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“Fuck’s sake… bloody hell,” Vox cursed, scrubbing at his eyes to chase away the tears as he stormed toward the door of his apartment.
He was already caught in the middle of an emotional hurricane, and yet the entire world seemed hell-bent on finishing the job and ruining his night.
“What the—” he growled as he yanked the door open for the idiot who’d been assaulting his doorbell for a solid twenty minutes, despite Vox’s very clear intention to pretend he didn’t exist.
“Hellooooooo, Vox!” Alastor chirped cheerfully, leaning at a strange angle against his microphone cane.
(commission to Calladraws)
Without thinking, the television demon slammed the door shut in his face as hard and as fast as he could.
Unfortunately, the pest immediately resumed ringing the bell with renewed enthusiasm, until Vox—at the very end of his patience—wrenched the door open again.
“What the FUCK are you doing here?”
“That’s my question to ask,” Alastor slurred, pointing an accusatory finger at him.
And for the first time, Vox noticed something.
Alastor was… completely plastered.
**
This had never happened before.
Control had been such a constant, defining force in Alastor’s life—and afterlife—that he had never once considered letting it slip for the sake of ingesting psychoactive substances that could induce delirium, or worse, euphoria.
A temporary distraction from an eternity of torment? Out of the question.
And yet here he was, knocking back whiskey after whiskey in a bar that was now entirely deserted—save for the numerous corpses littering the floor.
Vox hadn’t taken Alastor’s dismissal very well.
Granted, Alastor could have been subtle about it.
But where would the fun have been in that?
Still, once the moment had passed, all that remained were regrets. And if one was going to have regrets, one might as well go all in and try something new.
So Alastor hadn’t overthought it. He’d grabbed a bottle and drained it. Then another. Then a third—until his mind was sufficiently clouded for him to decide to drag himself all the way to Vox’s place.
**
“I should leave you to sleep it off on my doorstep. We’re not friends, after all,” Vincent snarled as he half-dragged, half-supported Alastor toward his battered couch.
“Awww, are you still sulking about what I said?” Alastor murmured.
Vox dumped him among the cushions like a sack of trash, without the slightest hint of care.
“I am not sulking. Stop thinking you’re more important than you are.”
The radio demon untangled his limbs, sprawled awkwardly on his back.
“You’re the one who started crying like a baby while murdering everyone around you.”
“That’s because you wouldn’t let me get through to you!” Vox snapped, folding his arms.
Alastor snorted, which only deepened Vox’s scowl.
“You’re acting like a spoiled brat whose favorite toy got taken away.”
Vox nearly choked on his anger—but watching Alastor struggle with his jacket, hair disheveled and clothes rumpled, he deflated like a punctured balloon.
“Go fuck yourself,” he muttered, turning away.
Something caught his wrist.
With a sharp, irritated motion, Vox tore his arm free of the dark tendril and shot Alastor a look full of doubt—torn between fury and a genuine question.
Alastor smiled at him with closed lips, a cat toying with a mouse. His claws idly brushed the carpet, his other arm folded beneath his chin.
“Stay,” he whispered. “I came all this way to see you, after all.”
Vincent’s screen fogged over with a bluish haze as he flushed. He frowned and crossed his arms again, striking a cartoonish pose of defiance that did a poor job of hiding his turmoil.
“I don’t take orders from you. For the record, it’s my couch you’re freeloading on…”
“And one does wonder why,” Alastor giggled, peering at him from beneath his lashes, “after all the lovely insults you hurled at me tonight.”
Vox swallowed.
“It’s not—I didn’t—”
Alastor crooked a finger at him.
“Come here.”
Vincent didn’t even try to resist. He obeyed, docilely—only realizing what he was doing halfway through.
Alastor wobbled upright, kneeling on the couch, barely keeping his balance.
“Closer,” he growled.
Without a word, Vox stepped closer, wary, a dark tendril nudging him gently between the shoulder blades. He rolled his eyes. The last thing he wanted was to start a drunken brawl in his living room—he was far too sober for that.
But the look Alastor gave him was anything but reassuring.
“What?” Vox snapped. “What do you want now?”
The radio demon’s arms slid around his waist, and his smiling face pressed against Vox’s stomach, stealing the breath from his lungs.
Alastor purred contentedly, refusing to let go, rubbing his overly sharp nose against the fabric of Vox’s sweater.
Vox froze.
“You—what are you—”
Heat flooded his chest, twisting his heart as though it were being crushed in a fist. He hesitated, keeping his arms stiff at his sides, afraid that if he touched Alastor back, he’d be pushed away again.
Tears of frustration burned at his eyes. He chose to be the one to pull back first, hands braced against Alastor’s shoulders.
Anger warred with sadness—and with the tiny, treacherous spark of hope that began to glow in his chest despite everything.
“Why are you doing this?” he cried. “Wasn’t humiliating me earlier enough? Tearing me down?”
Alastor tilted his head, feigning thought, that same infuriating smirk playing on his lips.
“Hmmm… no. Not quite enough.”
With a sharp flick of a tendril behind Vox’s knees, he sent him stumbling forward again. Grabbing the front of Vox’s sleeveless sweater, Alastor yanked him down onto the couch and straddled him without a second thought—half his body still perched precariously on the cushions, legs dangling toward the floor.
“I didn’t get what I wanted,” he breathed, fingers tracing the edge of Vox’s screen.
Vox clenched his teeth to smother a whine. He refused to show any more vulnerability when he knew Alastor would only use it against him.
“What do you want?” he demanded again, desperation creeping into his voice. “What do you want from me?!”
The radio demon leaned down and kissed him.
Vox gasped, fingers clutching Alastor’s shoulder like an anchor as the kiss deepened and the world tilted violently out of control. His hand slid instinctively to the nape of Alastor’s neck, into the soft down at the back of his skull, and Vox let out a low, broken sound when their tongues brushed.
Electricity shot through him, his body jerking as if shocked.
They tumbled off the couch.
Alastor burst out laughing, already tugging his bow tie loose, while Vox stared up at him in a daze. He watched, transfixed, as Alastor unbuttoned his shirt—and Alastor noticed.
He licked his lips, slow and sinful.
Vox’s screen filled with static as his antennae curved into a heart above his head.
Alastor pinned him to the floor and climbed over him, giving Vox no time to react before tearing his sweater open.
“HEY—!”
Alastor silenced him with another kiss, tasting of ozone and whiskey. His clawed hands shoved Vox’s shirt aside without bothering with the buttons, seizing the skin beneath with hungry intent. He bit and kissed in turn, pain and pleasure blurring together until Vox no longer knew what to do with himself.
It felt unreal—like a fever dream born from the wreckage of a nightmare of a night.
Alastor’s hand slid lower, closing around Vox’s arousal, and Vox jolted, choking on a breathless sound.
“Oh—hnn—Al… Alastor…”
The radio demon’s long fingers squeezed mercilessly, and instead of recoiling, Vox burned hotter. He clung to Alastor, words tumbling from him in broken, eager stutters.
“A-Al—oh, fuck—yes—YES—harder—”
His hands roamed greedily over Alastor’s back, reveling in the soft texture of his fur, while Alastor’s teeth traced a path of sharp, deliberate bites along his throat. Vox whimpered at each sting as skin broke beneath those fangs.
Dark drops of blood stained the couch and its cushions, unnoticed—Vox was far too lost in Alastor’s violent attention.
He would gladly let himself be devoured whole if it meant Alastor would take back what he’d said. If it meant Alastor would want him, the way Vincent wanted him.
Their desires didn’t quite align—but there was a point where they collided, and that was where Vincent wanted to stay. Forever. Even if it meant losing pieces of himself along the way.
Fortunately for Vox, Alastor had no desire to consume him like that.
He wanted to bend him. Any way would do. To dominate him, to press him down until there was almost nothing left beneath him.
Nothing but him.
Nothing for anyone else.
Oh, how he would have regretted it if he hadn’t done this at least once.
Despite the haze clouding his thoughts, Alastor felt a sharp, undeniable pride in his decision. Coming to see Vincent tonight had been the right choice.
Encouraged by Vox’s broken pleas, he tore into his pants without restraint, ripping the fabric apart piece by piece, ignoring Vox’s half-hearted protests.
“That was five-hundred-dollar gabardine from Canoli,” Vincent lamented weakly.
“How am I supposed to fuck you properly with all these layers in the way?” Alastor growled, a feral glint burning in his incandescent red eyes.
Vox choked, unable to come up with a retort, desire flaring hot and painful low in his belly.
As Alastor stripped away the last remnants of fabric, Vox tried to push him back, baring his teeth—his ego rebelling against being treated like this, even if a treacherous part of him wanted it.
“Are you serious? There is no way you’re ‘putting’ anything anywhere!”
“You talk too much,” Alastor snapped. “Stop wriggling like a worm.”
“You’re drunk!” Vincent shouted, slapping a hand against Alastor’s face, flattening his sharp nose beneath his palm.
He pulled it back quickly when Alastor snapped his teeth in warning.
“That’s enough—stop!”
Alastor seized his wrists and bit at his collarbone, then dragged his mouth lower, tracing a wet path between Vox’s pectorals. The sensation made Vincent still, his entire focus snapping helplessly to what Alastor was doing.
“Shhhhh,” Alastor hissed against his skin, his lips pressing soft, almost reverent kisses to his chest—a stark contrast to his earlier brutality.
Vox’s heart lurched painfully in his chest.
“Wh-why are you doing this?” he whispered, voice thin.
“Because I want to,” Alastor breathed, his own voice roughened. “That’s reason enough.”
He looked up at Vincent, who finally saw it—raw desire in his eyes, a flush warming his cheeks, the faint tremor at the edge of his smile. His fine features were unguarded in a way Vox had never seen before.
“You should do the same, darling,” Alastor murmured.
Vox wrenched one arm free and grabbed Alastor’s chin, leaning down to kiss him fiercely.
Electricity exploded between them. Alastor snarled, whimpered, kissed him back with equal hunger, his fingers clawing desperately for purchase. Sparks leapt from Vox’s antennae as his screen flickered with static, his expression blurred—leaving only his mouth, his tongue, to speak the depth of his feelings.
Alastor’s teeth invaded unfamiliar flesh without restraint, his control fraying—but it only stoked Vincent’s fervor. He arched into him, long bare legs winding around Alastor’s warm body.
His heavy, cubic head fell back as Alastor shifted to meet him, arms closing around his neck. Slowly, inevitably, they slid toward the floor—until Vox’s screen struck it with a sharp BONK that made his vision flash with color.
Alastor straightened and burst into helpless laughter.
“Asshole!” Vincent shouted, mortified.
“Aww,” Alastor crooned, still giggling as one claw tapped lightly against the glass of Vox’s screen. “You’re adorable.”
Vox pouted—then leaned in and wrapped his mouth around the offered finger.
Alastor watched, fascinated, visibly intrigued by the way Vox’s face transitioned from two dimensions to three.
“I’m not your thing,” Vincent muttered through his speaker, his mouth still occupied with Alastor’s finger, tongue slick and curious.
“And what would you be, then,” Alastor mused, undoing the buttons of his own trousers, “if you’re neither my friend, nor my partner, nor my thing? Mon giton*, perhaps?”
“I don’t know what that means,” Vox replied flatly, “and I don’t want to.”
Alastor slipped his fingers free of Vox’s mouth as his trousers finally fell open.
Soon, his hard, silky length pressed against Vox’s inner thigh. Vox jolted—and Alastor took advantage of it to withdraw his finger completely. It was coated in thick, almost oily saliva, which he shamelessly dragged along the cleft of Vox’s ass.
Vox let out a sharp electric BZZZT, his screen glitching violently. When his expression reappeared, it was stricken with panic—but it was already too late.
The first knuckle was inside him.
He hadn’t even had time to brace himself mentally. The sensation was strange, uncomfortable, far too vulnerable to be examined too closely.
“Motherfucker,” Vincent snarled, pressing his screen against Alastor’s shoulder, fake anger doing a poor job of hiding his embarrassment and confusion.
The radio demon hummed softly against Vox’s audio receiver, a wordless lullaby with a slow, soothing rhythm. He scattered whiskey-scented kisses along the back of Vox’s neck with an almost unreal tenderness.
Vox melted against him, no longer trying to escape the trap tightening around him, cracking his defenses—and every grievance he’d ever held.
The intrusion went deeper. Vox feared breaking the moment by asking Alastor to slow down, so he accepted the touch as it came: clumsy, rushed, and obscenely intimate for someone with no experience of this kind.
And he would never admit that.
If anything, he suspected Alastor wasn’t much more experienced himself.
The desire had been there for a long time—Vox just hadn’t known what to do with it. Wanting Alastor, wanting someone this much—physically, emotionally, possessively—was a foreign upheaval that shook the foundations of who Vincent believed himself to be.
With Alastor, it was always like this: the constant fear of being rejected, because Alastor never let anything through that hadn’t been carefully measured, never allowed anything to touch him unfiltered.
Fear, unfortunately, did not prevent danger.
Vox sobbed, chest tight.
More than anything, he wanted Alastor to say the words he had been craving all along.
And more than that—he wanted him to be sober.
“Shhhh,” Alastor murmured softly. “It’s going to feel good.”
“Aaaal…stor,” Vox moaned through clenched teeth, his stomach twisted with aching pleasure.
Even if it was only scraps, he was hungry enough to feast on them. He had Alastor’s half-naked body against his, his lips, his gaze. Nothing else mattered right now—he refused to think too far ahead.
He kissed Alastor’s smile with blind desperation, claws tangling carefully in crimson hair, as light and silky as it looked.
But when he brushed the long ears, the radio demon emitted a low, dangerous growl.
“Let me… touch them,” Vox begged, shuddering.
Alastor lifted his head and licked the wetness of a forming tear from Vox’s lashes.
Vox blinked, flustered. Alastor answered slowly, each syllable drawn out between sharp teeth.
“Give me what I waaaant first.”
Vox had no idea what that could be—but there was no way he could ask, naked, limbs tangled around Alastor while—
“Give yourself to me,” Alastor suddenly growled, straightening as if answering Vincent’s unspoken question.
His eyes darkened dangerously, making Vox tremble with apprehension. Alastor was a force of nature—untamed, and completely drunk. If he transformed in Vox’s living room, Vox would never get his security deposit back.
“Spread your legs like the whore you are and take everything I’m going to give you,” Alastor ordered, yanking at his wrists—his willing victim.
Vincent’s heart hammered in his chest. His erection twitched with sharp, humiliating excitement.
Burning with shame, he obeyed, loosening his grip on Alastor and opening his legs wide in an invitation so explicit that he hid his face behind his arm—a fragile shield for the last remnants of his pride.
Alastor denied him even that. He seized Vox’s arm and forced it above his head.
Vincent cried out, eyes blown wide, as the warm, heavy length pushed inside him, forcing its way past an opening barely prepared for it. He felt every inch of the invasion—and savored every second with a devotion he hadn’t known he possessed.
Never in his life had he felt so wanted.
It was overwhelming. Unmatched.
“I—I love you,” Vincent confessed, desperation cracking his voice.
Tears streamed down his screen. He’d cried so much tonight his eyes ached. In that moment, he would have sacrificed anything for the radio demon to finally claim him as his own.
Alastor kissed him then—fierce, burning—and nothing else mattered anymore.
Alastor did not love.
He destroyed.
It wasn’t a conscious choice, merely a truth that had asserted itself early in his life—and even earlier in his afterlife.
His desires were brutal and inexhaustible.
He had never met anyone capable of accepting them fully, nor anyone who stirred him deeply enough to inspire a sincere, lasting attachment. A bond so important he might fear breaking it.
But Vincent…
Was this attachment?
This dangerous obsession gnawing at him from the inside?
He refused to acknowledge it. Refused to admit that sometimes, he thought of Vox with something dangerously close to tenderness—and amusement.
Was this normal?
Was he normal, in the end?
He had bent Vox to his will. Vox sobbed beneath him, breath hitching, clinging to him like a lifeline in the storm.
Alastor knew he was hurting him. He gave him no room to speak, to question their bond, their feelings. He took him roughly, without mercy, exploring the sensations of the act with greedy curiosity, seeking nothing but his own satisfaction.
And Vincent accepted finding his own pleasure in Alastor’s.
Alastor wanted to make him suffer for eternity. To carve himself into his flesh and soul.
So that Vox could never escape him.
*
When Alastor was finally finished, Vincent had passed out.
It was only natural—between the tears, the intensity, and the length of it all. It had taken Alastor a while to figure out the right angle, the right rhythm to reach his climax; Vox had been less difficult, coming several times, which had likely contributed to his complete exhaustion.
His dark body, all supple curves and defined lines, lay abandoned and faintly gleaming in the dim evening light.
Alastor could have watched him forever.
He was particularly fascinated by the gentle movement of the gills along Vox’s sides, fluttering in time with his sleeping breath. It made him want to slide his fingers into them, to feel the way Vox’s body would spasm—unable to maintain its steady, mechanical routine around such an intrusion.
Alastor liked that idea far too much.
Being an obstacle in Vox’s life.
It meant far more than any hollow promises exchanged by starry-eyed lovers. To be such a powerful force in someone’s existence that they could not fully live without you—that was real attachment.
The only kind Alastor could allow himself, the only framework through which he could accept what he felt for Vincent.
*
The awakening was unpleasant.
The floor was hard, even through the carpet—and that same carpet had rubbed Vox’s skin raw during Alastor’s relentless thrusts, leaving marks along his back. His neck ached from sleeping without support.
And that was far from the only place that hurt.
Bite marks and clawed scratches had crusted over his chest, shoulders, hips—and likely his neck as well.
But it was his ass that hurt the most.
Vox rolled onto his side with a groan and carefully pushed himself up, doing his best not to sit. Something thick slid between his cheeks and panic jolted through him, his antennae trembling. He could handle the physical pain—but not the humiliation of losing control like that.
Fortunately, it was nothing serious.
Just the aftermath of letting Alastor finish inside him multiple times, unprotected.
“Great,” Vox muttered, shoving aside the crimson jacket draped over him.
He shivered in the cold and struggled upright, bracing himself against the couch. He was about to head for the bathroom when he froze.
His gaze caught on Alastor’s discarded redingote.
Had the night meant anything to him?
Would he come back, after what happened at the bar—after what happened here?
Despite the ache in his lower back, Vox bent to retrieve the garment.
Was this the last time he would see him?
Clutching the fabric to his chest, Vox limped toward the bathroom to lick his wounds and try—futilely—to wash away the conflicting emotions that made Alastor’s absence hurt even more.
As if a hot shower and antiseptic could erase the indelible marks of the radio demon’s influence on his existence.
He had no choice but to wait.
It was always like this between them—no balance, no control. Vincent had never once felt like he had any power when Alastor was near.
He waited.
Always.
With resentment.
With hope.
Until Alastor came back for him—
Like a forgotten redingote.
As Vox left the room, Alastor’s shadow slipped out from behind the couch where it had been watching, and silently vanished into the darkness to rejoin its master.