This time is far more shameless than the time before. He is not free of it by any sense, he still feels disgust towards himself afterwards, when his mind is finally clear of Alastor. He still aggressively scrubs every inch of himself in a cold shower. He still cries, but it is… easier this time. Easier to fully lose himself in the fantasy.

Alastor goes straight to his liquor cabinet. His headache has worsened. His stomach is still complaining at him. His eyes have grown heavy, and he feels sluggish. Not in the pleasant way of alcohol. This felt… painful. Whatever poison Vincent's blood contained continues to do its work.

Coupled with the freshly opened feelings of grief about the past, he feels… well, not very good.

The answer is almost never at the bottom of a bottle, but he'd look there anyways. What's a little more poison?

He briefly considers grabbing a proper glass, before shrugging and drinking straight from the bottle. He shuffles over to the armchair in his sitting room and flops down on it, letting out a long, exhausted sigh. He wants desperately to take a warm bath, maybe with some fragrant salts… Walking all the way to the bathroom seems like such a great effort, though.

His shadow continues to lurk on the wall, taunting him with a pitiful expression.

He grumbles and chugs down several mouthfuls of alcohol.

"Will drinking us into a coma make you stop?"

As if he and his shadow are different people.

The shadow won't give him answers. Not any answers he doesn't already know. The shadow frowns when he's… hurt. Or scared. It doesn't happen often. It might have happened… once? When he was still getting used to actually weilding his powers in Hell and another overlord temporarily seemed to have the upper hand and he wasn't absolutely certain his deal with Rosie wasn't a trick.

No. Twice. Another time when he hunted his father down to claim his soul and lock him away in his broadcast of screams. He was the first voice in the radio.

Alastor takes another swig from the bottle. Drown those feelings before they get a chance. His father was a terrible person and he deserved it, end of story.

Thrice, now, with this current sad display from his shadow. He was able to quickly correct its expression before, but it's being stubborn today. Maybe it's the poison.

He knows it isn't. It's just an aggravating factor. He cannot pinpoint any one emotion, he doesn't want to. He'd thought far too much about them today already. Letting them in only made them hurt again. No amount of feeling his feelings had ever made him feel better, never brought his life joy, never solved anything, never brought anyone back, never brought anyone to his side to comfort him.

He was the shoulder to cry on. Not the other way around. Never the other way around.

And he would never want it the other way around, he tells himself.

He will either kill the things that make him upset, or he will distract himself with indulgence and games and dancing and singing until he can hardly breathe. Until the sensations in his body override the ones in his head and heart.

He is in no state to go out dancing again. So that leaves him indulgence. He has the alcohol. So far it's truly not doing much. But… something has changed, for some reason. The painful dulling of his senses from the poison isn't as severe, he notes. Slowly being replaced by the familiar and far more pleasant slackening of his limbs caused by alcohol. His headache abates somewhat. Stomach happier to have a more familiar poison.

Maybe it is doing something.

Not nearly enough, but he'll take what he can get.

He feels up to standing again. Time for that bath. The alcohol comes with, of course.

As the bath fills, he undresses and observes his body in the mirror. He twists to try and look at his back, where Vincent's claws had dug in. The wounds are gone, scratches and cuts never took too long to heal, but he can imagine exactly where they were. He un-twists himself and looks at his front.

He has legs like a satyr, black fur covering up to his waist. His arms are similarly covered in black fur, up to about mid-bicep. The rest of him is covered in sligtly shorter fur of various shades of brown and a patch of white down his chest and stomach.

And he has small breasts, four of them. And… other female anatomy.

All of these things are more recent acquisitions for him. When he was alive, he had a standard male body plan. Arriving in Hell and finding it swapped was initially surprising, but not something he can say he dislikes.

Perhaps it is even a better fit. He could do without the fur, though. He goes through a frankly silly amount of shampoo.

He thinks idly about the feeling of Vincent's anatomy pressed up against his. He rolls his eyes at himself as a light blush creeps onto his face. There's still a lingering slickness between his thighs. At least the natural reactions of this body were more discrete.

He looks himself in the eye in the mirror. He looks past himself at his frowning shadow poking at the bath water.

His blush deepens. Eyes narrow. Well. It is distracting. He hasn't… explored this body yet, anyways. It was something to do. Unwind some of the… unresolved tension. He thinks again about the claws in his back.

He selects a jar of salts from a shelf and dumps it into the bath before stepping in.

He sighs as the warmth of the water envelops him. Coupled with the gentle warmth of the alcohol, it becomes almost on the uncomfortable side of warm. Speaking of alcohol, a shadow tentacle brings the bottle to his hand from the edge of the sink. He does not chug anymore, only sips.

A hand wanders to his chest, feeling at one of his breasts. Not terribly exciting.

What does he even do with this body? For once in his life he's almost wishing he listened when Mimsy yapped about her escapades.

He supposes he's overthinking it. Just… put his hand down there and poke around and see what happens.

His hand slides down and a couple fingers exert a small amount of pressure. The pressure reminds him of the pressure from before. From Vincent. He grumbles. He doesn't want to be thinking of Vincent right now. Just the sensations. Vincent has nothing to do with this.

He puts Vincent away in a little box in his mind. Isolates him from the physical sensations they shared. The ones that got Alastor riled up.

Pressure. Heat. Blood. Pain. He licks his lips thinking of the flavor of Vincent's mouth and tongue. The pleasant buzzing tingle.

A finger feels at the folds, finding the center, pushing in. Alastor gasps, legs closing together around his hand. The sensation is… surprising. Intrusive. His finger pushes in further, up to the knuckle. He can feel his heartbeat pulsing around it.

He wonders what the electric tongue would feel like in there. The thought alone spurs his finger on to pressing, stroking, pumping. Different touches do different things. One spot in particular sends a tingle through to the end of his legs.

He bites his lip. He likes this body. He likes it a lot.

Another finger presses inside. They press on that spot in tandem while his palm exerts pressure on the outside.

The tongue is thicker than his fingers. Would it fit? How would it feel? He can't mimic the electricity but perhaps he can mimic the size…

Shadow tentacles join in. He removes his fingers and prods at his entrance with a tentacle that he's made to be about how large he remembers the tongue he found so very very fun to be. He grows frustrated with the difficulty of inserting it. He has to pump it in and out several times, a little more going in each time, pushing past pain more than once until it is filling him. The ordeal leaves him panting, legs shaking. Maybe a bit ambitious for his first experimentation with this body.

He feels pleasantly full, in spite of the pain. The tentacle is able to put much more pressure on the spot inside him that floods his body with sensation. He finds himself rocking his hips involuntarily to chase the sensation. This is doing a stellar job at turning his brain off, making him chase only pleasure.

His hand returns, putting pressure on the part outside that joins delightfully with the inside. The bottle of liqour has since been taken by a different tentacle and set somewhere else. He doesn't need it. Just his hands, just himself. The tentacle begins to thrust.

He chases his pleasure off the edge of some kind of cliff, the bottom of which is full of feathers and pleasant exhaustion.

He sighs contentedly, the tentacle pulling out of him and dissipating, having served its purpose.

Quite distracting, indeed.

His shadow does not show its face again. Not that he thinks to look for it. He eventually removes himself from the bath, once all the heat has drained out. Tentacles grab towels to dry him off before he makes his way to his bed and collapses easily into a deep sleep.