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“Alastor!” Vox roared as the barbershop door he’d just kicked in slammed into the wall. The cord holding the bell over the door snapped, and the bell crashed to the floor, cheerily tinkling its way across the tiles. The barber, a reedy spider demon with coke-bottle glasses, nearly dropped his straight razor as he sprang back from his customer with a squeak.
Alastor, face and neck covered in thick white lather and head tipped back, rolled his eyes toward the door as Vox stomped his way, waving the black envelope in his hand. “What the fuck is the meaning of this?” he growled, looming over Alastor’s chair.
The barber’s eyes darted between them, his razor hand trembling. Alastor flashed him a slightly annoyed look, and Vox saw a series of calculations taking place behind those thick lenses: one media overlord plus one radio demon, over the consequences of a bungled shave, times the square root of leaving soap suds all over the face of a capricious overlord. Swallowing, the barber firmed up his grip on his razor and moved back into position to begin his work.
Alastor let out a soft hum of satisfaction as the blade scraped down one cheek, and Vox’s ire was momentarily doused by the flutter of eyelashes over glazed red eyes. He remembered himself, though, and had his rage fully on display once more by the time Alastor focused on him again.
“Have you tried opening the envelope and reading the contents?” Alastor said with an unbothered air. “You might find meaning there.”
“Ha ha,” Vox ground out. “You need to explain some things right fucking now. What is this party, why do I have an invitation, and most importantly, why am I your plus-one?”
The barber gently tilted Alastor’s head to expose the line of his throat, and Vox did not stare at the expanse of smooth, doe-soft skin uncovered by the sweep of the razor blade, but he did steal a few furtive glances while he was pretty sure Alastor wasn’t paying attention.
On reflection, he could have perhaps chosen the venue for this confrontation a little more carefully.
“The party,” Alastor said, matter-of-fact, “is an annual gathering of some of the most powerful forces in all of Hell—not just this pitiful ring. It’s an event with a wait list decades long, it’s not usually open to sinners, and I had to pull quite a few strings to get this invitation in order. You have an invitation because I’m required to bring a plus-one, and you’re my plus-one because I thought it would be hilarious.” The barber swept away another line of lather and stubble, and Alastor shot Vox a wide, smug grin.
Vox let out a sharp snort. “Well, fuck you—I’m not going.”
“You are, though.” Alastor’s self-assured tone was infuriating—and a little terrifying, because when he was this confident, the confidence was usually warranted. “This isn’t the kind of invitation a person can refuse. It would be taken as a personal slight against the host, and I would not recommend slighting forces this powerful.”
It was a bluff, right? It had to be a bluff. There was no way he could be punished for refusing to be a plus-one when he hadn’t even asked to be there. Alastor was just panicking—and wasn’t that satisfying?—and trying to force his hand. It was time to let the fucker deal with the consequences of his own actions for once in his miserable afterlife.
Vox straightened up, tucking his hands behind his back and peering down at Alastor. “I think I’ll risk it. I just remembered I’ve got other plans that night.”
Alastor sighed. “I didn’t want to pull this card, but since you insist on being difficult…” He paused for a moment while the barber shaved his upper lip. Vox’s eyes were drawn to a soapy drop of water sliding down Alastor’s cheek, leaving a line of warm tan skin peeking through the suds in its wake. “I have a contact at this party who’s prepared to make a deal that will net me at least 20 angel tears. I’ll split them with you.”
Vox’s breath caught. Angel tears?
Nobody knew if the little rocks were literally the tears of angels—it might be the case, or it might be a clever little urban legend to make them seem more mystical—but what everyone did know is that they were pure, crystallized power. Conventional wisdom held that a single one of the smooth amber pebbles was the equivalent of 30 standard souls, give or take, and Alastor was about to get 20 of them?
There was a slight tremor in Vox’s voice as he said, “Split them? Fifty-fifty?”
“Even Steven,” Alastor confirmed with a lazy smile that betrayed no hint he had just offered to give Vox the equivalent of three hundred souls.
“And you’ll shake on it?”
Alastor held out his hand.
This might be a trap. No, scratch that—it was almost certainly a trap. But the siren call of unrestrained power tugged at him, and more than that, the fear that Alastor might con someone else into going to this thing and keeping all the angel tears for himself. He couldn’t just let Alastor grab that much power at once—that was absolutely fucking unacceptable. The risk was worth it, and damn it, it was necessary.
Vox reached for Alastor’s hand, and Alastor pulled his a few inches back. “You will conduct yourself appropriately at this party, though. You will perform all the duties required of you so that I can make my deal.”
Vox narrowed his eyes. “And you really do have a deal in place for that many angel tears?”
“On my honor,” Alastor said, one hand raised solemnly in the air.
That counted for a hill of beans, of course, but he did sound sincere. Vox reached forward, then pulled back again. “If the deal goes south and you don’t deliver the angel tears, it’ll be ten favors instead. I’ll own your ass.”
Alastor gave him a smile warm with approval. “Deal,” he said, and put his hand back out.
Vox looked down at it. Oh, this was definitely a trap. No way Alastor would give in that easily if it wasn’t.
But the reward was too massive to ignore. Maybe he was a rat going to his doom, but at least he’d get some cheese before he went.
They clasped hands, and the hot rush of crackling soul energy flowed down his arm and into the grip. There was a peal of thunder, and every last bit of thick white foam on Alastor’s face flew through the air, splattering across Vox’s suit. Vox made a noise of disgust and wiped it off, and Alastor chuckled softly, settling back into his chair as the barber, wide-eyed, teeth chattering, reached for his soap and brush again.
“Pleasure doing business with you, chum,” Alastor said with a wave of his hand. It was a clear dismissal, and Vox should have been offended, but his mind was whirling too quickly to catch up to his emotions. What the fuck was going on, and what the fuck had he just gotten himself into?
—
Vox had not been able to learn a single fucking useful thing about this party, Alastor wasn’t saying a word, and Vox was losing his goddamn mind. Not one of his connections in the other rings had any idea what it was about—all he’d been able to learn were that yes, it was legit, and yes, it was a Seriously Big Deal. A big enough deal, in fact, that Vox was starting to worry that Alastor was the one in over his head here, and they were both about to get played in the most spectacular way possible.
He tried to meet with Alastor to discuss it—for fuck’s sake, they should have some kind of strategy here if Alastor’s whole goal was to wheel and deal with powers beyond their comprehension—but Alastor steadfastly refused to say a word. “Don’t worry about it, my dear,” he’d say with an easy smile, shooing him off every time he asked. “Just wear something nice and behave yourself. I’ve got this handled.”
“What is this, though?” Vox growled through clenched teeth. “What are you handling? You realize that if I make a misstep because you want to be weird and mysterious about this, it’s putting us both in danger, right?”
“Don’t be so dramatic, Vox!” Alastor’s laugh was silver-bright, and he rapped his cane on the top of Vox’s head. “It’s just a party! Relax and have a good time—it’s what you’re best at.”
Vox wanted to strangle him. Even more than that, he wanted to strangle himself, for making a deal before he had all the information he needed. When would he fucking learn he didn’t have to grab at every scrap offered to him? That some scraps were best left on the floor, because they were there for a reason?
Probably never, he thought with an inward sigh. And now here he was in a limousine in the Lust Ring—holy shit, the Lust Ring! Sinners weren’t even supposed to be able to go there, but apparently this invitation Alastor had scored gave them some kind of metaphysical hall pass, and that did nothing at all to quell the rising tide of anxiety in him as they rode to the venue, Alastor casually sipping a single-serving bottle of champagne from the mini-fridge as Vox fought the urge to throw up.
Vox was pretty sure almost every guest at this party could crush both of them like bugs if they wanted to, and Alastor was just sitting there sipping champagne as he led Vox in blind. He was impeccably dressed—it was one of a handful of times Vox had ever seen him in anything but that same tattered coat he always wore. It was all the same color scheme, deep reds and muted pinks, but the cut was, unbelievably, even more out of date than his usual styling. He wore a high ruffled collar and a black silk cravat, and his red jacket had elaborately curled trim in brilliant gold.
Vox was in a fairly standard-issue tailcoat tuxedo with white and cyan accents—Alastor had given him zero direction on the dress code, of course, so he went with old reliable. He might not be turning any heads, but nobody would be able to call him underdressed. Tugging at his bow tie, Vox tried to ignore the drop of sweat sliding down his ribs. He had no idea what they were getting themselves into, but he knew he was going to have to get Alastor back for this somehow, angel tears be damned.
Vox glared at Alastor. “You’re still not planning to tell me a single fucking thing about what to expect in here?”
Alastor leaned back and gave him a long, appraising look, his eyes sweeping down the length of Vox’s body. Vox’s screen felt warm, and he glanced down at his knees as Alastor leaned forward, opened the mini-fridge, and removed a bottle. “Champagne?”
“You’re a fucking asshole,” Vox growled. But he took the bottle.
The limo rolled to a stop in front of a nondescript building; low and wide, it looked more like a warehouse than a party venue, and for all Vox knew, they could be walking into some sort of mafia ambush. Then he caught sight of another limousine pulling up, and a couple of towering figures in matching silver sequined gowns stepped out. A spray of colorful feathers was just barely visible peeking out the back of one of the dresses, and the two demons—most likely Ars Goetia, from the looks of them—leaned toward each other, shoulders shaking with a quick burst of laughter, before strolling casually to the battered steel door at the front of the building.
Probably not an ambush, then, but he was starting to get a creeping sense that something was still very wrong. Valentino had been eager to point out that a discreet party in the Lust Ring where attendees were required to bring a plus-one had some suggestive connotations, but Vox had brushed that idea off without a thought, because come on—this was Alastor they were talking about. There was absolutely no way, in any conceivable reality, that Alastor, of all people, would not only be attending a sex party, but would invite Vox to accompany him.
Valentino had been skeptical, but eventually conceded the point. But now, as Vox watched two elegant demons in matching figure-hugging gowns slip into what looked, for all intents and purposes, like a slaughterhouse door, he was starting to have a maddening wave of second thoughts. He glanced over at Alastor as he emerged from the limo and took Vox’s arm; he opened his mouth to ask a question—to make one final attempt to get any information at all out of the absolute lunatic on his arm—but Alastor stepped briskly toward the door before he could get a word out, and the breath left his lungs in a weak little puff.
The massive metal door swung open to reveal a tiny entryway, drab and unremarkable, with a small ticket window in one wall and another set of enormous nondescript double doors beside it. A pig-faced demon with fiery tusks stood before the doors, and a tiny fluffy owl-shaped demon was waiting behind the ticket window, a bored look on his downy face.
“Invitations?” said the owl, and Alastor produced both their envelopes from his breast pocket with a flourish that the owl didn’t even seem to notice. In exchange for the envelopes, he pushed two thick packets of paper through the opening in the window, a pen resting atop each one. “Sign the waiver, please.”
Alastor took the pen between his fingers, flipped all the way to the last page of the packet, and dashed off a signature without a thought. Vox stared down at the packet. It had to be at least 30 pages of cramped, long-winded text, and Vox knew he shouldn’t sign it. Forms like this were one of the many, many ways VoxTek fucked people over on a daily basis, convincing them to agree to terms that were “just boilerplate” and “a formality, really.” Every paragraph on every page could be a trap—probably was a trap—and he could be giving away anything from his likeness to his firstborn if he just picked up his pen and signed. He absolutely, positively, could not sign that document without reading it first.
Except the door behind them opened again, and another pair of immensely powerful demons entered the vestibule, and one of them peered down at Vox and Alastor with empty black eyes and a completely unmasked sneer. The other let out an annoyed huff, as if the very existence of the two overlords was a thorn in their side.
Alastor had signed without reading it, so it couldn’t be that bad…right?
Vox tried to ignore the lead weight sinking deep into his stomach as he picked up the pen, turned to the last page, and put his name on the dotted line. For all he knew, he had just signed his own death warrant.
The demon at the ticket window was oblivious to Vox’s inner turmoil, and gathered up the two packets, tapping the pages against the counter to make a neat, tidy pile. He waved a mottled brown wing over them, and they vanished in a puff of smoke. “Two for entry,” he called out to the pig-faced bouncer, then glanced past them at the newcomers—an obvious dismissal. Vox blinked in stunned silence, his thoughts racing as the bouncer opened the door for them and Alastor led them through.
As they passed over the threshold, Vox felt a barrier of demonic power part, and all at once they were immersed in an ocean of sound pressing in from all sides. A deep, thrumming bass line buzzed between Vox’s ribs, and the intermittent rumble of dozens of conversations echoed from every direction. He blinked and squinted as his eyes adjusted to the dim lighting, and the scene before him began to take shape.
The room they were in wasn’t particularly large—it was maybe 30 feet wide by 50 long—but it had soaring ceilings overhead and a hallway branching off either side, and Vox could feel a sense of massive scale, both in the empty space above them and the way the hallways gently curved away into darkness, swallowing light and sound in their depths. This room was clearly not the entirety of the space, and there was no telling how deep this rabbit hole was.
The room had the unmistakably hesitant energy of a party not yet in full swing. Guests were still in pairs, for the most part, clinging to the people they’d arrived with, and the drinks held by a couple of them were nearly full. This room held about a dozen people in total, and Vox caught sight of two forms in emerald-green evening wear disappearing into the hallway to the left.
A few tall cocktail tables were scattered throughout the room, lit with fat candles that burned in flickering jewel tones, but the focal point of the room was on the far wall, where a line of oddly-shaped furniture stood. There were six “stations,” as far as Vox could tell, in an assortment of sizes and shapes, but all with the same purpose. Every one of them had some form of restraint—stocks or manacles or leather cuffs—and an arrangement of benches, supports, or beams to put whoever was restrained there in a compromising position. As Vox watched, dumbfounded, the couple he’d seen outside approached the one on the end. The demon with the colorful feather spray gestured at the equipment, and the other one raised a hand to her face, tittering softly behind it and nodding.
Vox stood, stiff as a board and unable to tear his eyes away, as the birdlike demon folded herself over a padded bench and extended her hands in front of her for her partner to fasten into the heavy manacles. Another set of manacles were clasped around her feet, and her parter swept aside the slitted panel of her gown, exposing the curve of her ass and a neat patch of soft pink skin surrounded by downy feathers, the pert, puckered ring of her cloaca standing out in the center.
Her partner gave her a pat on the ass, an approving smile warming her eyes, and slipped away, vanishing into one of the side halls, leaving the bird demon—an Ars Fucking Goetia—there with her ass in the air, fully exposed and at the perfect height to be fucked by anyone who cared to wander past.
Vox slowly came back to awareness of his own body, his limbs feeling heavy, and he turned to Alastor. “This is a joke,” Vox said, searching Alastor’s face. “You’re pulling a prank on me. Right? This isn’t what it looks like.” He was distantly aware his voice had gone thin and high-pitched, laced through with a desperate whine, but he couldn’t even spare enough brain power to be ashamed of it. “This isn’t…”
Another demon had approached the captive one, and was pressing a finger against her exposed hole, a curious look on his face.
“What the fuck is this, Alastor?”
Alastor’s razor-toothed grin gave him nothing. “It’s a party,” he said simply. “Let’s go find the bar.”
“No,” Vox snapped, pulling away. “This isn’t funny, and I’m leaving.”
Vox only made it one step, his body barely even shifting, before he met resistance: a pressure at his throat, tugging his head back and halting his movement. A faint green light glowed in his peripheral vision, and he looked back in mute horror at the glowing chain in Alastor’s hand. The chain that led to a collar clamped around his neck.
You will conduct yourself appropriately at this party, Alastor’s voice echoed in his memory. You will perform all the duties required of you so that I can make my deal.
Once again, Vox was faced with the reality that he was the biggest idiot clown in all of creation, and he’d played himself. He’d made a deal with a demon, and he’d lost, because he was too fucking stupid to understand his own situation.
Somehow, he’d convinced himself that this…thing between them was something different from what it was. That beneath all the bickering and combativeness, there was some kind of mutual respect beneath the surface. That despite their rivalry, Alastor still, in some way, held him in regard—that there were lines that wouldn’t be crossed, to honor the friendship that they used to have.
But no. There are no friends in Hell, Vincent.
Alastor tucked Vox’s arm into his once again, and Vox let himself be led into the hallway most of the guests seemed to be using, because if he didn’t allow it, it was going to happen anyway.
As they walked, they passed a series of tall doorways blocked by heavy black velvet curtains. Vox tried to catch a glimpse of what lay behind them, but the darkness was impenetrable, and there were no markings or noises from within to give him a clue. He had a suspicion, of course, but his mind was pinging off the walls inside his head, screaming for a clear answer. What was in store for him?
Or would he be happier not knowing?
They emerged into a room with a circular bar at the center, and cozy-looking nooks all around. Small groups were gathered at a few of them, and this area, at least, looked about as “normal” as a party venue in Hell could be. Nothing was happening in here but drinking and casual conversation, and some of the tension in Vox’s shoulders began to unwind.
“Ah, there’s a face I know!” Alastor said when they both had drinks in hand, and he was off in a flash, striding across the room with Vox doing his best to keep pace.
Alastor’s comment started to take on an absurd air as they approached their target, because the demon in question didn’t really have a face to speak of. It was a towering figure in gold-trimmed velvet robes, topped off with a mass of swirling shadow where a head should be. Occasionally, facial features took form within the shadow—a nose here, three or four eyes there—but they never solidified in a single location or remained visible for long.
“Zanaphir! It’s been too long,” Alastor said cheerily, sliding a chair out and taking a seat across from the mysterious figure. “How are your daughters doing, old friend?”
There was no chair for Vox, and Alastor didn’t indicate what he should do. He glanced around, wondering if he should slide a chair over from the next table, but shifting his weight even slightly away from Alastor gave him a sense of pressure at his throat again, and he swallowed down hot bile and annoyance.
How hard would it have been to just say something? It would have been so easy for Alastor to pull him aside to a shadowy corner and give him a discreet rundown of the rules of etiquette here. Instead, he insisted on pulling this ridiculous power move to keep Vox on his toes and in reaction mode, second-guessing every fucking thing he did, jangling his nerves with every move they made.
To be fair, if their positions were reversed, Vox might have done the same thing. That didn’t stop him from being furious about it.
He tried to follow the conversation taking place before him, but it was hopeless. The lighting in here was tinged with orange, and it clashed horribly with the cyan from his screen’s glow—the muddy mix of colors made him feel faintly nauseous and unsettled as he looked around and tried to get his bearings.
Between the way his head was swimming from anger, confusion, disorientation, and something else he couldn’t pinpoint, and the casual way the two demons were dropping references to names and places Vox knew nothing about, he could only pick out a phrase here and there. It very quickly became clear he wasn’t expected to participate in the conversation, and relief and frustration mixed into a sour swill in his belly.
Once again, why hadn’t Alastor just informed him about this? He was good at this stuff, for fuck’s sake—everyone in the Pride Ring knew Vox was the king of schmooze, and could charm the pants off a nun if you got a couple fingers of whiskey in him and let him loose. And thanks to their shared history—their old friendship that wasn’t—Alastor knew this better than anyone. Vox could have been an asset here instead of just standing around like a complete dumbass because Alastor wanted to—what, humiliate him? Was Alastor really willing to hamstring himself and ignore a valuable resource because of his petty little grudge?
Apparently, yes. And Vox didn’t really know why, but he was fucking fuming about it.
He was so caught up in his rage spiral, he didn’t notice the presence of another demon behind him until he felt hot breath puff against the tips of his antennae. He stiffened and choked down a yelp of surprise, and Alastor glanced up, one eyebrow raised. There was a body behind him—a big one, taller and wider than Valentino, who he was used to feeling looming at his back—and the pressure appeared at his throat again, preventing him from turning around. A flicker of something passed across Alastor’s face—something small and tight and animalistic—before the mask went perfectly back into place, and his yellow cheshire grin was unfailingly pleasant as he said, “Why, hello! Who might you be?”
“You’re the sinners they let in this year,” said a voice like two boulders grinding together, and Vox felt the hovering presence of a hand above his shoulder—not quite touching, but close enough he could feel the heat radiating off it.
“Yes, we are!” Alastor’s tone was all charm and confidence as he extended a hand to shake. “Alastor, overlord of the Pride Ring. Pleasure to meet you. And this is—”
The demon behind Vox didn’t let him finish. “Last time they let sinners in…didn’t go so well for them.”
Unfazed, Alastor withdrew his hand. “So I heard,” he said. “A terrible shame—some poor souls simply have no manners. I hope you won’t let that unfortunate incident color your impression of me.”
The stranger let out a rough snort. “Cheap words, little beast. Words and impressions don’t matter in our world—actions do.”
The hand came down on Vox’s shoulder, wide and hot and heavy. The fingers stayed loose and didn’t grip him, but the weight of it alone made Vox feel like he was pinned in place
“I’d like a turn with this one,” the stranger said, and Vox’s blood ran cold.
Alastor’s eyes narrowed to slits, his gaze focused on the hand on Vox’s shoulder as his grin went tight-lipped. Vox knew that grin, and knew it meant danger…or at least it meant danger in normal circumstances, when they were back home in the Pride ring and he understood the stakes at play. In this setting, he had no idea what it meant.
Vox was getting the distinct impression that he and Alastor were the least powerful demons here by far, and that was a feeling he hadn’t had to process in a very long time.
Alastor held out his staff and tapped the microphone shield briskly against the stranger’s knuckles. “Speaking of manners,” he said, low and dangerous, his voice crackling with distortion.
For a tense second, nobody moved; Vox’s blood rushed in his ears, the only sound he could hear despite the party going on all around him.
Across the table, a mouth manifested from the shadows that made up Zanaphir’s head. “Mortirrus,” it spoke with a commanding echo Vox hadn’t heard before, “mind the rules. You must ask permission, even from a sinner.”
There was another snort from the demon towering behind Vox, but the hand lifted from his shoulders. “C’mon, Zan. There’s rules and there’s rules—and we all know everyone has to pay their dues their first time here.” The oppressive presence finally moved, and Vox got a look at the speaker for the first time. It was a demon carved from the same mold as Satan himself, but smaller and colored a paler orange-red—a solid tower of rippling muscle topped with fiery horns, wearing skin-tight pants that showed off a truly massive bulge between his legs. The demon smirked, narrowing coal-bright eyes as he peered down his nose at Alastor. “Everyone knows you sinners ain’t so great at sharing, and it looks like you’re no exception, little beast. I hope that news doesn’t reach the wrong ears tonight.”
The demon’s tone made it clear that he intended to make sure the news reached the wrong ears, and Vox swallowed, casting a frantic glance Alastor’s way to try to figure out exactly how fucked they were. Alastor’s grin was unreadable, his brow relaxed, and he gave every impression of someone completely unbothered by events, except for one thing: on top of his head, one ear was intermittently twitching, flicking minutely to the side as if trying to shoo away an irritating insect without being noticed.
That meant they were extremely fucked.
Alastor’s voice betrayed nothing, though; his tone stayed light as he let out a performative sigh. “Don’t jump to ridiculous conclusions, my good man. I’ve every intention of sharing my toy, but you’ve got to be conscientious if you want to play with sinners. Come back after we’ve had a chance to settle in—if I let you at him right now with all of…that—” He gestured with his cane at Mortirrus’s enormous body, pausing pointedly at the obscene bulge at his crotch.
The last of Vox’s flailing thoughts finally clicked into place, and he felt his screen glitch to static as he processed the big picture here.
Vox was here as Alastor’s “toy,” his plaything, and his purpose was to get fucked. By strangers who didn’t like him much. And some of them, apparently, had terrifyingly enormous cocks.
He glitched again, his vision going dark for a brief instant, because it just didn’t compute. Alastor was doing this?
Alastor?
Yes, Alastor was doing this. Right now, he was waving his staff airily in Mr. Bigcock’s direction and rolling his eyes. “I won’t have you breaking my things,” he huffed, tugging Vox slightly closer to him. “Let me warm him up first, then I’ll show you what he can do.”
“We’ll see,” the demon replied, chuckling darkly.
Vox’s head swam as the demon walked away. He felt like he was being dragged behind a truck on a chain, bouncing and flying through the air while he desperately tried and failed to keep his eyes on the road. The casual ease with which Alastor spoke—about sharing his toy—left him floundering, unable to grasp at his thoughts or connect one concept to another.
Who the fuck was this person beside him?
“I suppose we should get to it,” Alastor said, planting his feet on the floor and patting his thigh in invitation. “Lie across my lap, dear—I’ve got some work to do.”
Slowly, the words assembled themselves in Vox’s head, and he felt himself glitch hard, the world falling away entirely for half a second and a steady tone ringing in his ears. When the world came back into focus, he glanced across the table at Zanaphir, then back at Alastor, and something snapped in him.
“What the fuck, Alastor?” Vox growled, low and menacing. “No. This is it—I’m putting my foot down. This sick game is over, and we’re leaving. I don’t care if you lose face in front of your little friends anymore; the deal is off. We’re leaving right fucking now.”
Alastor’s ears twitched—both of them, violently—and Vox could see his jaw working, teeth grinding together as he stared him down without a word.
From across the table, a mild voice spoke. “If you had done that in front of Mortirrus, you’d both be dead right now.”
Vox spun to face Zanaphir, and saw a pair of swirling, mismatched eyes regarding him with a cool stare.
“To be perfectly honest,” Zanaphir continued, voice rumbling deep within the shadows, “if you’re this unprepared, slaughtering you both would be a mercy. Would you like me to?”
Alastor gave a bright laugh that tapered off quickly as Zanaphir, silent and unmoving, waited for an answer, giving no indication his words had been a joke. He glanced up at Vox, and for an instant Vox saw the glassy, panicked eyes of prey backed into a corner.
“Oh, Alastor,” Zanaphir said, in a voice heavy with pity. “You miscalculated. I’m so sorry”
Alastor was rigid in his seat, eyes wide and staring, ears pinned, as the ominous demon slowly rose from the chair. A staticky, distorted screech echoed in Vox’s ears, and the lights in the room flickered softly as shadows swirled around Alastor’s form. He wasn’t doing anything, though, just sitting there, completely frozen, as a long, shadowy scythe slowly materialized in Zanaphir’s hand.
The lights flickered faster. Alastor’s eye twitched.
Barely aware of his own movement, Vox sank to his knees next to the chair and draped his body over Alastor’s lap.
Alastor’s slim thighs were far from comfortable—the bones sat just below the surface, pressing into his ribs—but the heat and the realness of him soothed whatever wild animal was flailing for its life inside his chest. Vox could see nothing but the floor, the legs of the chair, and the edge of Alastor’s foot; he had no idea if Zanaphir was still there, about to behead them both, and he tried to focus instead on his shallow, ragged breath and bring it under control.
If he was about to be wiped out of existence and the last thing he’d done was climb into Alastor’s lap, he would be an eternal laughingstock. Valentino would lose his goddamn mind.
A second passed, and then another. He still wasn’t dead.
Finally, something happened. A brush of soft tentacles at the waistband of Vox’s pants made him suck in a breath, and before he could fully process what was going on, his pants were down at his knees, his ass fully on display to the room.
Oh god, he was mooning a room full of strangers. He was so fucking glad he couldn’t see anything but the floor.
Alastor shifted beneath him, redistributing his weight across his thighs in a way that was ever-so-slightly more comfortable, and he felt the warmth of a palm skimming over his buttock. He twitched at the sensation, but forced his head to stay down.
“Hm,” said Zanaphir.
There was a soft sound of fabric shifting, and across the table, the chair creaked. “Suit yourself,” said that ethereal voice, the light tone making it abundantly clear it didn’t matter one bit whether the both of them lived or died. “I’m curious to see where this goes, but I don’t think it will be far. Remember, if it goes wrong, that I offered you mercy.”
“I appreciate the offer.” There was a faint tremor in Alastor’s voice, so small Vox was only able to pick it out because he’d known that voice for the greater part of a century. But Alastor, actor and consummate professional, smoothed it back out in an instant, dropping back into his usual conversational tone, with a tiny glimmer of menace lying beneath. “But people have been underestimating me for my entire existence. I think you may be surprised at how this night ends.”
Zanaphir let out a long, low chuckle. “It has been an age since anyone has surprised me. I will be most pleased if you manage it.”
Alastor said something in reply, but Vox didn’t catch a bit of it, because his brain short-circuited entirely as he felt Alastor’s fingers, cool and wet, slip between his cheeks to press at his hole. Was that lube? Where did it even come from?
Odd that that was what he was fixating on, when Alastor was rubbing with the pad of his finger, gently coaxing the muscle open while he carried on a casual conversation with an immensely powerful denizen of Hell and sipped on a martini. It was far from the most important question needing an answer here.
Seriously—had he brought lube with him? Was it provided by the hosts of the party? Had he found it in the limo?
Vox puffed out a soft, faintly unhinged laugh, and Alastor’s fingers stilled for a second. Vox relaxed again, letting his eyes trace the seams of the floor tiles in a meditative trance—up, left, down, right, over—so he didn’t spontaneously self-combust at the sensation of one of Alastor’s fingertips pressing gently into him.
The rage had drained out of him completely. Everything had turned strange and surreal, turning logic on its head, and it was all he could do to be aware of where he was and what his body was doing—he had no awareness left for emotions. All he could do was focus on the lines of the tiles, the heat of Alastor’s thighs, and the fingers slowly working him open. The conversation taking place over his head was nothing but a low drone, and the rest of the party was the whisper of a night breeze.
Alastor had lovely fingers, long and elegant and nimble. Back when Vox was younger and even more of an idiot (if that was even possible, part of him chimed in), he had spent long hours thinking of those fingers and what they could do to him. When he and Alastor would talk over drinks and dance into the night, he would watch those red-splashed hands twist and wave in the air to punctuate Alastor’s words, tracing delicate arcs that got bigger and wider the longer they drank. He would imagine the points of Alastor’s claws walking across his skin, or long fingers slipping into his mouth so he could wrap his tongue around them, or a fist wrapped around his cock, stroking him while red eyes burned into his soul. He would imagine Alastor’s touch every time he got himself off, and most of the times someone else did, too.
It had taken decades, but he was better now. His mind still occasionally wanted to drift back to Alastor’s hands—curved around his cane, dancing across a piano—but he kept his thoughts in line through sheer force of will, and it had been over 20 years since he’d accidentally called Alastor’s name in bed.
Now those fingers were on him—in him—sliding effortlessly past a token resistance and sending sparks shooting up from the base of his spine. They were exactly where he’d always wished they would be, and he was being pulled in two directions at once. A voice in his head was screaming his victory, cheering like a madman that finally, finally, he was getting what he’d wanted all those years ago.
And another voice, dark and low and impossible to shut out, told him only that Alastor’s movements were efficient and businesslike, and his voice, completely unaffected by what was going on, was engaged in conversation with someone else.
Alastor wasn’t even looking at him.
Not that Vox could tell from here, of course, but given that he was carrying on an entire fucking conversation while he did this, the chances were pretty slim.
Still, despite the shame and frustration and misery, despite the knowledge that Alastor was touching him out of necessity and not desire, Vox’s traitorous cock was twitching between his legs. He couldn’t help it—Alastor was being so careful, every slide of his fingers lighting up his nerves as he twisted and stretched and massaged Vox’s flesh, opening him up like a lover, and whatever his mind was telling him about Alastor’s motives, his body couldn’t tell the difference.
His body wanted this, and his mind wanted something close enough to mistake for it in the dark.
Assuming he survived this night, he was probably going to cry about this experience later.
Alastor’s fingers, buried deep in his ass, flexed and twisted, and Vox let out a soft moan before he could stop himself. Alastor’s hand stilled, and Vox’s screen burned acid-hot. He pinched his eyes shut, jaw clenched, holding his breath as he waited for a laugh, or a biting comment, or just a disappointed sigh.
Alastor flexed his fingers again. Vox made a strangled noise; his cock throbbed, full and heavy between his legs. Alastor did it again.
The dam broke, and Vox gave himself over to the sensation. Nothing made sense here; the rules that usually governed his life no longer applied. All he knew was that Alastor’s touch felt good—he was full and warm and stretched to the limit—and relief flooded his body as another moan escaped him and Alastor picked up the pace.
Distantly, Vox heard a laugh, soft and warm, from across the table. Zanaphir’s oddly-reverberating voice floated to his ears again. “Perhaps I was mistaken about you. This will be an interesting night.”
Vox had no idea what to make of that, but before he could think too long about it, he heard footsteps and another voice, high and melodious. “That looks lovely,” it said.
Alastor’s hand gave another twist, and Vox’s leg spasmed. “Thank you,” Alastor said, polite and demure.
“May I?” said the new voice.
Vox could only feel it because Alastor’s fingers were buried deep inside him, but Alastor hesitated for a fraction of a second. The moment passed, and the fingers withdrew—Vox let out an involuntary moan—as Alastor answered. “Be my guest, my dear. I always bring enough to share.”
Vox felt movement behind him, a brush of fingers against his skin, and panic gripped him by the throat as he felt blunt pressure against his hole. The back of his neck, slick with sweat, went cold and clammy, and forced his lungs to keep working—air in, air out—as every instinct in his body told him to run, to scream, to fight and claw his way away from this table and out of this building.
A hot, thick cock slid into him in one long, smooth stroke. “Oh—fuck!” Vox gasped, and fought the urge to clap his hands over his mouth. Was speaking allowed? He didn’t even know if he could fucking talk. But nothing happened to him—nothing, that is, apart from the cock thrusting effortlessly into him.
The person attached to the cock was a mystery, nothing but a vague presence and occasional pressure against Vox’s thighs. He had no idea what the person fucking him looked like, whether they were dressed or not, whether they looked enthralled or bored. Alastor hadn’t even asked their name.
A pair of unfamiliar hands gripped him by the hips, and he heard a contented sigh. “Oh, he’s nice and tight,” the musical voice said, a smile threading through the words. “I’ve never had a sinner before.” Vox shivered uncontrollably, head to toe, speared on the stranger’s cock with his heart racing.
Then, on his back, the more familiar weight of Alastor’s hand pressed down, and his frantic heartbeat evened out. The shivering stopped, and his body settled into the easy rocking motion of stranger’s hips, bouncing and swaying with every thrust.
“Isn’t he just?” Alastor said, keeping his steady pressure on Vox’s back. “Not for long, of course. You’re the first one of the night.”
“Lucky me!”
Vox groaned as Alastor’s words sank in. First one of the night. This was only just beginning.
His groan must have been taken for pleasure, because the hands on his hips gripped tighter, the cock slamming into him speeding up. He felt a sharp tingle as one of the strokes grazed his prostate, and he closed his eyes, letting it flow through him. It was…good, what the fuck? Alastor’s hand on his back grounded him, and the cock moving inside him lit him up with sensation, and all he had to do was…be there. He let his neck muscles relax, his head hanging limply by Alastor’s side, and his vision blurred slightly as the stranger struck the bundle of nerves again. “Oh, I…fuck,” he murmured softly, and he felt Alastor’s hand press down even more firmly.
“Do you mind if I come inside?” the stranger asked between quiet grunts, with no more concern than if he were asking about the weather.
“Be my guest,” Alastor said, and before Vox could even process the words, the stranger buried themself deep inside him with a breathy moan, hips jerking against him as heat flooded his body.
Vox bit down on his lip so hard he tasted blood, whining as the pressure inside him made his cock throb and drip. For one brief, manic moment, he wanted to ask for someone to touch his cock, or permission to jerk off, but then the stranger pulled out of him and the urge passed. A gush of warm liquid followed, sliding down his inner thigh and onto the pants that were still bunched up around his knees.
“Wonderful!” the stranger said, brisk and cheery, as they stood up and Vox heard the faint rustle and clink of clothing being put back into place. “Glad to have you here, Mr….?”
“Alastor.”
“Alastor,” the stranger said, and Vox felt Alastor move, stretching to shake a hand. “What a treat. Sinners, at our little gathering!” This was faintly muffled, like the stranger had turned to someone else nearby. The voice was still pleasant and bright as ever. “Times are changing, aren’t they? Onward to the future, I always say!” A ripple of laughter passed by.
Oh god, how many people were watching this?
Was he about to get fucked again?
He realized, as the presence of the stranger faded and the noise from the onlookers ebbed, that the stranger had still never given his name.
For the first time since he’d put himself here, Vox raised his head to look at Alastor, but his mind went blank as soon as their eyes met. He couldn’t remember what he’d meant to say, or if he’d meant to say anything at all—he just stared, wide-eyed, at Alastor, who looked down at him in turn, his expression completely unreadable behind his smiling mask.
Vox swallowed. “Al—” His voice came out weak, a rough, uneven whisper. His lip throbbed where he’d bitten it.
The corners of Alastor’s mouth twitched slightly; he blinked. Vox still had nothing to say.
Alastor drew in a sharp breath and straightened up, and Vox felt movement and wafting air around his legs. His pants were dragged back up his legs, his still-rock-hard cock tucked neatly inside as tentacles of shadow fastened them back up. “It was lovely catching up with you, Zanaphir,” Alastor said, guiding Vox off his lap with steady hands. “We’re going to investigate the rest of the party; I’m sure I’ll run into you again.”
The shadow-faced demon hummed in agreement. “Best of luck to you both, old friend.”
Vox let himself be lifted to his feet, and Alastor wove their arms together once more. The room was more crowded than when he’d last seen it, more demons milling around the bar and the tables throughout, and he caught sight of a blue turtle-like demon roughly face-fucking someone against a wall—all he could see of the other person was long, golden hair clutched in a tight blue fist, and there were two other demons standing nearby, casually chatting as they watched the scene before them.
Oddly, the sight helped settle the crawling sensation beneath Vox’s skin. He’d been faintly uneasy the whole time he was across Alastor’s lap, unable to shake the feeling every eye in the room was on him—but here was someone else doing the same thing, and only a couple of onlookers were paying any attention at all. It felt absurd to be comforted by something like that, but…well, they’d left “rational” behind at the door. All they had left was absurd.
Alastor took them back to the hallway where they’d entered, and he cautiously pushed aside one of the velvet curtains with his staff, peeking behind it with pursed lips. Nodding, he pulled them both through, and tugged the curtain back into place.
They were in a tiny room, barely the size of a closet, with a soft padded bench built into one wall, and a small table by the curtain that held a crystal bowl full of packets of lube. Which was, in fact, exactly what Vox had been expecting was behind these curtains.
He’d been to sex parties before, okay? Just not ones like this.
Vox leaned against the wall, head spinning, and as soon as the curtain was providing adequate privacy, Alastor fell against the opposite wall, one hand burying itself deep in his hair and tugging so hard his head rocked to the side. His other hand fisted in his silk cravat, rising and falling with his rapid breath. All his poise and brusque confidence had fallen away, and he looked thin and frail and frighteningly small in the narrow, high-ceilinged room.
I should punch him, Vox thought. I should punch him right in his stupid yellow teeth, and send a million volts through him, and knee him in the fucking balls.
Alastor deserved a huge, heaping serving of righteous violence and so much more.
Instead, Vox closed his eyes, letting the relative stillness of the room—external sounds muffled by thick folds of velvet—wash over him. “Al, help me out here. We need a plan. What do I need to know about this place?”
The only sound in the room was Alastor’s ragged breathing, quick and shallow, and the faint hiss of static.
Vox pressed his palms into the wall at his back, focusing on the pressure to keep his voice steady. With a soft laugh he only half felt, he said, “How long have you been coming to these things, anyway? Val would probably saw off his own leg to get an invite.”
The static crackled louder as Alastor took a long, shaking breath. “On and off since the 60s,” he said, his tone flat and the tinny filter on his voice barely audible. “I spent most of that decade trying to infiltrate this whole…” He waved his hand in the air to indicate everything around them.
This time, Vox’s laugh was more genuine. “Fucking seriously? Good job playing that one close to your chest. I would’ve been more likely to believe you if you told me you were secretly bridge partners with Saint Peter.”
Alastor’s lips pressed together in a faint smirk. “Didn’t you know? We play every other Wednesday.”
Vox was about 90% sure that was a joke. If it wasn’t, he didn’t want to know. He’d had enough surprises for one night.
“So, what are the rules?” He saw Alastor swallow, a tremor rippling through his shoulders and his ears flat against his skull. He tugged at his hair again. “Give me a rundown so I know how to play this.”
Alastor’s chest shuddered, and the hand in his hair dropped down to his side. He shook his head. “There’s too much—you’ll never—” Blowing out a sigh, he straightened up, and a hint of his usual composure returned. “Just keep doing as I say. That’s all you have to worry about.”
“Alassszzt—” Vox’s vision flared with a kaleidoscope of colors as rage surged up in his chest. He shook his head to clear it, stamping his foot as if he could stomp the glitches out of his system. “You can’t do this to me,” he gasped out, his own voice sounding small and very, very far away. “I’m here. I’m in it. I can’t fucking leave. Don’t put us both in danger so you can maintain some illusion of control. Let me know what I’m in for. Let me help you.” At the final word, his voice broke, and he pressed the heel of his hand against his screen, scrubbing away the tears welling up there.
Let me be your partner, not your patsy.
“I can listen in on the common frequency. You can guide me,” he said, and he could hardly believe it was coming out of his own mouth. It was something they’d done a handful of times in the past—back before things had gone wrong—and in any other situation, he was sure Alastor would have lashed out at him for even suggesting it. Might have killed him for the audacity.
The two of them had the ability to listen and transmit in their respective mediums, and TV and radio shared a range of frequencies they could both use. It wasn’t easy or comfortable for either of them—they both had to strain to reach that range, and when they were in it, it was…a lot. Direct thought-to-thought connection, lightning-fast swirling chaos communicating shapes and meanings and concepts instead of words. Overstimulating would have been an understatement.
But it was something they could use. It was a way Alastor could help him not get them fucking killed.
Alastor pushed away from the wall and in two steps was standing before him, looking at him with an unreadable expression. The light from Vox’s screen flickered across his face, the shadows adding movement where there was none, adding nuance to the wide, meaningless smile.
With a precise tug on Vox’s lapels, he coaxed him to stand straight and tall without saying a word. He straightened Vox’s jacket, tightened the knot on his bow tie, corrected a button that had come half undone. Vox watched him as he smoothed tender hands over the fabric of Vox’s suit, long, careful strokes too slow to be a brisk brushing-away of dust, and too fast to be a caress. He straightened the fabric, tucked in a bit of shirt that hadn’t made it into his waistband. Heat radiated off Alastor’s body, and Vox drank it up as bit by bit, Alastor reassembled him, made him neat and whole and tidy again with infuriatingly gentle touches that never quite crossed the line into affection.
Hands resting flat on Vox’s chest, Alastor watched him for a long moment, chewing on his lip like he was mulling something over.
“Please, Alastor,” Vox whispered, fingers twitching with the urge to take those hands in his.
Alastor’s head dipped forward, and his forehead rested against Vox’s screen for a moment, his hair tickling maddeningly where it brushed against him.
“You’re doing very well,” he murmured, so quiet Vox had to strain to hear. “I know you’ll make me proud.”
Vox felt like his entire rib cage had suddenly gone two sizes too small, crushing the breath from his lungs. It wasn’t what he’d asked for—not even remotely like it—but his heart raced anyway, making his head go light and giddy. The frantic, needy void deep inside him sucked up the praise, packing it into his empty spaces and propping him back up. Was he really this pathetic? All Alastor had to do was say a few nice words and he melted, completely abandoning his own needs for whatever meager fucking scrap Alastor offered him instead.
When would he finally stop needing Alastor’s approval?
Before he could even open his mouth to vent his frustrations, Alastor had him tucked against his side again and was sweeping the velvet curtain aside. The drone of music and conversation from the party flooded back into Vox’s senses, and the only thing he could do was let himself be guided through the space by Alastor’s steady hand.
They passed through the first room they’d seen again, with the six—he didn’t even know what to call them. Fucking stations? Whatever they were, they were all occupied now. The Goetian demon they’d seen when they entered had several people lined up and waiting as a tall horselike creature fucked her with a luridly purple strap-on. Her face looked blank and blissful, and her partner watched from a chair nearby, hand massaging the breast of a pretty little one-eyed demon with long, curled horns. Another birdlike demon was strapped in a couple seats down, moaning with pornographic vigor as a mass of writhing pink tentacles did something between their legs. At one of the stations, someone wearing a ring gag drooled, mouth open wide, as another person pulled out their cock.
As hard as all this was to believe, there was something else pressing at the edge of Vox’s senses—something that eclipsed it all with its wrongness and absurdity. It loomed at the back of his psyche, leering like Alastor’s shadow.
Vox was getting hard again.
He wondered, distantly, if he was going to be allowed to get off tonight. A more rational part of his brain chastised him for even thinking of that—where the fuck were his priorities?—but now that the thought had appeared, it wasn’t going away.
Before Vox could go into a full panic and confusion spiral about everything going on in this room, Alastor had brought them to the hallway branching off the other side.
This hallway was like the other, lined with curtained nooks but shorter, and there were slapping noises coming from behind one of the curtains, punctuated by soft moans barely audible through the thick velvet. The nooks called to him—maybe they could just duck into another one and hide for the rest of the party.
But no, it was clear that even if Alastor were willing to do that, it wouldn’t be possible. As Mortirrus had said, they had to “pay their dues.” Or rather, Vox had to pay the dues. Alastor kinda just had to stand there.
God, Alastor was such a fucking asshole.
“Oh, Alastor!” a voice rang out as they emerged from the hallway into another wide-open space. This one was set up like a theater in the round, with a small raised platform containing a multi-level bench covered in thick, plush padding, and a Saint Andrew’s Cross. Chairs and sofas were arranged all around the room, pointing at the stage. “Perfect timing! The stage just cleared up for you!”
The speaker, a glowing shape in flowing, diaphanous robes, caught Alastor by the hand and pulled him to the center of the room. That in itself was completely disorienting—someone casually grabbing Alastor and tugging him along without suffering for their audacity—and everything else going on in the room barely even registered. Vox simply let himself be tugged along.
Alastor led him to the raised platform and spent a moment considering the two options, tapping at his chin. Vox wasn’t sure what to do—if he expressed a preference, would Alastor pick the other one out of spite? Things hadn’t been going very well so far, and Alastor wasn’t treating him with anything even approaching respect. But the cross sounded like torture to him. Whatever people were going to be doing to him, it would be so much worse if he had to stay upright the whole time, straining his legs, arms stretched high overhead. If he were bent over the bench, he could mentally check out. It even looked kind of comfortable, when he really looked at it.
He took a chance. Squeezing Alastor’s arm, he gave a subtle nod toward the bench.
Alastor watched him for a moment, and Vox tried not to panic as he waited for the decision. After a moment, he finally moved, turning to the bench and gesturing to it.
Vox shoved down the urge to say “thank you” and bent himself over the bench, settling into the cushions.
There were restraints here, and Alastor ran a finger over them, humming in contemplation. Vox chewed on his lip, unsure what he wanted Alastor to decide. In the end, Alastor left them alone, gently pulling Vox’s arms to rest alongside them and patting his hands. Vox flexed his fingers, the edges of his body beginning to feel lightweight and tingly.
He was dimly aware of a crowd beginning to gather, the noise of creaking metal as people found their seats, and a susurrus of voices as a small group gathered on the stage—a line of people waiting to take their turn. Vox shuddered, but against all odds, he felt his cock twitching between his legs.
Why was he getting hard?
Looking up, Vox saw Alastor gazing down at him, and the weight of that gaze made his cock throb again. He was about to get fucked by Satan knows how many strangers, and the thing that was making his dick hard was knowing Alastor was looking at him.
He was so fucking pathetic.
When he saw Alastor’s lower lip caught between his teeth, his sharp eyes still boring into him, Vox decided he didn’t even care anymore. A spike of pleasure went through him and he sucked in a short breath, wallowing in the sensation of being the center of Alastor’s universe. Fuck, he never wanted those eyes to leave his again.
A heavy hand rested on his tailbone, warm and firm, and Vox reflexively clenched his teeth. He was still stretched-out and loose, still moist with lube and cum from the last unknown person who had fucked him, and whoever was behind him was currently taking notice of that, one thick finger pressing into his hole and circling the rim, tugging at the slight resistance the muscle gave. Like a buyer inspecting merchandise.
“Never fucked a sinner before,” said a gruff voice, and he heard the sound of a belt buckle being undone.
Alastor glanced away for a moment, giving the speaker a magnanimous smile. “I hope it lives up to your expectations.”
No, back here, Vox thought. Look at me.
Vox couldn’t get over the feeling of being talked about like a piece of meat. Vox was an “it,” not a “he.” He was Alastor’s possession, or maybe his pet—he couldn’t figure out exactly what the dynamics were supposed to be here—and it was so far outside the realm of anything he’d ever done, kink-wise, that he didn’t even know where to file it in his brain.
Once again, an unfamiliar cock slid into his body.
He should have been enraged. Everything about this night was twisted and disgusting and wrong, and he should have been tearing Alastor into pieces for inflicting all of this on him. But then Alastor was looking down at him again, and the approval in his eyes was unmistakable, and Vox couldn’t stop a moan from escaping his lips.
For the last 70 years the two of them had been…enemies was almost too strong a word, because half the time, Alastor didn’t seem to notice he was there. The only time he ever had Alastor’s full attention was when they were in the middle of a knock-down drag-out physical brawl, and Alastor was fighting for his life, or making Vox fight for his. As much as he hated to admit it, he lived for those moments, when Alastor was focusing entirely on him.
That was exactly what Alastor was doing right now, his eyes locked on Vox’s and his smile wide and manic. Vox gasped as the stranger thrust into him; his cock leaked and twitched, a nagging presence between his legs, but he hardly even noticed it because Alastor looked fucking enthralled.
“Alastor,” Vox choked out.
Alastor, breathless, leaned closer. “Yes, my dear?”
Vox stammered uselessly—he didn’t even have anything to say, he just loved the feeling of Alastor’s name on his tongue. “Alastor,” he repeated, and the name faded away into a moan.
Alastor gave a soft gasp, and Vox filed the sound away to treasure forever.
After a while, the person behind him stopped—Vox was pretty sure he hadn’t even come, and an absurd little part of him felt faintly offended—and another person took his place. With this one came another who circled around to stand by Vox’s head, and he found himself staring down a long, thick cock with a row of shining piercings running down from the head. A pearly drop of fluid shone at the tip, and a scaly yellow hand gripped it by the base and guided it to Vox’s mouth.
Alastor made no move to stop whatever this was from happening, so Vox opened his mouth, letting the metal barbells glide across his tongue as the cock slipped into his mouth. And fuck Alastor for not fucking communicating with him, because he had no idea what he was even supposed to do here. He was starting to get a handle on what this whole thing was about, and there was a good chance he was supposed to just be here as a couple of holes for people to fuck, and he wasn’t supposed to really participate in any meaningful way. But there was also a chance he was supposed to be impressing people—showing off what a good little pet Alastor had—and they wouldn’t get what they came here for if he just opened wide and let it happen.
Fuck, Alastor was such a little shit. Why wouldn’t he just have a fucking conversation?
In the end, Vox’s instincts took over. The weight and heat of a cock on his tongue, the taste of it filling his mouth, was enough to make him respond. He sealed his lips around it, flicking and curling his tongue over the head, and he heard an appreciative rumble from the person in front of him. Good, he probably wasn’t screwing this up too badly. He relaxed his throat and let the stranger fuck his face, encouraging him with swipes of his tongue and soft moans that got more and more enthusiastic as things went on.
He looked up and locked eyes with Alastor, and a jolt went through him. Alastor watched him with pure, unguarded intensity as the cock slid in and out of his mouth, the barbells catching on his lips occasionally. He saw Alastor catch his lower lip between his teeth for a second, and his heart soared. Was this turning Alastor on? As pathetic as it was, that thought was enough to make him surge forward, swallowing down the stranger’s cock with wanton enthusiasm, the whole time continuing to watch Alastor with half-lidded eyes.
The stranger’s cock swelled and throbbed, and hot salty liquid splashed across the back of Vox’s throat, making him fight back a cough as he swallowed it down. He gasped helplessly when the stranger withdrew, feeling strangely empty, even though he was still being fucked with vigor from behind. A moment later there was a cunt in his face, and he had no more time to think. He dove in, sealing his lips around a jutting, swollen clit and getting to work, finding a sort of rhythm in the push and pull, a wave he could ride, guiding him where he needed to be.
He began to lose track of time and space and numbers—who was fucking him with what parts, and how many of them there were. He just lay there and took it, while Alastor casually chatted, sometimes with the people fucking him, and sometimes with others who wandered up to them. They were all curious about Vox—he was beginning to understand that sinners were an exotic novelty in the other rings of Hell, and many of the ruling class had been long curious what it might be like to take a cute little sinner into their bed. There was a strange sort of pride in the knowledge that he was fulfilling countless fantasies tonight, just by being here. Just by existing.
It was too much, though. He started to feel too floaty and distant, too disconnected from his body, and he found himself reaching out to Alastor. His fingers caught the hem of Alastor’s jacket, and he stared up, wide-eyed, unable to voice what he needed.
Alastor looked down at him curiously. “Yes?”
“I…I need—” Vox gasped, and shook his head. He flexed his hand, dropped Alastor’s jacket, and shook his fingers out. “I’m too…I’m drifting.” He didn’t know how else to explain it. He felt like he might float away.
Alastor caught him by the wrist, his long fingers circling it entirely, and Vox sagged into the padding of the bench. The pressure around his wrist enveloped his body, spreading out like a heated blanket from that point of contact. Alastor’s smile softened in understanding, and he slid his other hand around Vox’s other wrist. He brought them back to the bench, pressing them down, and Vox sighed, letting his body sag and sink into the plush padding. The rocking motion of the person fucking him turned from overstimulating to soothing, and he let the warm embrace of Alastor’s hands comfort him, becoming the only thing he was aware of.
The next person was particularly chatty, and seemed delighted with Vox’s every response. When they angled their hips just right and made Vox yelp, a spark flashing between his antennae, they giggled. “You’re sensitive,” they said, a smile in their voice. “Can you come just from prostate stimulation?”
Vox looked up at Alastor, questioning. Was he allowed to answer? Alastor gave him a subtle nod.
“Yeah,” Vox gasped. “Sometimes. Takes a while, though.”
The stranger chuckled. “I hope I get to see that tonight.”
They kept fucking him, and kept that angle sharp and brutal, hitting his prostate with every stroke. It lit him up all over, making his skin tingle until his whole body felt like one over-exposed nerve. The crest was nearby, almost ready to overtake him, but his body was still so tense, pulled tight like a rubber band, that it couldn’t quite break through. He whined, frustrated, and Alastor tightened his grip on his wrists, calming him again, settling him back into the rhythm.
The curious stranger finished, and the next one had a different question, but this one was aimed at Alastor. Vox’s shirt had ridden up, exposing his gills, and he felt slender taloned fingers prodding the slits. “Does he like having his gills played with?”
Vox looked at Alastor. Alastor’s face was blank, and he could practically see the gears turning behind his eyes. He was pretty sure Alastor hadn’t even known he had gills—it wasn’t something he could remember ever talking about—and he sure as shit didn’t know how they felt. Alastor’s eyes flicked down to his, tension at the corners, his ear twitching. Pure panic.
Vox tried to nod as subtly as possible, tried to project his thoughts across the space between them. Alastor seemed to catch it. “Yes,” he said, “if you’re careful.”
Vox swallowed—“careful” wasn’t necessary, but it was considerate of Alastor to add that on.
He heard a derisive snort, and shot a glance in that direction. He saw Mortirrus standing there, looking directly at him and grinning cruelly, teeth flashing. His eyes narrowed, and Vox grimaced.
His attention was dragged away as the fingers prodding at his gills grew more brave, gently pushing aside the flaps to expose the delicate filaments beneath. Vox gasped, arching into the touch, and the shift in position put pressure against his prostate once again. “Oh, fuck,” he groaned, and he heard Alastor chuckle softly. The grip on his wrists never faltered. “Tighter,” he murmured, and Alastor complied.
There was something strange in Alastor’s face—a softness Vox had never seen before—and it was captivating. Vox couldn’t look away, and it seemed like Alastor was in the same boat, because he leaned in closer, his breath ghosting across Vox’s screen and fogging the glass. Alastor opened his mouth as if to speak, then he closed it again, expression going tight as he swallowed.
“Alastor,” Vox whispered again. Talk to me.
“How—” Alastor licked his lips. His eyes wandered down the length of Vox’s body. “How does this feel?”
Vox couldn’t help but moan as another thrust lit him up inside. “Good,” he admitted, breathless, as he searched for the words to pin this down. “Free. Like…I’m where I need to be, and…that’s all I need to know.” His eyes slid shut as another ragged moan was dragged from his lungs, his cock jerking as the fingers along his sides slid between tender folds of skin. “Like I can let go.”
Alastor’s breath was coming faster, his grin intensifying. “You can,” he murmured. A thin tendril of shadow rose up, sweeping across Vox’s cheek, and Vox automatically turned toward it, mouth open. The tendril slid into his mouth, gliding along his tongue, and Alastor let out a soft gasp. “You’re my possession; my responsibility.” Alastor’s voice was full of wonder, and his breath shuddered as Vox sucked gently at the shadowy form in his mouth. That tiny shake, the barely-audible break in his breath, sent a jolt straight to Vox’s cock, and Vox moaned helplessly as he sucked on Alastor’s shadow tentacle. “Fuck,” Alastor breathed.
Vox’s mouth flew wide open as another thrust made blue sparks crackle across his skin. “Ah!” His body spasmed, but Alastor’s grip on his wrists stayed firm, keeping him where he was. The fingers in his gills were maddening, sending pleasure spiraling tighter and tighter in his gut. He felt like every thought he’d ever had was about to come spilling out of his head in one enormous rush. “I’m yours,” he gasped, nearly choking on the force of the words. His face burned; he couldn’t believe he’d just said that, but even more, he couldn’t believe how true it felt.
“You’re beautiful like this,” Alastor whispered, barely audible, so soft it seemed he didn’t even want Vox to hear it, but the words burned themselves into the back of Vox’s brain. Sparks flared again, crackling over his skin and into Alastor’s body. Alastor jumped and shook, but didn’t let go.
Vox’s back curved into a tight arch, and he let out a long, wordless yell as his orgasm crashed into him. An unfamiliar cock ground into his prostate, a stranger’s fingers buried themselves deep in his gills, and Alastor’s hands gripped his wrists—sensations from every part of his body mingled and clashed into a chaotic roar, and his cock spasmed violently, spilling what felt like his entire insides onto the floor.
Alastor’s eyes never left his as he shuddered through it. He was dimly aware he was babbling—maybe thanks, maybe just nonsense—but he couldn’t be bothered to stop it. He rode the waves to the end, until he was overstimulated and oversensitive, thrashing to escape the maddening tickle of the fingers flicking across his gills. There was a low chuckle behind him, and the stranger took mercy on him. The fingers withdrew, and a moment later the cock slid out of him and he felt a brisk pat on his rump. “That was fun to watch,” said the stranger—their tone was mild and unaffected, without even a trace of heavy breathing, but there was a smile in the voice that gave Vox an absurd little surge of self-satisfaction deep in his chest.
No one seemed to be immediately taking the stranger’s place. A cool wave of relief fluttered through Vox as he realized he had a second to catch his breath, and an instant later he could feel trembling in his knees. Adrenaline and endorphins were starting to do a number on his body, and he let out a noise that was part sigh, part laugh, and part sob—he wanted to ask what time it was, but he was afraid he wouldn’t like the answer. It might be better if he didn’t know.
Alastor’s hands finally left his wrists, and a moment later he was stroking Vox’s back, steady and gentle, sweeping his warm palms down the length of Vox’s spine. A soft sigh eased out of Vox’s chest, and he closed his eyes, letting his awareness narrow to just that touch as his heart rate began to slow.
Before he had a chance to fully relax, though, he felt Alastor stiffen, drawing in a quiet hiss of breath. A familiar chuckle rattled Vox’s nerves, and he felt a heavy, blazingly warm hand resting on his ass.
“I’ll be taking my turn now,” Mortirrus said, a cruel edge to his voice.
Alastor hesitated, and Vox shot him a panicked look. He couldn’t—not right now. It was too much—he was strung-out and wrung-out, completely overstimulated, his body barely even under his control, and whatever this guy wanted to do to him, Vox was sure it wasn’t going to be gentle.
“He needs a break,” Alastor said. “Give us a few minutes.”
The hand on Vox’s ass pressed down harder. “How convenient, that he needs a break just when I come by. A fellow might start to feel slighted.”
“How unfortunate.” There was ice in Alastor’s voice. “I’m afraid I can’t bear responsibility for the feelings you choose to have about the situation.”
The towering demon leaned in close, his overwhelming weight pressing down on Vox’s body. He gritted his teeth as his lower back throbbed. “You don’t belong here, sinners,” he growled, low in his throat, a voice only the two of them could hear. “You’re being tolerated because you’re a novelty, but we don’t take kindly to outsiders joining us under false pretenses.”
The weight lifted from Vox’s body, and he sucked in a breath of relief, but it rushed out of him again when Mortirrus spoke next. His voice was louder now, clear and projected out to the rest of the room. “My apologies, dear Alastor—I didn’t realize sinners were so fragile! Friends, it seems we may have overwhelmed our esteemed guests, and we need to correct our mistakes. Educate us: show us how to do this correctly. It would be such a shame if we unknowingly caused you damage.”
A hush fell over the assembled crowd, and Alastor’s voice over it was thin and brittle. “What do you mean?”
“I mean,” said Mortirrus, a dangerous edge to his words, “you’re the only person here who isn’t participating, and he doesn’t act like your pet. I see reluctance, and I see disrespect, and I see a power-hungry little overlord who’s trying to bite off more than he can chew.”
From the shadows, Vox heard a low voice. “I thought there was something off about them.”
“But maybe I’m wrong,” said Mortirrus, feigning innocence. “Maybe I just don’t understand how things work between sinners. So show us how you use your toy, Alastor. Show everyone here how you fuck him.”
In the very horniest of all of Vox’s horny fantasies, he never would have imagined this. He’d dreamed a thousand different ways that Alastor might take him to bed, from violent to grudging to tender, but casually fucking him in front of a crowd of immensely powerful demons that could rip them both to shreds was so far outside his experience of Alastor’s personality and demeanor that it never would have occurred to him.
A small part of him was excited at the prospect. He’d wanted Alastor for so long, he couldn’t suppress his delight if he tried, and on top of it, the fact that it was like this—fully outside of Alastor’s comfort zone—carried a sharp little spiteful thrill. Alastor had always delighted in his discomfort, and now, finally, the tables were turned.
But that small part of him was quickly overshadowed by a dawning horror as he realized it wasn’t going to happen. For all his fantasies of how this might play out, he wasn’t an idiot—he knew Alastor better than anyone in all of Hell, and he knew that this—this party, this environment, this situation—just wasn’t him.
There was no way, in any reality, that Alastor would be able to fuck him in front of a crowd of strangers. And Mortirrus had clocked that the instant he’d seen them together.
Vox looked up, and saw Alastor’s eyes, wide and clouded with shadow, darting frantically around the room. He reached out and caught Alastor’s hand; Alastor looked down at him, and Vox could see the panic loud and clear beneath that rictus grin.
Alastor swallowed. Mortirrus chuckled softly. “Is there a problem?” he murmured, clearly delighted at watching them squirm.
In an instant, the mask snapped back into place, and Alastor was back to his old confident self. He let out a long, put-upon sigh, and waved a hand in irritation. “There’s no problem,” he said in a bored drawl. “I’m just annoyed that I have to do this. You’ve clearly got some serious insecurities here, and you’re lashing out like a child because you’re having a toy taken away.”
Vox couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Alastor was pulling out all the stops, bluffing with everything he had. He heard a few exclamations of shock from the people watching—clearly Mortirrus was not used to being spoken to that way, and especially by someone as lowly as a sinner.
They were dead. They were so fucking dead. Fuck Alastor and his grandstanding.
“You can’t handle the thought that maybe it’s you, can you?” Alastor’s words were sharp, precise, and cutting. “No, nobody would ever think to deny you something you wanted, so if I don’t want to let you ruin my plaything with your clumsy fumbling, it must be because we’re frauds, and not because you are an ill-mannered brute. If you really must have proof, then I’ll provide it—but I hope you’re prepared to apologize for this little display.”
Mortirrus snarled, and Vox felt heat radiating off his enormous body. Vox held his breath. Please back down. Please back down.
Mortirrus did not back down. “Lots of talk tonight, little beast. Let’s see it. Show me you’re one of us.”
A moment later, they were alone on the stage again, and Vox was hyper-aware of the absurdity of the situation. He was naked from the waist down, thighs soaked with lube and cum, shirt rucked up around his armpits—he was a complete mess. What a strange position to be in when your life was on the line. It was all so far outside his usual realm of experience, he couldn’t even feel ashamed anymore. These were completely foreign lands, and nothing had made sense to him for a long, long time.
The only thing that did make sense was Alastor. Alastor, still fully clothed and impeccably-composed, one hand on his cane and the other on Vox as he slowly walked to the end of the bench, placing himself in front of Vox’s face. The cane disappeared, dismissed to whatever shadow realm he kept it in when he wasn’t using it, and his hands went to his belt. The fingers were trembling; he fumbled the buckle twice before Vox reached forward to help. He half expected Alastor to swat his hands away—he’d gotten nothing but power moves from him tonight—but he didn’t. He let Vox nudge his hands aside and take over.
Vox’s breath caught as he uncovered Alastor’s cock. It was small and soft, nestled in a bed of red-tinged curls, and the sight of it made a deep ache throb in his chest. His eyes burned with barely-restrained tears. He wanted to be anywhere but here. He wanted to be slowly peeling Alastor’s clothes away where it was safe and warm, pressing kisses to every inch of flesh he uncovered, gently coaxing Alastor to hardness as he gasped and writhed beneath him. He wanted to explore and test and learn; he wanted to try every kind of touch, listening for Alastor’s response and letting the sounds and the twitching of his muscles guide his next action.
The term “make love” made Vox queasy, as a general rule, but he couldn’t ignore the fact that what he wanted—truly wanted, beneath all the bluster and flash and lewd fantasies—was to make love to Alastor.
Rage clenched hot and tight in his chest. It was fucking unfair that after all this time, he was getting his one and only chance to have Alastor where he wanted him, and it had to be here and now and like this, in a way that ensured, even if they survived this, he was never, ever going to get a do-over.
Before despair could crush him completely, he took Alastor’s cock into his mouth. He let out a tiny moan—he couldn’t help it—at the sweet earthy tang, the mild musk of his scent, the unbelievable softness of his foreskin. He massaged it with his tongue, giving firm, sweeping licks to the heated flesh and sucking gently at the tip. He gave it his all, pulling out every trick he’d ever learned from Valentino, but nothing at all was happening.
Alastor wasn’t even touching him. Vox’s hands were wrapped around thighs pulled tight as steel cables, stiff and unmoving as Alastor presumably spiraled into panic above him. This was never going to work.
Vox pulled back, ever so slightly, doing his best to block the view with his head—not that Alastor’s body language was helping at all, but maybe some of the viewers might believe he was getting hard from this. Vox was putting on a hell of a performance, after all. He looked up, and Alastor’s gaze flicked down to him. Alastor’s pupils were wide and dark, his smile strained. Vox squeezed his thighs.
“I’m listening for you. Come on.”
Vox put Alastor’s cock back in his mouth and tuned his frequency down, down, far past the range he could comfortably listen or transmit in, into the narrow band they both shared. It made everything feel rough and shaky and chaotic, jagged around the edges. A pubic hair scraped against his gums, and it was like a red-hot poker to his brain.
Vox was alone; he couldn’t feel any other signal. He pinched his eyes shut, mentally screaming for Alastor to just fucking cooperate. He silently begged in a frantic, repetitive rush, the sound of his own heartbeat growing deafening in his ears, amplified into oblivion by his overactive senses.
Suddenly, he felt it. There was a presence with him, a flickering ball of sharp edges and chaos, not even recognizable as Alastor. It sparked, it lashed out, it screamed.
PANIC 🔴 DANGER 🔴 HELP 🔴 DESPAIR
Communicating like this was imperfect—neither of them was naturally suited to existing on this wavelength, so nothing could be sent but broad concepts, images, waves of emotion. But it was something, and back in the day they’d been able to more or less converse this way. It was fantastic for cheating at poker. It was less suited for an impromptu strategy meeting while one of them was apparently having a full-blown panic attack, but it was the only tool they had.
ASSIST 🟦 CALM 🟦 AROUSAL 🟦 HOW?
How can I turn you on right now?
NO 🔴 CAN’T 🔴 DANGER 🔴 PLEASE 🔴 DANGER 🔴 RUN
TRAPPED 🟦 TOGETHER 🟦 WORK 🟦 TOGETHER 🟦 AROUSAL 🟦 HOW? 🟦 TOUCH? 🟦 WHERE?
CAN’T 🔴 CAN’T 🔴 CAN’T
The panicked negative response was like nails screeching down a chalkboard; Vox shuddered and choked, and had to fight the urge to leave the frequency. If Alastor could just get himself under control!
STOP 🟦 CALM 🟦 BREATHE
Vox felt something snap, and he was flooded with input from all sides, like Alastor’s entire consciousness had just exploded all over him. Images were flashing faster and faster—in the space where his body existed, he heard Alastor hyperventilating—and his hands tightened on Alastor’s thighs, claws digging deep into the skin.
DESPAIR 🔴 SORRY 🔴 REGRET 🔴 MISTAKE 🔴 NOSTALGIA 🔴 LONGING 🔴 DOOM 🔴 BETRAYAL 🔴 DESPAIR 🔴 LONGING
A tornado of regret whirled through his head, gathering up all his spare thoughts and crashing them together like cymbals before he could make sense of them. It spiraled higher and higher, repeating the same concepts again and again. REGRET 🔴 LONGING 🔴 MISTAKE
Vox yanked himself out of the shared frequency, and relief flooded him as the world slid back into a comfortable range of colors and sounds. Alastor’s flaccid cock fell from his mouth as he gasped for air, the echoes of Alastor’s panic and regret reverberating through him.
Nostalgia. Longing.
Sorry?
A ridiculous, desperate urge seized him, and he had neither the desire nor the ability to resist it. Fuck it—they were about to die anyway. He dug down into his data banks for music, frantic, nothing in particular in mind—he just needed something. Instrumental—words would cloud everything—a steady beat, a relaxed tempo. He grabbed the first thing he found and reached out into the airwaves, searching for stray signals. It was easy enough to find what he was looking for; the sound system in here was massive and built for power and reliability, so he was able to hop in, give this room’s speakers a little twist, and hop back out without jostling anything else.
A bright flare of horns rang out from the speakers, then a crisp crackle of percussion, and then the air was filled with a bouncing, jazzy melody. The tune was familiar, tugging just at the edges of his memory, and he recalled the squeak of patent leather, the swish of fabric, the harsh sting of cigarette smoke in the air.
Vox’s hand on Alastor’s waist. Alastor smiling through a fringe of sweat-damp hair. A twist, a twirl, a bow.
Oh, how they used to dance.
Hunger surged up in him, raw and all-consuming, and he scrambled off the bench, climbing his way up Alastor’s body with the flailing desperation of a drowning man. He crushed his mouth against Alastor’s, one hand buried in Alastor’s hair and the other arm wound around his waist. The sound that came out of him was something like a whine, but dripping so heavily with need it could just as well have been a sob. In his arms, Alastor was frozen, shivering against him but offering no resistance.
Vox pressed forward with his tongue, and Alastor’s lips parted for him. His ragged, panting breath flooded Vox’s mouth, and Vox drank him down, pulling their bodies together like he was trying to merge them into a single person.
He wanted to stay like that forever, but he dragged himself back and pressed his forehead to Alastor’s. They were both panting now, and Vox didn’t have breath to spare for words. He took one of Alastor’s hands in his, placed it on his shoulder. He laced their fingers together and dragged their joined hands to his mouth, pressing a kiss against Alastor’s knuckles before extending his arm and taking a step, guiding Alastor to follow him with a hand at the small of his back.
Alastor’s expression was blank, his grin still and tight and his eyes wide, and there was no sense of comprehension there as Vox began to lead them in a dance. He was stiff and awkward, but his body seemed to remember the movements, and he fell into the rhythm Vox set for them. His breath began to slow. He blinked, shaking his head slightly, and looked into Vox’s eyes, lips gently parted and brow lifted—he looked completely dazed, but Vox grinned in triumph, because the fear was finally melting away.
There you are, Alastor.
Vox took a wide, sweeping step, swinging his hips, and Alastor was able to match it, leaning in. There was a faint tug at the corner of Alastor’s mouth, and Vox almost laughed with delight. His fingertips squeezed into Alastor’s back as he rocked them back and forth, and on the next long step, Alastor followed along with a light, springing hop.
The music was in full swing now, all the instruments joining in, and Vox’s head was swirling as he pulled Alastor along. His hand slid up Alastor’s back, and Alastor’s hand moved from his shoulder to curl around the back of his screen. He heard the click of claws against plastic, and his thoughts were starting to go foggy around the edges, clouded with the giddy, all-consuming joy of having Alastor here in his arms.
He needed more.
He untangled their interlaced fingers, and his hand buried itself again in Alastor’s hair, pulling him in for another kiss. This time Alastor opened easily for him, and Vox moaned shamelessly into his mouth as Alastor raked the claws of his freed hand down Vox’s back. Alastor’s mouth was hot and slick and perfect, everything he’d ever imagined. More—he wanted more.
There was a quick pulse at his hip, and Vox groaned helplessly as he realized Alastor was getting hard. He dove into the kiss with renewed fervor, tugging and grabbing and pulling at everything he could touch with his desperate, needy hands. He opened Alastor’s jacket and pushed it off his shoulders, and it landed in a crumpled heap at their feet as they both fought to get their hands back on each other.
Somehow they ended up on the floor—Vox had lost track of how. All he knew was the heat and press of Alastor’s skin, and the sound of his breath, and the sharp metallic tang of blood where Alastor had nipped at his lip.
“I want you,” Alastor growled into his mouth.
“You have me.”
Alastor had gone wild and feral, making low, animal noises as he pulled off his own clothes, ears pinned back and gums exposed. “You’re so fucking gorgeous,” Vox whispered, catching Alastor’s face in his hands and cupping his cheeks.
Alastor turned and bit his hand, snarling. “Fuck yes,” Vox gasped, dragging him down for another kiss, hot and bloody and perfect. He dug his claws into Alastor’s back as Alastor shoved his legs apart, and he moaned in appreciation. “That’s it—give it to me.”
“Do you ever shut up?” Alastor snapped as he guided his cock to Vox’s hole.
Vox laughed. “Never. Fuck! Yes, Al!”
Alastor buried himself in Vox with a growl that made Vox moan like a goddamn whore. He fucked into him hard and fast, their hips slapping together noisily as Vox told him more and harder and fuck yes, and Alastor nipped at his neck, his shoulders, his lips, any part Vox would let him reach.
Bending him double, Alastor set a rough, relentless pace while Vox held his head, staring up at him in wonder. He had no idea how long it lasted—all he was aware of was the crimson glow of Alastor’s eyes as they bored into him, the broken nonsense syllables tumbling from Alastor’s lips on every stroke, the searing heat of Alastor’s skin. Distantly, he could feel tears welling up in his eyes, and Alastor bent down and licked his screen, gathering up the salty drops with his tongue. When he did, his eyes rolled back and he shuddered, slamming his hips into Vox with a guttural roar as he came, his claws digging deep furrows into the floor beneath them. His hips jerked a few more times, and he made a soft choking noise and let out a long, shaking breath.
They stayed like that for a long moment, Alastor panting gently as Vox held his face. Eventually, Alastor seemed to come back to his senses, and he glanced down at Vox’s cock, lying soft and untouched on his belly. “Sorry,” Alastor murmured, his face coloring. “That wasn’t, uh…”
Vox shook his head. If he’d had any brain cells left to spare, he’d have pointed out that he’d just come his fucking brains out before this, and probably wasn’t going to be able to get hard again for a couple of hours at least, but none of his language centers seemed to be online, so he just pulled Alastor’s face down for another kiss, long and slow. He poured as much warmth and gratitude into it as he could, tried to say with his body what he couldn’t with his words right now, and refused to let Alastor go until his back started aching from lying on the floor and Alastor’s cock slid out of him with a gush of lube and cum, leaving him feeling wet and uncomfortable and faintly squishy.
It was then that awareness began to creep back in, and he remembered where they were. Heart hammering, he looked around them, and saw that they were mostly alone—the crowd had completely dispersed, and there was almost nobody left in the room. Two couples sat on chairs in a shadowy corner, peeking discreetly their way, and there was no one else to be seen. Vox blinked as he sat up and looked at Alastor, who looked as confused as he was.
“What…are we supposed to do?” Vox whispered.
“I have no fucking idea,” Alastor hissed back, grabbing for his discarded clothes. He pulled himself into some semblance of order and helped Vox do the same, and the two of them made their way unsteadily to an unoccupied couch. Vox wanted to say something, to discuss what just happened, or even to plan their next move, but nothing was coming out. Alastor was similarly shell-shocked, just glancing his way occasionally, opening his mouth as if to say something, and then closing it again.
What the hell was there to say? This whole thing was absolutely bonkers.
Slowly, people began to filter back into the room—the first few to enter peeked in cautiously at first, as if afraid of what they were about to see, but eventually, the atmosphere of the party reached something like its previous level. Nobody was using the stage anymore, though.
A tall figure approached them. Vox looked up to see the elegant, birdlike form of the Goetian demon he’d seen strapped to a bench when they first arrived. “Mind if I sit?” she asked Vox.
Vox glanced at Alastor. Alastor gestured back at him—she’d directed the question at Vox, not Alastor. “Go ahead,” he said.
She lowered herself onto the cushions and lit up a cigarette. She took a long drag off it, then extended a hand. “I’m Syrinae.”
“Vox.” He shook her hand, feeling faintly ridiculous. Once more, he wished the grinning madman next to him had given him any fucking clue what the rules of etiquette were in this place.
“That was something special,” she said, giving them both a smile. “You really killed the vibe in here.”
“My…apologies,” Alastor said, voice tight. “I didn’t mean—”
Syrinae waved a dismissive hand. “It wasn’t a criticism. Some vibes should be put out of their misery.” She sucked in a lungful of smoke and let it out on a slow exhale. “I don’t know if you saw the look on Mortirrus’s face, but it was priceless. About time someone took him down a peg.”
“Is that what we did?” Vox asked, baffled.
Syrinae grinned. “You have no idea. I can’t remember the last time he’s had to eat his words like that.” She crossed one leg over the other and took another drag, gazing off thoughtfully into the distance. “Sucks that you had to do all that—sorry. But it was delicious to see him so sure you were a couple of impostors, and be proven so very wrong. A lot of these people…well, you’re both pretty young, I imagine. You’ll probably understand in a few hundred years. Existence down here grinds you down, makes you jaded. I think most of them have forgotten what love looks like.”
Vox couldn’t make himself look at Alastor. His screen burned.
“You made most of them pretty uncomfortable,” she said, completely oblivious to Vox’s obvious panic. “Reminded them what they used to have. I think that’s a good thing. We can all use a reminder from time to time.”
Vox chewed on his lip. He had no fucking clue what he was supposed to say to this, and Alastor was no help whatsoever.
Syrinae was completely unbothered. “Anyway,” she said airily, “I just wanted to thank you for embarrassing that asshole, and for sharing that with us. It was beautiful.”
“Thank you,” Vox said, voice weak and faintly questioning. The Goetia rose from the couch, towering over them once again. She gave them another small smile.
“I hope you come back next year. I know my partner would love to play with you.” Then she was gone, leaving Vox and Alastor to their stunned silence.
It slowly sank in, as he sat there, that the rest of the partygoers were leaving them alone because they thought they’d witnessed something too raw, too tender, too real for a place like this. And try as he might, he couldn’t figure out what they had actually seen.
He glanced at the distance between them. It was inches at most—they were nearly touching at the knee and shoulder—but the gap felt wrong. After what they’d just done, other people would likely expect them to be all over each other, tangled up in a mess of limbs and whispering sweet nothings in each other’s ears, but Alastor looked distant and unsteady, and Vox was pretty sure he looked like he’d been hit by a train.
After everything they’d been through, there was no way in Hell he was going to let this give away their deception.
Vox took a breath to steady himself and slid forward, off the couch and onto the floor. Alastor looked at him, brow furrowed. “What are you doing?”
“Trying something. Shut up,” Vox muttered, and nudged Alastor’s knee, encouraging him to spread his legs slightly. Alastor’s bunched muscles gave slight resistance, but he allowed it, and Vox moved himself between Alastor’s legs. He curled an arm around Alastor’s calf, pulling it to him, and rested his head on Alastor’s thigh. It took a little work to shift himself to a comfortable angle—having a rectangular head always made things like this difficult—but he managed it eventually, and when he closed his eyes to shut out the garish lighting and decor, he found it almost comfortable.
After a moment, Alastor’s hand came to rest on his head, and he puffed out a sigh, a little of the tension leaving his shoulders. Alastor made a curious little humming noise, and then began to stroke him in slow, precise lines down the ridges of his casing. He dragged gentle fingertips down the length of one antenna and then the other, and Vox shivered under the touch, but as the shivers smoothed out, he sank down into a surreal pool of tranquility, letting his focus narrow to nothing but the sensation of Alastor’s thigh beneath his head and Alastor’s fingertips marking where he ended and the world began.
It was strange how nice this felt. A spiky tangle of doubts and questions kept trying to rear its head, but every touch of Alastor’s fingers helped him squash it back down, a mess to be cleaned up later. He was warm and loose and strangely content, drifting on the wave of nothingness left behind after everything else had fled his body.
After a time—something like an hour, maybe, but he wasn’t sure—there was a faint shift in the air, a soft crackle of power, and Alastor’s hand stilled. Vox swallowed, not quite willing to open his eyes and see what new disaster waited for them. Hadn’t he had enough?
“The doors are opening,” Alastor murmured, his hand resuming its motion. “We can leave soon.” Vox drew in a sharp breath, his shoulders stiffening, but Alastor’s fingertips pushed into the muscle, keeping him from moving too far. “Not yet. I’ll tell you when.”
A nagging thought broke through the fog in his head. “Wait, did you even make the deal? Do you have—”
“Shh,” Alastor said, tugging gently on one of his antennae, and his mouth snapped shut. “Just relax. You’ve earned it.”
The surge of warmth that sent through him was something Vox didn’t want to examine too closely just now. He focused instead on the heat of Alastor’s leg and the tingling touch of his fingers, and the way he didn’t squirm or try to move away when Vox hugged his leg closer.
A while later, Alastor finally guided him to his feet. He smoothed Vox’s lapels, tucked all his rumpled clothing back into place, and gave him a small, approving nod. Arms linked together, they strode casually toward the exit.
There were a couple of stops along the way that Vox only had a vague awareness of—simple pleasantries and “nice to see you”s that even in his dazed and overwhelmed state, Vox was able to fake his way through with a smile and a nod and, in one case, an exchange of cheek kisses with someone who may or may not have had their cock in his mouth an hour or two ago. It was weird as fuck, but it was familiar—this was more like the social interplay he was used to, and by the time they made it to the actual door, he was starting to feel like he had a sense of this place, of the dance of powers and niche rules, enough that maybe he wouldn’t feel like such a fish out of water next time.
Next time? What the fuck was he thinking?
The limousine was waiting just around the corner, and getting inside felt like landing back on Earth after a lifetime on an alien planet. Everything was familiar and yet strange—a ill-fitting veneer of ordinary pasted back onto a world that was anything but. It felt wrong, but he was so fucking glad to be back there.
As they drove away and Alastor closed the privacy window to block out the driver, a broken, unhinged laugh began to bubble up from Alastor’s chest. Vox stared at him—was he finally having a breakdown? If he was, well…that was fair, he supposed.
The laugh picked up volume, sharp and high-pitched, and with a shaking hand, Alastor pulled something from his breast pocket: a small velvet pouch, which he tugged open and tipped into his hand. Faintly-glowing amber stones spilled out into his palm, smooth and shining and achingly beautiful, and Alastor’s eyes met his.
“We did it,” Alastor gasped between peals of cackling laughter. “We fucking did it.”
“Holy shit,” Vox breathed, and then he was laughing, too. All the terror and absurdity and the crushing weight of the adrenaline crash just burst out of him, and he reached out to touch the angel tears in Alastor’s hand. One of them fell onto the carpeted floor, and an uncontrollable guffaw exploded from his lungs at the mundanity of it. A bunch of rocks! This whole thing was for a bunch of dumb rocks that they were spilling on the fucking floor, and somehow that thought transformed all the tangled-up feelings he’d been squashing down all night into pure, untethered joy.
He picked up the runaway stone and dropped it back in Alastor’s hand, and Alastor counted them out—one for Vox, one for him—until he reached the bottom of the pile.
There weren’t twenty of them—there were twenty-five.
Alastor held the last one between his fingers, and they both looked at it, breathless and hungry.
“The deal was for an even split,” Alastor said, his voice unsure.
“We can…fuck, I don’t know. Negotiate something equivalent.” He was too tired for this shit.
Alastor stared at the stone for a long moment, then slowly extended his hand, the stone glimmering between his fingertips. “You, ah…” Alastor’s mouth twisted uncomfortably. “For your troubles.”
Vox stared at the stone. He should just take it. Take advantage of Alastor’s moment of weakness—hell, Alastor would do the same to him.
Slowly, Vox covered Alastor’s hand with his, hiding the stone’s maddening light. “What is this? An apology? A payoff?”
“It’s…yes?” Alastor scrubbed at his forehead with his other hand, grinding his knuckles into the wrinkles in his brow. “Compensation.”
There was something else in Alastor’s expression, complicated and pained, and Vox groaned in frustration. Once again, Alastor was making everything strange and awkward because he didn’t know how to talk about his goddamn feelings.
Vox pushed Alastor’s hand down to his lap, getting rid of the barrier between them. He searched Alastor’s face. “You know what I want for compensation? I don’t want you to pay me off and send me on my way. I want us to have a fucking conversation about what happened in there. I want you to stop playing power games with me for five fucking minutes and tell me what you want and what you feel.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Alastor hissed between clenched teeth, his eyes darting away.
“With you? Yeah, probably.” Vox squeezed Alastor’s hand; he felt the heat of the angel tear radiating through Alastor’s fingers. “I can’t trust a single fucking word you say.”
“So take the angel tear,” Alastor said, attempting to open his hand.
“Alastor,” Vox whispered. “We did it in there. Talk with me. Like we used to.”
Vox tuned his frequency down once more, into the place with the harsh edges and the too-bright colors and the too-loud sounds, and looked back at Alastor. Alastor shuddered, shaking his head violently, his hair flying back and forth. Vox squeezed his hand. Watched him. Waited.
With a long, unsteady sigh, Alastor sagged, gazing down at their joined hands.
Once again, Alastor’s presence in their shared frequency was flailing, frantic, chaotic. But it was there, and it was him, and Vox reached for it instinctively; the edges crackled and sparked as he touched it, a raw, searing sensation that made him want to leap back, but he pushed through it, letting the spikes of pain dig into him as he pressed closer.
Things here happened at the speed of thought—too fast for deception.
Holding Alastor’s signal close to him, he opened himself.
LOVE 🟦 PLEASE 🟦 WANT
CAN’T 🔴 PANIC 🔴 DOUBT 🔴 BETRAYAL
LOVE 🟦 TRY 🟦 PLEASE 🟦 PARTNERS
LIAR
Alastor’s signal spiked hard, and Vox hissed with pain as hot nails lanced through his head, like a migraine, like a bullet. Vox held on.
LOVE 🟦 TRUTH 🟦 LOVE 🟦 YOURS
After tonight, can’t you see that I would give you anything?
MINE?
YOURS 🟦 ENTIRELY 🟦 PLEASE
DOUBT
Alastor was shaking, his signal breaking down into chaotic nonsense. Vox held on.
YOURS
DEFEAT 🔴 LONGING
Vox pulled himself out of the shared frequency and dragged Alastor’s body to his, wrapping him in arms and cables and doing everything he could to bring them closer together. “I’ve got you, Al,” he murmured into Alastor’s hair, unable to stop the tears from splashing down anymore. “We’ll figure this out. Just…stay with me.”
For long minutes, Alastor shuddered in his arms, and Vox just held him, pressing his lips to the top of his head over and over again while his tears soaked crimson hair. When Alastor tried to move again, Vox let him, releasing enough slack that Alastor could shift away, putting a few inches of distance between them. It was far too much, but Vox held back his twitching fingers, trying not to let his hunger for contact overwhelm his other senses.
Alastor slid his hand out from under Vox’s and held the angel tear up between them. Slowly, deliberately, he placed it in his mouth and crushed it between his teeth. A golden glow shone from between his teeth, and he leaned in, pressing his mouth to Vox’s in a long, deep kiss. The remains of the stone were hot and gritty, like having a mouthful of sand, and every particle of it flared with almost unbearable power, burning his tongue, but he held on, letting Alastor probe his mouth with his seeking tongue and spread the unbound power between them. It settled slowly into Vox’s body, leaving him alight and buzzing with new energy, breathless and eager to test out his powers, to see what this new rush would bring him.
But Alastor was here in his arms, in his lap, tongue claiming his mouth, and everything else could wait.
He felt when the spectral chain of their deal snapped, the collar falling away from his throat, and part of him regretted its loss. He remembered the sight of that chain in Alastor’s hand and shivered with dark, shameful pleasure.
It was good it was gone. But he had a feeling it wouldn’t be long before he was bound to Alastor some other way, just as completely and inescapably, and he couldn’t find it in himself to care.
Tangled up in each other, they headed toward home.