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Alastor is in rut.
This is nothing new; he has had ruts every fall, or what passed for it in Hell, since he died. Hell has a heat and rut dynamic, because of course it does, and he's one of the unlucky few that was cursed with it. Whether it's due to the deer thing, or just the universe having a laugh at him, he's not sure. Ordinarily, he hunts whenever he can, and hides up in his radio tower when he's not, and that usually takes care of it. If he must, he… masturbates.
However, there's something off about it this time. The rut had started earlier than usual, which he had thought nothing of at the time, but now strikes him as odd. His body is on a hair-trigger, and just this morning he nearly bit Charlie's hand off just because it had moved in his peripheral vision. He's not usually this touchy, and especially not so early into the rut. There's a constant urge to fight and protect what is his, except he has everything he usually does and yet, it feels like something is missing.
He's pacing around the lobby, the other residents giving him a wide, wide berth and avoiding him as much as possible when his eyes catch on the TV sitting in the corner, playing some inane program of Vox's.
Of course! Fighting with Vox is always satisfying; he does so love playing the man like a fiddle. He knows exactly what to push and pull to get the desired reaction, and working him into a fight will be quick and easy. He hasn't seen him since that fateful day, the one where Vox tried to kill everyone atop the Might of Lilith. He's probably been licking his wounds like the kicked dog he is. Well, it's time for that to change! Melting into the shadows, Alastor races toward the newly rebuilt Entertainment district, blood racing. For the first time since his rut started, he feels relatively okay, focused on the task at hand.
But after an hour of walking up and down the brightly light streets, there's no sign of Vox. He's used every trick in the book to get him to respond, and the sudden change in routine irritates him. Is he really that butthurt over everything? He was always sensitive, especially when it came to Alastor.
This simply won't do. Alastor fumes, antlers growing with a crack. He needs to fight Vox; to rip and tear, to hear the crunch of glass and the crackle of electricity. He needs Vox under him, need him to scream and whimper and bleed; needs to bury himself in him—
Alastor shoves the new and repulsive thought away. He's never once wanted to have intercourse with someone, rut or not, and certainly never with Vox. Something is wrong, and he hates the feeling of not having total control. It makes him itchy, and scared, and he despises being scared. Should he go home? He stares up at the Vee Tower, having gone there on autopilot. It looks the same as ever, as though it wasn't a warzone only a few weeks prior.
No. He might as well get what he came here for. Why isn't Vox responding, anyway? He's still pathetically obsessed with Alastor, despite everything. After all, Vox had done everything he had done partly because of him. He strains his ears and reaches out his power along with the action. A faint signal hums at the top. Just the slightest hint of it sends a rush of anticipation and want through him.
He needs to get up there. Now. It consumes his mind, and the mere thought of turning back makes his entire body lock up. He physically cannot leave. The resistance from his own body makes fear burn in his gut. His power roils angrily under his skin, buzzing at his fingertips unbidden. Even his power is not his own right now. Alastor feels like he is being piloted by some other, alien force. Except, it's his own mind. His Hellish deer-like mind.
Racing up the floors, he hops from shadow to shadow until he's at the top. The only thing in his mind is the overpowering need to get to Vox. Materialising right inside the room, the scent of ozone hits him like a truck, overwhelming his senses.
What the fuck?
It smells like— It smells like there's an Omega in here. That doesn't make sense. Vox is an Alpha. Completely, entirely, and unequivocably an Alpha. Smelled like one, acted like one, the whole nine yards.
Perhaps Vox is sleeping with an Omega? Alastor can't remember if that Valentino fellow was one or not. Either way, the very idea of Vox with someone else, exposed, spread out before someone else sends a wave of pure rage through Alastor, and his power boils over, exploding out of him. He swells into his full form, bones cracking and antlers expanding until they scrape the ceiling.
"VOX," he snarls, voice crackling with layers and layers of static as he approaches the other end of the room, where the bed is. It's quiet. What is going on? Alastor can barely think.
Get to Vox, his brain says. As he gets closer he can see a shape in the bed, completely covered by the blankets. Suddenly it moves, jerking upright and revealing his prey.
"A-Alastor?" Vox coughs out, voice breaking into glitches as if he hasn't spoken in a while. The smell of ozone is now overwhelming. The other man looks a wreck, deep bags under his digital eyes, sweat dripping down his skin. Vox is shirtless, the top of a bright cyan gill peeking out from above the blanket. Alastor watches, entranced, as it expands and contracts as he takes a shaky breath. They're the only ones in the room. Vox stares at him like he's seen a ghost.
There's no doubt about it; Vox is an Omega. And not only that, he's in heat.
Alastor is just barely restraining himself from lunging onto him. The urge to devour is at war with the urge to— to breed. He needs to bite Vox, taste the salty blood; needs to have him tight around his dick, dripping with his seed. He needs to completely and wholly dominate him.
No. Not just that. He needs to claim him, one way or another. Ruin him for anyone else, his and his alone.
Vox is still staring at him, seemingly frozen, the barest hint of unease in his expression. For him, that's like full blown fear. Saliva fills his mouth at the sight. Alastor twitches. He wants to take him now, but the part of him that is a man wants to wait. Drag it out. Savour the pain. The air begins to crackle, his fur standing on end; Vox is preparing a charge. He can see him tremble, ever so slightly. Just the barest hint of a shake in his shoulders, unnoticable to anyone but him. Can he tell that something is different about Alastor?
"What's wrong?" he purrs, changing tactics and taking a step closer. His fevered, rut addled mind calms, focusing into sharp clarity. He has the upper hand. Vox is clearly in the depths of his heat, his mind sluggish and body full of desire for one thing: to be fucked. A little disappointing that he won't be putting up much of a fight, but Alastor has a feeling that he'll be getting plenty of other things out of him yet. "Cat got your tongue?"
"I'm here to make your dreams come true," Alastor continues. He says it patronisingly, like he is giving Vox a generous gift and expects gratitude. Satisfaction bursts in his chest as Vox glitches, emotions flashing across his face too quick for him to decipher. Electricity crackles along the floor, but he pays it no mind, moving closer to the bed. Vox moves away from him. Ha! Funny. He had not expected that reaction, but it makes the chase feel all the more sweeter.
There's no escaping him, anyway.
"After all, I've seen it. The way you watched me when you thought I wasn't looking. You fantasized about me, I'm sure. Like the desperate, pathetic wretch you are. I bet you're on top, huh? Dominating me." Alastor lets out a sharp laugh of derision, locking eyes with Vox. His smile stretches impossibly wide, all bared teeth. "You'll never have me."
After all, Vox has always wanted Alastor; has never hidden it. The lust, the desire to have him. Alastor has seen it in his eyes. And Vox loves sex. He's talked about it enough, has taunted Alastor about it again and again. Oh, Vox. Always bragging. Always trying to be the best. Clawing for whatever he could. It must have driven Vox crazy, not being able to get what he wanted from him.
So really, it is a favour. A rare gift from Alastor. He has never desired sex, of course, but the action is not entirely repulsive to him. And right now he wants it so badly that it's all he can think about. Partly his rut, yes, but now he's warmed up to the idea of it all. If the situation were reversed, after all, wouldn't Vox do the same thing? He pictures Vox under him, smeared in blood. Alastor had gotten to taste bits and snatches of it before, and it's addicting, really. The tang of the salt, the burn of whatever metallic liquids he had in there. That wonderfully expressive face, making all sorts of expressions just for him. Crying, probably. Still desperate for him anyway, like he always was. Alastor could rip his lungs out and Vox would still want him, would still need him like he needs air. Maybe he'll tear him open and spill all those pretty wires, bury his hand in them. He could fuck those too, and wonders if they'll spark and zap, how it would feel. The image of himself, buried deep in Vox's strange body, half flesh and half machine, skin and bone and technicolour wire alike, makes heat run to his cock. He's only ever seen bits and pieces of what Vox looks like on the inside; muscle and bone here, a wire exposed there. Maybe now is his chance.
The scent of ozone sours into the bitter-sharp tang of fear. Vox is no longer trying to hide his unease. Genuine fear spreads across his screen, the display bright and clear. And oh, maybe Alastor does approve of this new head after all. He glitches beautifully in it. How would it look broken? His old head would fuzz over with snow, as he called it, but maybe this new one would be more colourful? He's brought forth many expressions from the other, but has never truly scared him until now.
He's at the edge of the bed now. Vox's face twists into a snarl, which amuses him more. He may yet get his fight. Good! He enjoys the struggle, the push and pull. It really makes him feel like he's earned it.
"Get the fuck away," Vox snaps, electricity crackling around him. A cute attempt at trying to seem threatening and capable of defending himself, but the way his body trembles as Alastor unbuttons his shirt and undoes his belt, letting it fall to the floor with a loud sound. The shirt follows right after, as well as his pants, leaving him in his underwear and very exposed. Vox's eyes lock onto the bulge in his pants immediately, growing impossibly wider.
He sees Vox tense, preparing to lunge. At him or away? He's a little tempted to let him try and see what happens, but he really would like to get the show on the road. "Ah, ah," Alastor says, almost playfully. "None of that, dear." Pulling on his power, he summons a few shadow tentacles. They peel the covers back to reveal the rest of Vox. To his delight, he's in nothing but his boxers already. The tentacles move to hold Vox in place, setting him so that he's half propped up and restraining his wrists and legs and spreading him wonderfully open for him, ready and waiting.
His cock is painfully hard and straining at the tightness of his own boxers, and he can feel a dampness growing. The desire to fuck something is so strong he feels like he could probably come just from a single touch alone. Advancing up the bed, he moves to straddle Vox's midsection. He moans at the contact between them, presses his crotch a little more firmly against Vox to try and get some friction. Up close, the scent of his heat is intoxicating, and he breathes it in hungrily, the sharp smell burning his nostrils. Vox's breaths are coming in harsh gasps, those fascinating gills flaring with each breath, and even now he's still struggling, doing his very best to try and break free, kick Alastor off. He does so love the fighting spirit that Vox has always had. It is one of his few redeeming qualities, and one that he has always appreciated. Not wanting to deal with the fuss of removing clothing, he snaps his fingers and magics their boxers off, slight relief coming in the form of his cock coming free to stand straight out. Precome drips down it and onto Vox's stomach. Alastor watches the fat drop of it slide down his skin, saliva filling his mouth.
"Please," Vox gasps, evidently trying to fight against his own heat-driven instincts, simultaneously trying to squirm away and toward him. "Don't, I never touched you, I didn't—"
Alastor moves quick, shifting up so that his legs are pressed against Vox's gills and presses them tight against them to block the airflow best he can. Vox makes a wheezing sound. "But you wanted to, though," he says conversationally, the deceptively pleasant tone at odds with the want, and anger, and frustration roiling within him. He lets out a sharp laugh. "Look at you now, a weak and whining bitch."
Reaching behind him, he slips his hand between Vox's legs. The other cries out, automatically clenching around him, hips giving one frantic jerk toward him before tensing hard in an effort to remain still. No matter. He takes his hand back, dripping with hot slick. "See? You want this. You want me, like you always have. God, isn't it tiring? Being so pathetic." Alastor licks the slick off of his finger, the taste bursting salty-sweet against his tongue. "And congratulations, really, you have me now! I'm sure this isn't quite how you pictured it. What did you imagine, when you were fucking Valentino that night?"
Vox whimpers, pressing himself as far as he can get from Alastor. A far cry from the days where he would follow him like a planet in orbit, trapped by his gravity. "I— no, I just-"
Alastor rises up onto his knees. Leaning forward, he takes Vox's screen into his hands, adjusting his position until Vox is more upright. He lines his cock up with Vox's mouth, pressing the tip against the line where his mouth is. Fascinatingly, he can feel a slight give in the glass. "If you bite me, I will make this much worse than it needs to be." And oh, Vox looks so good with his head between Alastor's hands, looking up at him with fear. Just how it should be. He was always meant to be below Alastor in every sense of the word.
"Do you still find me inspiring?" Alastor taunts as he shoves his way in, the glass melting away as if it were never there. Vox's mouth is warm and wet as most normal mouths tend to be, and as his cock meets resistance, followed by a gagging sound, he is intrigued to find that he seems to have a throat as well. "Do you still want me now?" Alastor sets a brutal pace, pulling nearly all the way back out to where he can feel a slight suction at the tip of his dick, like the glass is trying to reform around him, before slamming back in to meet the back of his throat.
He makes the most delightful noises too. Mostly breathy choking and harsh gasps for air, but there's also the occasional whimper and bitten-off yelp of pain. Alastor holds his head firmly in place for the most part, pushing it back against the headboard. He lets one of his fingers gently stroke along Vox's screen, as if he were trying to soothe him, as if he were trying to be gentle. Fat tears bead up at the corners of Vox's eyes and slip down his screen, the same way they had during his dramatic speech and subsequent breakdown. Alastor quite likes being the cause of them. He thinks he gets the fuss about sex now. It's simply another way to dominate, to gain control, and right now he feels on top of the world.
He doesn't think he could do this with anyone else, though. Only with Vox. No one else would be nearly as satisfying. Looking at the man below him, beautiful as he destroys him, choking on Alastor and completely at his mercy, sends a new wave of arousal through him, ever hotter. He can feel himself building up to an orgasm and fucks Vox faster until he drops over the edge, coming long and hard into his mouth. After a minute he pulls out of his mouth with a soft pop and sits back down onto Vox's legs.
Vox is, of course, a wreck. He's gasping for air, the sound ragged and painful-sounding. Saliva and come drip out of his mouth at the corners, tracing a sordid path down his screen. Already, Alastor is hard again, his rut-body hungry for more. But it's not just that, he finds that the sight arouses him on its own. He could get used to it, the sight of Vox hurt and beneath him sending a rush through him like very few other things can.
Vox takes his momentary lapse of movement as an opportunity to try and escape him, weakly teleporting in an obvious last ditch effort. A foolish move, really, he knows Vox knows better than to try and escape him. Alastor easily grabs him by the scruff of his neck and pins him to the wall.
"Wrong choice, my friend. A silly one, really. We both know who has the advantage," Alastor says, bringing tentacles up to restrain him. "Rude to try and run before the main course, too." A tremble runs through Vox's frame, and it doesn't stop. A weak shock runs through Alastor, and he chuckles. "It seems like you haven't quite figured it out, yet. Let me put you in your place."
He savours the moment Vox's eyes widen in fear before Alastor takes him from the wall by his head and slams it back into the wall again and again, until it's a mess of broken glass, those things Vox had once called 'colour bars', and a single, flickering eye on the left, weakly spiralling in a defense mechanism. Glass shatters over that one, too, giving the image a distorted look. It almost looks split into two eyes, like it'd been when he was fighting Alastor, his full form on display. Once Vox's head is little more than a sparking ruin, he stops.
"There, that's better," Alastor hums. "Shame I don't get to see your lovely face, but needs must." Vox stares balefully up at him with that flickering eye, limp and ready for the taking. Alastor indulges himself and runs his finger over Vox's ruined face, occasionally pushing down in places to see what it does. Glass clinks and chimes as he brushes it off. Puncturing the ruin with his claw, pressing as deep as he can, he's greeted by the sight of dark, iridescent black-blue liquid rising up from it. It's not blood, once he inspects and tastes it, the burn of something chemical and inorganic spreading in his mouth.
Moving to the bed, Alastor sets Vox so that his legs dangle off the bed, allowing for easier access. This way, Alastor can stand and fuck him with the most effect, and his ears flick, pleased with himself at the efficiency. The entire time Alastor gets himself situated, Vox never blinks. Just watches him, eye spiraling erratically. At least it seems to have settled, no longer flashing in and out of sight. How does that work, anyway? He'd have to find out another time.
Spreading Vox's legs apart and lining up, he sets the head of his throbbing cock at the entrance to Vox's cunt, weeping with slick. A veritable river runs out of it, smearing his thighs and rapidly staining the covers below him. A rush of desire and ever more arousal bursts through Alastor at the sight, and he shudders at the thought of his own come dripping out of him instead. He grips Vox's hips and plunges in, moaning at the squeeze and press of his walls around his dick, tight and so, so good. The movement is smooth, aided by the copious amounts of slick. Vox tenses under him as if in discomfort anyway, unconscously clenching around Alastor and sending a shudder of pleasure through him. He bottoms out and stops, buried deep in Vox. Looking down, the sight is beautiful in the most obscene way. He savours the image, the way Vox's hole is stretched around his cock, the shining slick smeared up and down his thighs. Alastor almost wishes he wasn't so wet, even. Going in dry would be even more satisfying, with the rough friction and having to work for every thrust. He hungers at the thought of blood, too. Maybe another time, when Vox wasn't on his heat. Now that's an interesting thought, and he sets it aside for later.
He pulls all the way back out, setting the tip back at Vox's entrance. Vox's entire body shudders, and he can hear muffled sobs. Crying does kill the mood a little bit. Disappointing, really. He'd thought Vox was above that at least. Damn it, if Alastor doesn't have standards. He likes his men pathetic, but not like this. "You take me so well, Vox. This is what you are. My pawn, my toy. Broken and snivelling and beneath me." He slams back in, eliciting a broken cry of pain. Continuing to thrust, he's disappointed in Vox's lack of a reaction otherwise, remaining limp. If it wasn't for the occasional reaction, it'd be almost like he was fucking a lifeless corpse. Irritated, Alastor bites him in the shoulder, tearing away flesh and drawing blood. The flavour melts in his mouth and he moans in pleasure again. Seeking more of the taste, he slices down Vox's chest, bringing forth red blood intermixed with something blue-black. He licks it up, probing the wound with his own tongue. Vox twitches and trembles below him. The wound exposes blue flesh and, to his surprise, bright wires and dark silver machinery right below. He pulls back from the jagged wound, having stopped thrusting in his distraction. Resuming, he goes slower. On an impulse, he pulls Vox up so that his torso is pressed to Alastor's like a lover's embrace, warm blood running between them. Laying his ruined screen over his shoulder, he buries his nose in Vox's neck, inhaling the sharp smell of his omega-scent, stinging ozone and salt.
"Oh, Vox," he hums. "You taste so good. We could have had it all, if you hadn't gone and ruined it, you know. If you hadn't tried to reach past your place. Always so greedy, my dear." Reaching down, he starts to jerk Vox off, his cock soft but growing quickly hard under his ministrations. A broken whine sounds through the room, and he chuckles. A few more movements of his hand and Vox comes messy all over himself and intermixing with the blood from the wound. Alastor tastes it, arousal running anew through him at the endeavour. As he orgasms, his body clenches around Alastor's cock rather unexpectedly, surprising him and sending sparks of pleasure through him. This finally sends him over the edge, his knot swells and he spills into Vox for what feels like ages. Suddenly quite tired, after a minute he pulls out.
Taking a moment to appreciate his handiwork, he looks over the other's body; the dark screen, the single eye. The jagged wound, blood adorning the torn edges. The expanse of his body, blue and cyan and beautiful. Down to his legs, still open and exposing his dripping hole, come splattered all over. He might be unconscious, actually, having made no sounds since he orgasmed. The only indication of life is the rise and fall of his chest.
Alastor pulls Vox close and curls around him, nestles his head over the top of his broken head, in a fucked up facsimile of something soft and gentle.
He falls asleep.