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“Don’t bite,” said Vox.
Alastor didn’t realize what Vox was doing at first. He hadn’t been expecting Vox at all; Vox had caught him in a rare moment of minding his own business, which Alastor reflected sulkily ought to have been a godsend for the man. As delightful as it was finding new and inventive ways to torment Vox and terrify his employees during work hours, even Alastor could get tired of humoring the passel of fools, so he’d sidled into an empty office under the ever-present stare of the VoxTek security cameras for some Alone Time. Had gotten fairly into it, too, spinning around in his swivel chair and humming a jazzy tune he was composing on the fly, bound hands tapping on an imaginary piano at his sides. He let himself think of the future, when he was finally free of the dual sets of shackles around his neck. Just a bit of patience and he’d have all he’d ever wanted—a real cause for celebration, he thought, good music and feasting and the works. He was dallying about in this way when Vox materialized in the room with a crackle of energy, told Alastor Don’t bite, and pressed his screen firmly to Alastor’s face.
Though Vox had subjected Alastor to a number of pointless indignities in the past few days, it was the first time his behavior had actually left Alastor’s expectations. Was something meant to be happening? Was he being hypnotized? Surely not; Vox’s eyes were resolutely closed, his face screwed up in concentration. Alastor tried to turn his head away, but Vox grabbed him by the jaw, forcing his smile open just a crack, and it was only as Vox’s tongue began to worm its way into the crevice that Alastor realized he was being kissed.
Dear God.
He sat there stiffly, obediently, as Vox’s tongue slid deeper into his mouth.
As badly as he wanted to start chomping, it was out of the question. The day Alastor had entered V Tower, he’d promised himself two things: that he’d stay in the pathetic “restraints” Vox had prepared for him, and that he wouldn’t resort to violence against the Vees. Physically, at least. If Alastor bit down—and how fucking gratifying it would be, the prospect of ripping the slimy, neon appendage clean out of Vox’s face, the delectable howling and bleeding and tantruming that would ensue; he could imagine it perfectly, the fantasy in his mind taking on the tactile quality of a waking hallucination—Vox would start to question the limits of his control. He’d put his overlarge head back together in an afternoon and work himself up to a furious argument about Alastor’s rights as a prisoner, what exactly Alastor could or could not do to him and the Vees. And from there, he’d start to reexamine the terms of their deal.
No, Alastor needed Vox to think he’d won Alastor for good. To remain secure in the apprehension that Alastor had been defeated—crushed—pounded—flattened into submission, so that his vicious one-track mind would be free to focus on proving himself the strongest in Hell. Alastor had spent his captivity maintaining a perfect handle on Vox up till now, and he wasn’t about to risk his freedom for the momentary satisfaction of violence.
He let his jaw relax a fraction, following the motion of the kiss, and instantly regretted it when the tongue rolled deeper inside. His mouth felt full and wet. There was a hot, murderous rage building and building behind his eyes, pounding in time through his skull like an artificial heartbeat. He closed his eyes against the brightening glare of the screen and attempted a snarl, a warning screech through the radio waves, something to convey his displeasure, except that what emerged was a miserable, helpless noise from his own vocal cords, possibly the most pathetic sound he’d emitted since arriving down in Hell. Vox paused; he pulled back, breaking away from Alastor with a slow wet slide of their mouths.
As Alastor lifted his eyes, he was startled by the look of unguarded desire plastered over Vox’s face. It was a look recognizable through the distance of years.
Alastor burst out laughing.
“Why, Vincent,” he simpered. “How long have you been waiting to do that for?”
Vox’s face transformed with mortification, a radiant blue flush lighting his screen up to his eyes.
“Shut up!”
As if. Alastor had been perfectly content less than a minute ago—as much as possible in the circumstances, anyway—and now his mouth felt overpoweringly disgusting, and he was going to pay it back a thousandfold. “Has anyone told you you’re an open book? An open monitor, perhaps. You’ve made that foolish head of yours far too expressive, my dear, it’s practically indecent for an overlord.” He leaned back, peering exaggeratedly around the room. “But where is your elongated bedfellow? Isn’t he typically the designated outlet for such activities?”
“We’re not speaking right now,” Vox muttered. “He’s being a bitch.” Now he sounded uneasy. He backed off, eyes narrowed. “Forget it, okay? I was just—blowing off steam. Shit’s been fucked around here today, no one can get their act together for the life of them. Go back to your singing, or whatever.”
“Hmm, I see.” Alastor let his grin spread maliciously. “So your company is falling apart and your goons are throwing fits, and instead of getting them under control, you came to me for a bit of tongue action. You really haven’t changed a bit, have you? Not since the day you began following me around like a dog, salivating at my coattails.”
Vox flinched. “God, you’re unbearable! And who’s the one in control right now? Are you sure you’re not the one who’s obsessed with the past?”
“Why, being around you, I’m reminded of it every day,” Alastor murmured. “For all your grandiose plans, you’re the same as ever. Still the same pathetic worm who couldn’t cut it alone, too weak to do anything but flatter and wheedle and whine for scraps of attention. Constantly watching, constantly throwing”—throwing yourself all over me, he was going to say, but no, that was already too close to what he’d been trying to distract Vox from, the technicality in their deal—“yourself at my feet, since the day we met,” he continued smoothly. “Of course, it makes sense that you wanted my body too, back when you were begging me for a partnership. You always made it too obvious what you were really after.” Vox’s face was rapidly glitching into a look of horror and humiliation, the flush creeping outward like a water stain. “I suppose you imagined the Radio Demon would simply fall into your bed, after falling for that pitiful excuse of an offer. It would be just like you.”
“Y-You—no, wait—”
“Come now, Vox, are you surprised? The sordid rumors about our history are fairly widespread, after all.”
“You’ve never mentioned it once!”
“I was being polite,” said Alastor, his teeth bared. “And, anyway, I prefer to avoid dwelling on disgusting things. But being kissed tends to remind a person pretty well!”
He didn’t completely understand, to be honest, the panic in Vox’s eyes, though he reveled in it, in having pinpointed this new and wonderful sore spot of Vox’s, ready to exploit it for all it was worth. During Alastor’s captivity Vox had smugly granted him a front-row seat to his elaborate sexual practices with Valentino—right alongside the victory parade around Hell, the media tour, the electrocuting, the relentless gloating, and the up-close and personal look at the dysfunction of the Vees’ empire—and the fact that Vox was attracted to him seemed no different from that, or his flagrant and enduring obsession with Alastor in the first place; in any case, it was a small part of the incomprehensible, distasteful feelings Vox flaunted on a constant basis. But Alastor was on a roll. The vengeful glee rising in him at Vox’s reaction was grappling with the old fury that emerged at the reminder of Vox’s boundless greed, the fundamentally parasitic nature toward anything he could get his grimy hands on, the fucking nerve to—Alastor fixed Vox with a perfect smile and spoke through his teeth, letting his laughter crackle through the air.
“You still aren’t satisfied, are you? You have me at your mercy, and it still isn’t enough for you. I can tell. Nothing will ever be enough! So what’s missing, Vox, from this moment you’ve awaited for seventy years? My trust? Affection? Another kiss? Tell me, was the first one everything you dreamed of?”
“Don’t fucking flatter yourself!”
Vox had wrested his expression under control, eyes filled with jagged, glowing rage. Alastor was almost pleased by the effort; at least one thing had gotten through to him, then, and it wasn’t like Alastor didn’t know him whether or not he was putting every emotion on display.
“When I’ve got all of Heaven and Hell in my grasp, you won’t be anything, you stupid red deer! Fuck, I should kill you now and get it over with—”
“As if you could! Who, then, would be left to witness you chase your delusions—”
“And it wasn’t even worth it, damn you, you kiss like a dead fish!”
Alastor felt his smile twitch, entirely against his will. “Would you have preferred the biting?”
“I’d prefer for you to shut the fuck up, Alastor,” Vox snarled.
He closed the distance between them. Alastor heard the crackling of electricity in the air an instant before agony screeched through his body, consuming him whole.
Time was meaningless in his new reality of undiluted pain, a blinding white void of Vox’s power surging endlessly through his body, tearing at his mind and flesh. It could have been twenty seconds or an hour before Vox released him from his prison.
Alastor lurched forward, muscles spasming violently with the aftershocks.
Vox took hold of his face and lifted his chin, studying him in silence. Alastor’s vision was clouded, his face wet. It hurt too much to make himself look away.
It was hard to think.
Strange, that even through the blurring of tears or ruptured vessels in his eyes, Alastor could recognize it simply by the way he was being watched, an instinct stronger than sight; he could sense that Vox was wearing that same expression again, wide-eyed longing and desire and a possessive tenderness that made Alastor’s skin crawl, made him want to claw at himself and consume and destroy. In the span of decades he had almost forgotten what it was like, remaining seen only through VoxTek’s perpetually gawking cameras or when they were both spoiling for a fight, and now he’d managed to draw it out twice in one day. He wondered what it was. Why that was. Maybe, probably, Vincent just enjoyed watching him suffer.
Unthinking, he let out a strangled laugh, and instantly everything was wiped clean from Vox’s face. Alastor felt the beginning of sparks again and flinched back before he could stop himself, but Vox’s hand only tightened on his jaw and—
Again.
This time, Alastor caught the sound of his own screaming before his hearing cut out.
He emerged from the agony in fits and starts. Though he ached to slip away, his mind, still reacting to phantom shocks, flinched from unconsciousness whenever he was near. When he was present enough in his mind that the world felt real again, he peeled his eyes open.
Vox was still there.
He had to hand it to Vox; the electrocution did have a way of shutting him the fuck up.
Vox had been overjoyed when they’d first made their deal, giddy and amazed as Alastor held out his hand, childishly smug all through the first day of Alastor’s captivity. Now, as his eye glowed red and a sadistic smile widened on his face, there was no trace of softness left. He looked like exactly what Alastor had made him into. He looked like he could be the strongest sinner in Hell.
Yes, for one shining moment, it was exactly what Vox would be. That was what Alastor had banked everything on—his autonomy and dignity, the very sum of what he was. And afterwards, Alastor would be free, and Hell would be his for the taking once again.
He couldn’t wait to see the look on Vox’s face.