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Lucifer trudged back down the stairs that led to Alastor's tower, a deep furrow creasing his brows together as Alastor hovered in the doorway, not quite willing to step foot in his own room until he was certain Lucifer had checked everywhere.
Like a toddler, insisting that the space under the bed be looked at; that their wardrobe be opened and rifled through. He felt ridiculous for his fear, and yet he couldn't seem to tamp down the nervous buzzing in his bloodstream – as if a hive of wasps had made his body their home.
For his part, Lucifer had not pointed out that Alastor was acting the part of the fool. He had been... remarkably patient, in fact, despite the sinner's agitation.
Alastor had not even needed to reach Lucifer's rooms. The king himself had burst from them, rushing so quickly down the hall with a metal sphere in his hand that he'd almost tripped over Alastor in his shadow form. His wings had burst from his back as he came to a halt when Alastor let out a shriek of static, reforming and skidding several feet down the hall; the carpet burning his palms and his claws raking long furrows in it with his attempt to stop himself.
By the time Lucifer had reached Alastor's door, the demon hot on his heels – Lilith was nowhere to be seen.
“She's not here,” Lucifer sighed, exhausted and disappointed, chewing absently on his lower lip as he watched Alastor in the doorway. Hanging around it like a skittish cat, unsure about stepping inside the room - whether it would be captured if it did so. “Seriously – I can't sense her presence, and this isn't going off anymore.”
The king shook the metal sphere in his hand, something within ringing against the inner surface.
Alastor tried to swallow his heart back to its rightful place, to free his throat enough that he could speak. Trying to force his ears upright was a lost cause – he felt like nothing so much as a cornered animal, forced to accept help from a hand he very much did not trust – but which was better than the alternative.
“She was,” Alastor insisted, his irritation spiking at the suggestion Lucifer might think he'd been lying. Had done all of this – fled to Lucifer's rooms, shorted out his electrical equipment, made a mockery of his own broadcast – as some kind of elaborate prank.
“I know. I believe you,” Lucifer said softly, holding his hands up in what some might call a gesture of placation. “But she's not here anymore. She's gone. I promise.”
Alastor had never heard the king's voice sound so gentle – at least not when directed at him. He wasn't entirely certain he liked it, despite the fact that it was undeniably working.
His racing pulse had started to slow, his spine uncurling from his somewhat defensive posture. He managed to swallow past the lump in his throat, feeling somehow even more helpless than he had that very morning.
At least when he'd had the prospect of getting that steel removed, he'd been under the illusion that freedom was within his grasp. It certainly wasn't pleasant to realise that what he'd thought was a safe and sturdy tree branch within his reach, one he could use to pull himself over the edge of the cliff he'd been hanging off of – was in fact a snake, wriggling out of his hold and turning to bite at him for good measure.
“Alastor,” Lucifer's voice jolted him from his thoughts, from the desperate drain they'd been starting to circle. The king looked genuinely concerned – and Alastor couldn't even muster up enough anger to care. “Where's Vox?”
Alastor's gaze flicked back to the floor, the edges of his smile twisting bitterly as his arms crept around his middle. His shoulders tucked in, he probably looked every bit the mewling infant Lucifer must see him as, jumping at shadows and unusual noises.
“He left,” he answered shortly, wavering between relief and hurt that the TV demon hadn't been here. He had said he wouldn't let anything happen to Alastor, and then he'd gone.
Then again – who had been the one to say he didn't need help, any longer? He couldn't very well expect the other man to put his life on hold, just because Alastor wanted something so simple as his presence. Why should he be here, if Alastor was presumably in no danger?
As much as he might like to monopolise Vox's time, even Alastor could realise that was a rather selfish desire.
Charlie would be so proud of him for recognising that fact.
Lucifer's face softened further, understanding flickering behind those bright yellow eyes. He cleared his throat, an uncomfortable flush rising on his cheeks and staining them gold as he rubbed a hand against the back of his neck.
“Did you... did you want me to stay?”
The question was so absurd, it managed to yank Alastor out of his self pity with all the force of a team of horses dragging a child from a bog. His gaze snapped up, incredulity finally letting his ears lift and the fear retreat from his bloodstream so that horror could creep in to replace it.
“You? Spend the night in my room? I can think of few things that I'd want less than that,” Alastor said, thoroughly appalled at the suggestion. “Your wife may be absent – but I assure you, I'm no fitting replacement,” he added haughtily, watching Lucifer's flush deepen, his eyes widening and his mouth going slack, sputtering a few meaningless syllables before he managed to get his tongue to cooperate with him.
“I wasn't suggesting – not – with you? Please!” Lucifer scoffed. Alastor replied with a huff, pushing himself off the door-frame and striding into his room as if he owned the place.
Which he did. They were his rooms, no matter who had built them.
“You can say please in as many forms as you like, your highness – it won't get you any closer to my bed,” he sniffed, his ego ruffling its feathers at the idea – even as his distaste for their minuscule monarch brought a dry chuckle from his throat.
“I would have stayed in the spare bed!” Lucifer all but shouted, his composure unravelling as quickly as Alastor's was threading itself back around his person. Alastor let out a doubtful little hum, pushing open the door to his bathroom and ducking his head in, just to make sure Lilith wasn't about to jump out of his shower and shout 'boo!'
“I can't even – I was trying to be nice,” Lucifer muttered, scowling to himself. He shook his head as Alastor twisted his over his shoulder to fix the fallen angel with a grimace, briefly toying with the idea of pushing this further – before deciding that having the king on his side was probably a better result than tormenting him, even if it was amusing.
And a rather pleasant distraction.
“Your attempt is noted. What is that, in any case?” Alastor's body followed his head, turning around with a sickening crack until he was once again all pointed in the right direction. His shadow wavered on the wall at his back, bristling at Lucifer's presence in Alastor's space – and he flicked a claw at it to quiet down.
He was referring to the sphere in Lucifer's hand, of course, jerking his head towards it as his static curled curiously in the air. Lucifer followed the direction of his gaze, shaking the orb until it tinkled once again. Alastor raised one brow and perched himself on the edge of the nightstand.
A rather more casual pose than he might otherwise have adopted, especially around one such as Lucifer – but he supposed it could be excused. The man had, after all, spent the morning prodding around inside him – Alastor's static skipped at the innuendo his own mind conjured up, displeasure at the phrasing making his lip curl. He could likely thank Angel for the fact that a once innocent phrase had turned filthy.
In any case – they were, perhaps, past the point of formalities. And that wasn't even taking into account Lucifer checking Alastor's rooms for monsters.
“It's – well, it's meant to be a bit of an alarm system, a bit of a tracker. It's not finished, yet, but I'm hoping when it is, it'll tell me when Lilith's in Hell – and not just when she's nearby. It's got some of those bits of steel inside, and because her magic's still wrapped around them, they go haywire when she's here. It's why I was already on my way to your room,” Lucifer explained, a wistful sort of melancholia overtaking him; now that the discussion had turned back to his wife's crimes.
Alastor stared at the ball of metal with some curiosity.
“Could you make me one?” he asked, his filter warping around his words and making them buzz in the otherwise silent room. Lucifer looked up from the orb, blinking at Alastor without guile or malice.
“Um - yeah. Probably. That's – I don't know why I didn't think of that. If you had some kind of early warning system, you could run away before she had a chance to do anything,” the king mused aloud, tapping thoughtfully at the metal sphere. “You'd want it smaller, so you could always have it on you without it being too noticeable... and I'll need to make sure I've put enough of my own power that Lilith won't sense it – or won't be able to get the steel from inside it back out. I don't really like the idea of digging it back out of you if she decides to ram it into your lungs again.”
“Trust me, our distaste for that particular endeavour is mutual,” Alastor said wryly, tapping his claws on the wood of the nightstand at his hip. Anxiety was starting to prickle at his veins again, spiking when Lucifer started heading towards the door after giving him an awkward little wave.
“Wait!” Alastor barked before he could stop himself, heat rising on the back of his neck when Lucifer turned around, fixing him with a quizzical stare. One of those purple lids was squinted up, half shuttering his eye. He looked utterly ridiculous – this was the man Alastor had trusted with his safety?
A part of him was reconsidering Lucifer's offer to stay, even as the larger pieces of his mind rebelled at the thought. He was not some teen girl preparing for a sleepover – and nor was he a child, so afraid of the terrors in the night that he needed something like a father figure to fend them off on his behalf.
He had never much cared for father figures, and he would rather be locked back in Lilith's music box before he started thinking of Lucifer in that way, in any capacity.
Lucifer paused – and tossed the ball of metal towards the demon. A tendril of shadow darted out from the floor to catch it, dropping it neatly in Alastor's waiting palm.
The king shrugged.
“Keep that one for now. If it makes you feel any better, I doubt she'd be coming back tonight – whatever arrangement she's got, from the way things have happened so far... it seems like she can't go missing too often. I'm gonna start making a nuisance of myself to as many of the seraphim and archangels who will listen – they'll probably end up helping me find her just so I'll stop calling,” Lucifer offered his meagre reassurances, even as Alastor raised the sphere and gently shook it beside his head, listening to sharp clink of metal on metal.
“Somebody up there knows she's around. Whether they know what she's doing or not, I highly doubt it – which means we've got leverage. I just... I just need to find somebody willing to listen,” Lucifer added, already sounding somewhat defeated at the thought.
He shook himself out of it, one corner of his mouth twitching in the first genuine almost-smile he'd ever sent Alastor's way.
“Get some rest. It was a... a tough morning, I'll bet. And I don't know what's going on with Vox, but... um... he doesn't seem like the kind of guy who'll just walk out for no reason. I'm sure you'll... uh, I'm sure you'll figure it out.”
The insult of being given relationship assurances from Lucifer was almost too much for Alastor to bear.
He waved the man off with a quick burst of canned laughter, unsure what else he might say to that. Lucifer glanced around the room once more – before pulling the door closed and leaving Alastor alone.
Alone.
Something he had not been in... far too long. Always in somebody's company, if not Vox's then another member of Charlie's quaint little coterie. His room felt oddly silent without the sound of Vox's fans and white noise, even when he took into consideration the popping and hissing of his own static.
He had not realised quite how empty it felt, without the other man's larger-than-life personality filling the space. Too distracted with his broadcast, with keeping himself busy. He supposed he could take the opportunity to try and finalise the script he and Vox had been working on, for the finale of Horny Hospitals.
The title hadn't been his contribution, of course – but he'd said nothing when Vox announced it. The man knew his audience, after all. Alastor strode over the tombstone radio on his mantle, twisting the dials until some crackly jazz tunes started up, the equipment long-since programmed to find any Earthly stations that were broadcasting his preferred genre of music. The stations in Hell were not exactly to his liking.
Perhaps things with Vox would seem easier to deal with in the morning.
* * * * * *
Time had lost all meaning. Even the hunger pangs that used to alert him to the passage of days had disappeared, his demonic body getting used to this new form of internal damage. It wasn't as if it had any permanent effect on him, after all – he couldn't starve, couldn't gain or lose weight – so the desire to eat was more of a habit carried over from his living years.
He had little to do but try and sleep, jolting himself awake when he moved an arm in his unconsciousness, ramming it into the unforgiving walls of his prison. Because he'd had the audacity to roll over, the size of the box changing while he'd slept – at times big enough to rotate in, to spin on his heels – at others no bigger than a coffin, the first one he'd ever had.
He would bump his knuckles on the wall and awaken with a pang of fear, adrenaline flooding his veins for no purpose. It wasn't like he could escape, like he could get out of the oppressively small space. She had him here for a reason, and he acted on her whims.
All he could do was tuck his arm back into his chest, his smile wild and strained with the effort of holding it in place, salt stinging his cheeks where it ran in hot rivulets from the corners of his eyes. It was pitch black, so nobody could see his shame – but he knew.
The heat of his panic mixed with the burning embarrassment flooding through him, and he knew she'd be displeased to find him in such a state. Knew she didn't want to hear the cracked pops and whines burbling from his throat, a hand pressed over his mouth to stifle the unattractive and pathetic noises he had never thought himself capable of.
He moved, his knuckles-
Bumping against something smooth and solid, Alastor's eyes shooting open with alarm as he instinctively yanked his arm back, his frame immediately wracked with shivers as he tried to fight down the rising panic flooding his system.
It was pitch black. Of course it was. Why would she deign to give him any light?
He should have taken Lucifer's offer when he'd had the chance. Should have prostrated himself at the king's feet, if it might have saved him this fate. He didn't know when she'd crept back in, or how she'd done so without that rudimentary alarm system going off – but there was no question that she had.
Alastor forced himself to rigidity, trying not to move. She was already upset with him – if he shook her music box around with his useless thrashing, she'd give him something to thrash about. Or she would – would take his sound away, his voice.
He knew she could do it.
His heart was pounding so loudly in his chest it nearly drowned out the panicked sound of hissing static. His breaths were too quick, lungs burning as he fought to get enough air into them. Had she decided to get more creative, then? Given him a limited supply of oxygen as a punishment for his attempt to escape her clutches?
The thought of suffocating to death, over and over again – he pressed his hand against his mouth and nose, forcing himself to save what air he had until he could get himself under control. His chest felt like it was on fire again, and he wouldn't be surprised if she'd put the steel back inside him, just to prove that she could.
Alastor didn't even reach for his powers. Didn't see the point – they'd never worked as intended during his first stint with her, why would it be any different now?
Something thumped, somewhere he couldn't see.
Where was she taking him?
He wanted to draw his knees up – to curl into as tight a ball as possible, a prey animal's instinct to protect its vital organs. His legs twitched, the split toes of his hooves flexing – but he didn't try. Didn't want to risk scraping his knees against the lid of the box, didn't want to suffer the fresh wave of fear and revulsion that sensation would provoke.
Better to lay stretched out like the corpse he was, to save himself the humiliation.
Every inch of his skin was too hot. Like somebody had injected magma into his veins and it was trying to burn him from the inside out, sweat dripping uncomfortably over his sides, getting trapped under his arms.
He wished he could have told Vox that he'd wanted him to stay. That he'd been given the chance to thank the TV demon – for everything. For his friendship, in those bygone years – for his help. For showing Alastor a new side of himself, awakening new emotions when the ones he was accustomed to had gone stale and drab.
Maybe Vox had been wrong. Maybe Alastor did need him, after all. If not for protection, then to push him, challenge him – to present the world in technicolor, the way Vox himself saw it.
His head was starting to spin, and he realised he still had his palm clapped over his face. Perhaps that was for the best – if he forced himself to unconsciousness, his sleeping body would draw in slower breaths, panic unable to reach him in that state. His chest burned, lungs fluttering and straining, begging him to fill them once more.
A blinding blue flash forced his wide eyes closed – and the next moment, light pressed against his eyelids, dancing red amongst the black spots drifting through his lack of vision.
“Alastor? Holy shit – Alastor?!”
He knew that slightly filtered voice. Had Lilith discovered a new way to torment him, then? Using her musical talents to mimic the sound of the man he'd grown so close to?
Alastor refused to breathe, chasing the dark bliss of stupefaction. Already it felt like his lungs wanted to burst, agony lancing through them every time his disobedient body took a breath and met nothing but the clammy flesh of his own skin.
A hand landed on his wrist, yanking his arm down. Freeing his mouth and nose once more, and he couldn't help but suck in a desperate gasp of air, the sensation of his lungs filling with oxygen almost more dizzying than depriving them of it had been.
“What the fuck is wrong? Are you hurt? Alastor – look at me. Look at me,” Vox's voice growled, distorted and warped. The way it often became when he was upset, and how could Lilith know that?
Come to think of it – how could she know to mimic the sound of fans whirring, of white noise crackling from Vox's speakers? Alastor forced his eyes open, every inch of him quivering like a leaf that was trying to hold on during a hurricane.
“Vox?” Alastor asked, completely filter-free. Vox looked back at him, his antenna sparking wildly and his eyes gone huge with alarm. Every light in Alastor's room was on, but none of them glowed brighter than Vox himself did. The scars on his bare torso flashed, thumping in time with what must be his frantic heartbeat.
Alastor's room.
They were – they were in his room. But how? He'd felt the walls of his prison, he knew he had. That had been... he couldn't have imagined it.
He couldn't have lost so much of his mind that he'd managed to convince himself he was in a place that he wasn't.
“What happened?” Vox asked, terror plain on his screen. Alastor scrambled to put his thoughts to rights, vaguely acknowledging his covers had been flung halfway across the room. He lifted his hand, peering at the slight graze marring his knuckles.
That had been real, then.
His eyes slid to his nightstand; to the monocle and book that had been knocked to the floor. The facts started to drift into his mind, as if he was being told about something happening to somebody else. Oddly detached, like adrenaline wasn't still making his heart beat out a tattoo against his ribs.
You punched your nightstand.
He should be ashamed of himself. Should be embarrassed that he'd gotten so lost in the nightmares that haunted him, he could no longer differentiate memories from reality. And he would be, probably.
Maybe in a little while.
Right now he was too overwhelmed with the relief blooming in his chest, sending out its calming tendrils through his limbs and smothering the panic that had seized him. His signal buzzed and prickled at his skin, goose-flesh rising on his stomach where his pyjama shirt had rucked up during his thrashing.
And Vox's signal was slowly tuning itself to match – the inaudible whine of his out of tune frequency wavering, briefly making Alastor's teeth vibrate – until he let out a sigh, his head falling back onto the pillow even as Vox continued to hover over him, the TV demon sinking to the mattress and running his palms down his screen when it was clear Alastor wasn't in any physical danger.
“You came back,” Alastor muttered, his voice alternatively thick with his filter one moment, raw and aching the next. It probably sounded quite monstrous, in truth – scratchy radio feedback interwoven with naught but his natural voice. As natural a voice as a man who'd learned to speak in a transatlantic accent all his life could have, anyway.
“You called me. You sounded... like you were being hurt. Of course I came back,” Vox responded, exhaustion making his shoulders heavy and his screen dim. “I didn't even realise...” he shuddered, turning to face Alastor with his screen locked in a grimace. Alastor pushed his elbows into the mattress and levered himself up to rest on them, waiting for Vox to finish.
The other man looked pained, his visage haunted by something terribly fresh in his memories.
“I don't think I ever wanna hear you sound like that again.”
“Like what?” Alastor blinked, fairly certain he'd been as quiet as he could have possibly managed, save for his panicked breaths. Had his ambient noises been going haywire? He hadn't noticed.
Vox didn't answer. He lifted a hand, his brows pinched together with concern, and set his claws delicately to one side of Alastor's head. Alastor tilted his face towards the other man's palm, a soft whine stifled low in his throat as his heart lurched, the static touch of Vox's fingers jolting him.
Giving him yet another reminder that he hadn't been taken, that this was real.
“This,” Vox said quietly, dragging his thumb up the side of Alastor's face. He pulled his hand away, showing Alastor the wet shine glinting on his claw.
Alastor's brows lowered, his smile weak and crooked on his face. Embarrassment about the state he was in was trying valiantly to make itself known, a heavy pit sinking into his stomach and attempting to send bile washing up his throat.
“I didn't call you,” Alastor denied, focusing on that little incongruity. Rather than on the heat tugging at the corners of his eyes, pinching his skin as salt started to dry. He didn't lift his own hand to scrub it away – didn't want to show how bothered by it he was.
Not even to Vox.
“Someone did,” Vox insisted, his signal darting up and down Alastor's frame. He was pointedly not letting his gaze drift any lower than Alastor's face, to where air brushed against his navel – and lower. Alastor swallowed, his cheeks starting to burn when he realised his pyjama bottoms were sitting dangerously low, at risk of betraying what little modesty he still had hold of when it came to Vox.
The elastic of his waistband stretched tight over sharp hips, a fine crimson fuzz peeking out over the top. Vox's screen darkened as Alastor's heart thumped in his chest, his stomach turning over. He knew Vox knew; he could sense it in his signal. Hidden underneath the concern and fear, pulsing behind the layers of reassurance he was emitting. A curiosity – a tempered desire.
On the wall, Alastor's shadow slinked over to him, its ears hanging low. It gestured vaguely at the telephone on the floor, the receiver hanging off the hook and emitting nothing but a dial tone.
Alastor shifted his weight enough to bring one hand up, pinching the bridge of his nose with a static-laden sigh.
Yes – someone had called Vox.
He dropped his hand, sending a tendril of shadow out to hang the phone up, eliminating at least one of the background noises in his room. He would deal with his silhouette later.
“What happened?” Vox repeated, but Alastor shook his head, ears pinning back as he sat up and brought his knees to his chest, avoiding meeting Vox's gaze. He didn't know how to feel about the fact Vox had come back – not like this.
Did Vox want Alastor to need him? Would he only remain in his life so long as Alastor might be in danger – so long as he had the opportunity to dash in and play the hero?
Despite his doubts, he couldn't manage to quiet the insects flapping at his intestines, as awake as he was. Even his tail was lifting hopefully, trembling slightly as his body finally started to accept that whatever threat his mind had conjured up wasn't there in actuality.
“You left,” he answered shortly. Trying not to let the hurt he felt at that action creep into his voice – hurt he wasn't even sure he'd been completely aware of until now. Because he was hurt by Vox's sudden departure, his leaving with barely a word of explanation.
Angry, yes. Confused – definitely.
But hurt – that was the principle emotion Vox's desertion seemed to have left him with, and he didn't like it at all.
Vox's signal spiked, irritation prickling at Alastor's skin. Blowing air on the embers of his anger, the heat from it managing to burn away the last vestiges of fear still clinging to him. He gritted his teeth, ready to snap back at whatever Vox came out with.
“I'm sorry,” Vox muttered, his mumbled apology taking all the righteous wind out of Alastor's sails. Neutralising whatever venomous response he may have otherwise shot back. “I didn't... I didn't want you to get sick of me. And you said you didn't want me here, and now that you're strong again you – you'll realise you don't...”
Alastor blinked, Vox's antenna glowing a bright blue. His arms were still covered in goose-flesh; his body still wracked with slight tremors. It felt as if somebody had cut him open and spread his nerves out for the world to gawk at, like some kind of morbid museum piece.
“I never said I don't want you here,” Alastor pointed out. Really, where had Vox gotten that idea?
“You said you don't need to me protect you,” Vox argued, his voice somewhat surly. Their signals buzzed against one another, slipping out of tune – and Alastor wrenched his back under control with a faint snarl, forcing it past the slight barrier Vox was putting up and pressing it against his skin, letting him feel everything he wasn't sure how to put into words.
He stared at Vox, crimson eyes glowing even brighter than the lights of his room, pulsing relief and gratitude and affection and trust down that connection. Nothing obfuscated, nothing hidden. Admiration, pride – all of it broadcast through his static, darting up over Vox's ports and his heart thumping as he waited for the TV demon to tell him that still wasn't enough.
“Stay,” Alastor demanded, a low whine escaping him when Vox's signal bounced back at him, wrapping him in threads of everything he'd sent and more – too many emotions for Alastor to name; too many he was unfamiliar with. They wound together, blanketing his frame – and Alastor growled, a low crackle of feedback bouncing deep in his throat. He let go of his legs and lurched forward, wrapping one hand around the back of Vox's neck since the other man wasn't wearing clothes he could grab onto.
“I want you to stay,” he insisted, Vox's eyes going wide as Alastor pressed his forehead to the other man's screen, his fur and hair bristling with static electricity. “Whatever you want of me in return, name it.”
His frequency was curling around Vox even more possessively than his claws. Any thoughts he'd had that he might be able to keep Vox from his life, to keep him safe – they'd been meaningless. Vox was his, he wanted Vox to be his, whatever he had to do-
“What does it say about me that I still think you look hot on the verge of a fucking mental breakdown?” Vox huffed, his own hand landing on Alastor's still exposed middle, heat curling away from his claws and coaxing a squeak from Alastor's throat.
Alastor's smile firmed on his face, sharpening as a low chuckle rumbled from his chest.
“That Hell is a most fitting residence for you, my dear. Or that your mind has become just as warped as mine,” he purred, slipping out of his terror and into something different – something altogether easier, the touch of Vox's claws as they pushed his shirt up his ribs erasing the memory of his own fingers, digging into that flesh.
“You still haven't told me what happened,” Vox pointed out, his voice echoing from his speakers even as Alastor pressed his mouth insistently against the other man's screen. When no lips manifested to capture his own, he dipped lower, his bottom teeth bumping against plastic as he nibbled Vox's casing.
“Does it matter? Right now?” Alastor breathed out, fogging Vox's glass in the process. He let his eyes drift closed, practically nuzzling into the feeling of the other man's static jumping against his face.
Vox's concern had not evaporated. It was still there – still humming under the feeling of his arousal, the evidence of which was unmistakable. It seemed that, when he was alone – Vox slept in nothing more than those undershorts, the front of which were becoming rather strained.
“Alastor...” the other man muttered, a helpless protest against wandering lips and teeth, currently occupied with making their determined way down to his neck. Alastor couldn't explain why, but this – this was helping. Replacing the hot rush of panic with – with a different heat, and he'd never particularly welcomed the skittering of nerves under his skin, or the shivers that ran down his spine and curled over his thighs – but he didn't hate it.
Not right now.
“We should – we should talk,” Vox tried, blinking as Alastor popped up in front of his screen again, his expression glinting. A mad kind of thrill was gripping Alastor's psyche in its claws, the want emanating from Vox's frequency at complete odds with his insistence on talking.
“Do you still want me, Vox? Even after seeing me like this? A ruined mess, unfit to hold the title of Overlord?” he demanded, his words puffing against Vox's screen and smearing through the moisture he'd already left there. He could still feel the tug of tear stains on his cheeks, pulling at his skin – could still recall how helpless he'd felt when he'd thought himself a prisoner once more.
How out of control he'd been when Lilith had puppeteered his limbs, one of her worst habits, one that he hated above all others. At least this – this was something he was choosing, nobody was making him act this way.
“You're not a mess,” Vox whispered, his lips finally forming on his screen and immediately falling victim to Alastor's questing mouth, capturing that strange silicone material with his lips and delighting in the sting of static electricity that shot into him at the contact.
A challenge danced on the end of Alastor's tongue, buzzing there like the static prickling at his face. He didn't pose it – not yet, anyway. His mouth was otherwise occupied in any case, Vox's lips pressing against his. The heat of electricity warmed his skin – and for once that wasn't even a metaphor.
Vox pushed forward – and Alastor tipped back, breaking their kiss as he overbalanced, hitting his pillows with a soft puff of air. The TV demon's skin was glowing – cyan strips lit up all over his torso, his screen completely smeared and his chest rising and falling at a rather rapid pace. Tiny slits on the sides of his ribs that Alastor had never noticed before opened, fluttering even as the whirr of Vox's fans filled the space.
He reached out to the other man, an imperious lifting of a hand as a flush crept up his neck and stained his cheeks red. A slight crack heralded the growth of his antlers, and Vox's face dimmed even further, his tongue protruding from his screen to flick over the saliva Alastor had left there.
“What do you want of me, Vox?” Alastor asked, his own lids low and his claws twitching, hands falling back to the bed and curling in the sheets when Vox didn't immediately follow him down. He fought the urge to tug his shirt back down, to cover his scarred skin and bony frame – or to cover himself elsewhere, his dick apparently deciding that now was the perfect opportunity to demonstrate an interest in things.
“I want to be important to you,” Vox muttered after a moment's hesitation, his eyes raking over Alastor's sprawled form. Though Vox was the one in nothing more than undershorts, Alastor felt more exposed than ever. The slight thickening of his dick was surely barely noticeable against the silk of his pyjama bottoms, and yet...
Stretched out like this, laying back while Vox sat there and looked at him-
It sent another rush of pleasure racing over his body, that unnameable thrill that being the absolute centre of attention brought him. He was no master in the art of seduction – but he pushed his shoulders into the bed, arching invitingly towards the other man.
“You are important, Picture Box. Not just to me, but in your own right,” Alastor assured him, his signal snaking over the bedspread and curling loosely around Vox's wrists. Trying to lasso him with its intangible presence, wanting to tug him closer.
Something on Vox's screen flickered, a pulse of arousal coursing through the static he was broadcasting – quickly followed by a shame almost as strong. Alastor felt that embarrassment twine with his own – and forcefully gathered both up, flicking them into the night.
“I – Alastor, are you just doing this to make me stay?” Vox asked, doubt in every syllable.
Alastor blinked, a languid, lazy sort of movement as he tipped his head slightly, his ears hanging low. He could still feel the TV demon's frequency on his lips, the echo of that tingle making his own tongue dart out – making him press a tooth against his lips, not sure if he wanted it to fade or to increase tenfold.
He sent his signal up Vox's arm, prickling at scars on his way.
“Would you stay if I didn't?” he asked in response, genuinely curious to find out the answer.
Truly, if this was what it took to keep Vox here, he wasn't convinced he would mind. Most things in Hell were transactional, after all, and if he got what he wanted by giving a little in return, then at least that sort of arrangement was something he understood.
“Yeah,” Vox sighed, tipping his screen back and staring at the ceiling for a moment, a hopelessly lost expression on his face before he refocused his gaze on Alastor. His voice firmed and his expression softened, something akin to adoration shining on his screen. “Yeah, I'd still stay.”
He looked like he was waiting for Alastor to sit up and abruptly tug his shirt down – to primly demand that Vox get into the spare bed that sat, perfectly made up, to his left. Alastor permitted himself a smug little smile, warmth coiling through his chest and chasing the monsters from his dreams back into the darkest recesses of his mind.
“Then I fail to see what the issue is,” he lowered his voice, his heart thumping so hard in his chest he thought the muscle might bruise itself – and serve it right. All this jumping and lurching and altogether ridiculous behaviour, his heart in cahoots with his stomach to put him all amiss.
Vox's antenna sparked, his screen briefly freezing. Alastor saw the bob of his Adam's apple as he swallowed, and wondered absently how that worked – whether he produced such things as saliva when his tongue hadn't manifested.
“Can I-” Vox cut himself off, nearly short circuiting as Alastor raised one brow in his direction, unable to even guess at what the other man had been about to ask. He fiddled with the buttons on his rucked up nightshirt, debating with himself as to whether there was even any point to them when he was already bared to his second ribs.
“Can you what?” he prompted, his signal brushing over the back of Vox's neck and nudging at his ports – and the answering prickle of Vox's frequency nipping at his hips made him gasp, skin tingling in the wake of such an unexpected jolt. Vox shook his screen, easing himself more fully onto the bed – flipping himself onto his knees and crawling – stalking – across the mattress.
“You'll think it's stupid,” Vox dismissed, one hand finding Alastor's waist and wrapping around it, his thumb skirting dangerously close to that already low waistband. Alastor's breath caught in his lungs, his pulse thrumming in his veins as his dick stirred, hardening further.
It was – it was fine. Vox knew not to push. This much was alright.
Alastor could allow himself this much, this very slight slip of his control. Given willingly, rather than wrenched from him – it didn't feel quite so awful.
“I think sex itself seems rather stupid, so I highly doubt that whatever you were about to ask will further tarnish my opinion,” Alastor said drily – or as drily as he could manage, what with the tiny squeaks fighting to emerge from his throat at the feeling of Vox's thumb dipping into his navel. His vision went hazy for a moment, teeth catching on his lower lip as he let out a shuddering breath.
That was certainly new.
The other man's screen loomed near, his body still entirely off to one side. Not caging Alastor in, not even close. He could simply roll to one side and be free of the other man's hold, and that was setting the somewhat nervous flutter of his heart at ease.
He shivered, a full body tremor wracking his frame when Vox's claws pressed into his skin. Heat rushed from the contact, a sound that was undeniably a whine managing to break free.
No, this didn't feel awful at all.
In fact he rather liked the fire burning through his veins, smouldering just below the surface of his skin. Liked the way his breath was becoming short, his tail quivering against his back. All of his senses felt like they'd been dialled up to eleven, the volume knob of a radio turned all the way up.
The fact he was getting hard – well, he was rather indifferent to that. He'd never before realised how many other sensations were possible, when one wasn't concentrating on wringing an orgasm from him; on getting to the end of the event as quickly as possible.
“Can I taste you?” Vox asked in hushed tones, the white noise of his speakers almost drowning out his voice. A flicker of doubt raced across Alastor's mind – he'd lived with Angel, he knew what that meant – but Vox hastened to clarify. “Not your – nothing below the waist. Not unless you ask.”
Still somewhat hesitant, Alastor nodded, confident in the knowledge that should he end up disliking anything Vox did, he was now capable of removing himself from the situation.
Though he very much hoped he wouldn't need to.
The air between them was thick with charge, just as it had been when Vox had left – only now their signals were not fighting one another. Now, threads of static weaved together, Vox pulsing reassurance from his claws as he deftly undid the buttons on Alastor's shirt, his eyes locked onto Alastor's face all the while. The weight of his gaze was almost suffocating in its intensity – though against all expectations, Alastor found he rather enjoyed that, too.
“A new scar,” Vox murmured, circling a claw around the edges of the perfectly round piece of new flesh in the centre of Alastor's chest. His skin twitched, muscles jerking away from the touch – and nerves fired up over his thighs, his dick twitching against the silk fabric confining it.
True to his word, Vox didn't even glance down. He must have felt it – felt the flutters of arousal curling through Alastor's signal, even as he could feel Vox's. The other man was practically humming with desire.
Desire for him.
Vox's neon tongue lolled from his mouth, and the man ducked down, laving it up the centre of Alastor's chest.
He choked on a harsh intake of air, his spine clicking as he arched up into the touch – fuck, that was – what was that?
It was like Vox's tongue was a loose wire, sending a low voltage shock through Alastor's body. Stretching his nerves to the point of breaking, the radio demon unable to stop himself from pressing the back of his head into the bed and latching onto Vox's shoulders.
His claws dug harshly into strong muscle, a pathetic whimper breaking from him as Vox's tongue disappeared – only for him to push his screen flat against Alastor's side, teeth pressing against the curve of his ribs.
Unbidden, Alastor's hips jerked, thrusting against nothing as he panted. His head was swimming, and Vox's tongue was back, electrical shocks bouncing off the sharp points of his teeth. Alastor gritted his own smile on his face, his breath whistling through his clenched teeth and his eyes squeezing closed.
That was divine, truly. Ignoring the throb at the base of his cock in favour of focusing on the strange mixture of pleasure and pain emanating from Vox's wandering mouth, nipping at Alastor's skin whenever he found a curve that would let him do so.
He scrabbled at Vox's shoulders, tugging him up – and Vox came willingly, lips capturing his as a hand brushed up his side, hovering uncertainly when it reached Alastor's chest – until Alastor twisted towards it, a feedback-filled noise echoing between them when one of Vox's claws brushed against his nipple and sent an explosion of nerves firing over his torso.
More – he wanted more.
Somehow, knowing that the goal here wasn't to force him into a climax he didn't want made him far more willing to accept the way sweat beaded on his skin – the way Vox's signal brushing against his body made his arms bristle with goose-flesh and sent cascades of fireworks shooting off through his nervous system.
Vox shifted, a desperate noise of his own crackling from his speakers – and his movement ended with him braced between Alastor's thighs, his hips lifted just enough that his own straining erection wasn't at risk of coming into contact with Alastor's. Respectful, and yet – Alastor was suddenly all too aware of the solid presence above him, arms braced either side of his chest, his smaller frame trapped under Vox's larger one, and-
“You're okay,” Vox muttered, lifting his head to break their kiss, transferring his weight to one hand so he could raise his other to stroke down Alastor's pinned ears. Alastor hadn't even realised his shudders had turned into sudden trembling, the pleasure he'd been so enjoying turning cold and foreign.
“Trust me, you're okay. I can't keep you here, remember?” Vox repeated, plucking Alastor's words from that afternoon out and presenting them back to him.
He was – he was right.
Alastor swallowed, briefly swirling into nothing more than a dark mist, looking up at Vox through incorporeal eyes and seeing the way his smile turned lopsided. The man was looking at the smoky mess of his shadow form as fondly as he'd gazed upon Alastor's body – and he solidified again, something clicking into place in his mind.
He was still underneath Vox, his heart pounding at the feeling, trying to race away from him. Trying to pump his veins full of that fight or flight response he knew so well, and he didn't need it – could ignore it, because even if he couldn't disappear, Vox would stop.
Oh, but the thrill of that contradiction was intoxicating.
Ignoring the fear response so important to his survival, forcing himself to stillness – he rolled his body under Vox's, a slow movement from his shoulders to his hips – and he saw the moment Vox felt Alastor's dick brush his. His screen glitched, briefly flashing blue with white text scrolling across it, Alastor's name featuring rather prominently amongst meaningless symbols and instructions.
Alastor laughed – a rich, staticky chuckle, his concerns from earlier in the night completely gone. Pushed aside, though he knew he couldn't ignore them forever. Not realistically – not when Vox would insist on knowing what had happened. When he was likely still at risk.
“Stop teasing,” Vox's face came back online, his teeth bared in a growl. His stern expression didn't match at all with the excitement buzzing through his signal, and Alastor hummed a denial.
“Make me,” he shot back instead, his grin falling open in a strangled moan as Vox took that for the challenge it was, capturing one of Alastor's wrists in his claws and pushing his arm down beside his head. His heart raced even faster, so quickly he thought it might burst – and feedback clattered into the air when Vox's other hand smoothed up his chest again, pinching a nipple lightly between his claws.
A noise that was nothing short a bleat escaped him, Vox's mouth pressing back to his as if he wanted to consume every single sound Alastor made. His breathing was absolutely ragged, every movement of Vox's hand sending pleasure coiling down his centre, heat pooling low in his guts.
He didn't – he wasn't sure he was supposed to be enjoying this. The feeling of Vox's claws around his wrist, the insects in his stomach drunk and careening off the sides of their prison.
He couldn't stop his hips jerking up, letting out a muffled sound of shock when his dick once against pressed against Vox's hard length, filled with sudden alarm at how – how close he was, that brief moment of contact practically throwing him over the edge as stars burst behind his closed lids.
Thinking about it – thinking about his body betraying him in that way, his control not just slipping but running freely from his grasp – the whimper he let out wasn't one of pleasure, his signal jumping wildly as he froze. Turning to shadows didn't even cross his mind, too caught up in the idea of-
“I'm sorry, that was too much – I'm sorry,” Vox panted, scrambling backwards, out from between Alastor's legs, leaving him blinking with surprise. He hadn't even said anything – how had Vox known?
Heat still curled over his own skin – and Vox was watching him with concern, reassuring static washing up Alastor's legs, avoiding his groin and continuing up his sides.
Vox had stopped, and Alastor hadn't even told him to. He didn't pause to examine the feeling that settled into his chest at that realisation, tucking it away for later perusal.
Alastor pushed himself up, clambering over to the TV demon's side so he could tuck his head under the other man's screen, Vox's back pushed up against one of Alastor's bedposts. The only thing stopping him from tumbling right off the bed, his signal sputtering with surprise – and it was Alastor's turn to pulse reassurance down their shared frequency, to let Vox know he was okay.
Without thinking too hard about what he was doing, Alastor hitched his claws into the elastic of Vox's undershorts, letting out a questioning hum as he propped himself on his haunches, kissing down the skin of Vox's throat. His stomach flipped over at the burst of excitement Vox sent him in response, and he slid his hand into the front of the other man's briefs, the air within far warmer than that in the room. Humid, almost, and the angle wasn't familiar to him but maybe that was better.
He twisted his wrist and curled his fingers around the length of Vox's dick, hot and heavy and hard in his grasp. A wordless sputter of white noise crackled above his head, one of Vox's hands coming up over Alastor's shoulders to sink its claws into his hair.
Alastor's own dick was still hard, pulsing uncomfortably in his pants – and he swept his hand up Vox's instead, feeling disbelief mixing with pleasure mixing with panic. Alastor sent another wave of assurance down his frequency, letting Vox feel his own pleasure. Pleasure and satisfaction, pride and – again – trust. More important than anything else, because Alastor was not given to trusting easily.
Vox's hand fisted in Alastor's hair, flurries of pleasure-pain rushing down his spine. He mouthed at Vox's neck, inexpertly trying to stroke the other man to completion – pausing when Vox pushed his briefs down, fingers resting against the back of Alastor's hand.
He froze – he'd been doing it wrong, then? Couldn't get himself off, couldn't get Vox off-
“Can – can I show you? What I like?” Vox stuttered out, again with the seeking of permission. Forever asking, always second guessing whether something was okay. So nervous, and Alastor tried not to let those nerves affect his own fragile confidence.
“I'm not very good at it,” Alastor muttered against Vox's neck, admitting to even that much of a failing still a minor sting to his pride. He felt a thread of amusement trickle through Vox's signal – and his ears and tail bristled, ready to take offence at the fact Vox was seemingly willing to laugh at him.
“Nobody is when – fuck – when they first try. Hell, you could become an expert at – ng – at jerking me off, and if you ever got another... another dick in your hand, you might find none of it... oh, fuck, Alastor – none of it works,” Vox panted out, loosely guiding Alastor's hand to tighten its grip, dragging it up and down the other man's shaft in smooth, steady strokes. The back of Vox's screen thumped against the wood of the bedpost, and warmth curled in Alastor's chest again.
The idea that he'd get another dick in his hand was laughable. But he understood Vox's meaning well enough.
“Rub your thumb over the head – you – ah, yes, that, just like that-” Vox gasped. Alastor's grin widened against Vox's neck, his skin twitching as echoes of Vox's pleasure raced over his frame. He huffed a smug sound into the other man's throat, teeth scraping lightly against the tender flesh as he smeared his thumb through the sticky fluid leaking from the tip of Vox's dick once more, the speed of his strokes increasing at Vox's encouragement.
His other hand crept up to the back of Vox's screen, claws dancing delicately over his ports. He sent a burst of static from his fingertips – and from the hand wrapped around the other man's cock – and Vox made a choked, garbled mess of white noise, his hips jerking up into Alastor's fist.
The hot flood of pride that infused Alastor when he felt the spill of Vox's climax lashing over his knuckles – it was like nothing he'd ever felt before.
He'd done that.
Again, he'd managed to bring such pleasure to Vox that even now his screen was sparking above Alastor's head, making his hair stand on end.
A languid sort of satisfaction was settling into his limbs, though the question of clean up was now drifting to the front of his thoughts. He uncurled his fingers, delicately lifting his hand and trying not to drip any of Vox's come onto his bed. By the time he unhooked his still elongated antlers from under Vox's screen, the other man had pulled his waistband back up.
They stared at each other a moment, silently acknowledging there were things both of them still needed to say. That this wasn't a solution to the problems that had arisen through Vox's 'getting in his head', as Diamond had put it.
And – very well, Alastor acknowledged that perhaps he wasn't an entirely innocent party in their earlier argument.
“Stay with me,” Alastor asked softly. No sign of the Radio Demon, here, not even an Overlord. Just a man sitting with his hand awkwardly held in the air, his pyjama shirt hanging off his shoulders – his face probably still flushed and his ears drooping to either side of his skull. This was no pretence, no act.
Those slits on his ribs still fluttered as Vox's chest heaved, the bright blue glow of his antenna fading as Alastor sent a ribbon of static up over his frame to blanket out whatever late night viewership numbers he might be receiving. He hadn't replaced his antenna with the bent one, even though he'd been away.
Alastor appreciated that.
They took their turns in the ensuite, somehow still never having seen the other completely bare, despite what they'd just gotten up to. What Alastor had just accomplished. When Vox let out an awkward laugh from within, admitting he didn't have any spare underpants – Alastor rolled his eyes and passed a pair of his own through the door.
The covers were returned to their rightful place on his bed, and it was with an odd lack of hesitation that Alastor crawled up against Vox's side, sighing as the heavy weight of the other man's arm settled around his shoulders, claws coming to rest on his waist. His tail waved lazily above the elastic of his pants – and the combined thump of Vox's heart under his cheek with the white noise of his fans was enough to send him hurtling towards sleep.
The exhaustion infusing his body now that arousal and adrenaline had retreated didn't hurt, either.
“She came back,” Alastor mumbled, vague enough that he could get away with it. Vox's thumb stroked over his hip, a gentle reminder of his presence.
“I figured. You don't have to tell me about it now. Leave it for the morning,” Vox said quietly, his static settling over Alastor like a second skin. He sent his own signal over Vox's frame, neatly winding their frequencies together until the buzz of one was indistinguishable from the other.
Alastor hummed – a sleepy, contented sound. Despite it all, his Picture Box had come back, too.
Once again, he found it easier to believe things would work out in his favour when he had Vox at his side.
~to be continued~