A simple favor.

by Jou255

Summary:

And then came the voice.

It wasn't a shout, or even a notable increase in volume. It was simply... the voice. That alpha quality that Alastor deployed like a weapon, that deep resonance that vibrated in the bones and made the body obey before the mind could protest.

"Ask me for what you want," Alastor said, and every syllable was a command etched into Vox's marrow. "Politely. Or I won't consider it."

The effect was immediate.

Vox felt his body go from being taut as a violin string to melting like butter. His shoulders relaxed, his clenched teeth unclenched, and his knees suddenly became very unstable. The alpha command had found its target, had penetrated all his defenses, and his inner omega responded with a submission that was equally shameful and relieving.

Damn it, Vox thought, as his voice softened without his permission. Damn, damn, damn.

"Please," he said, and his tone was so low, so sweet, so pathetically submissive that he almost didn't recognize himself. "Please, Alastor. Make me a baby."

Chapter 1

The mist of Alastor's territory rose dense and heavy with static electricity, a constant echo of the Radio Demon's presence now spreading without the restraints Rosie had imposed for decades. The alpha walked through the dark alleys of his personal domain, an extension of his power that he had reclaimed with every step outside the putrid Hazbin Hotel. His fingers caressed the mahogany microphone that never left him, and for the first time in a long while, the smile cutting across his face was genuine, fed by the blood of sinners who had dared cross into his territory without permission.

Freedom tasted like raw meat and something sweet on his tongue. His radio broadcasts were his again, uncensored, unrestricted. He could laugh out loud while dismembering some insolent fool without having to justify himself to anyone. His alpha instincts, dulled for so long under the weight of Rosie's leash, stretched like hungry beasts inside his chest, claiming territory, claiming dominance, claiming what was his.

And there was the problem.

That pull.

Alastor stopped in the middle of the street, his deer ears swiveling instinctively toward the bright, noisy V Tower rising like an accusing finger on the Sin horizon. He had been feeling it for two months now, that invisible thread, that connection that neither time nor distance could break. The mating mark he had sunk his teeth into Vox's nape over seventy years ago still pulsed like a heart separate from his body, like a promise that no agreement with Rosie could ever nullify.

He's not dead, Alastor thought, and the certainty churned his insides with a mix of irritation and something he refused to name. It had been some time since Vox was defeated in his stupid attempt to take Heaven; he had felt the echo of his static fracture, but never the definitive silence of death. The omega was still there, shut away in his tower of metal and neon lights, banned from Overlord meetings like a beaten dog no longer fit for the hunt.

And the worst part was that Alastor could feel him through the mark. He could feel his frequency, that distinctive buzz that only he could distinguish amid the chaotic static of Hell. He could feel when Vox tried to hide, when he tried to close the connection, when he tried to shut him out as if the mark didn't exist.

Pathetic.

Alastor gripped the microphone tighter, feeling the wood creak beneath his gloved fingers. Did Vox think this self-pity was enough? Nearly a year had passed since his defeat, nearly a year since Alastor had regained his freedom, and the omega still hadn't shown any sign. No provocative broadcasts, no interference in his transmissions, no visit to his territory.

At first, Alastor had waited. He had waited for weeks, then months, convinced it was only a matter of time before Vox appeared with his arrogant smile and flickering screens, begging for attention like he always had. For seventy years, Vox had been obsessed with him, following him, provoking him. It made no sense for him to stop now, just when Alastor was free, just when he could consider sparing him some of his valuable time.

Let him come find me, Alastor decided, ignoring the new pull racing down his spine like a whip crack. Hot adrenaline flooded his veins, tickling the back of his neck, raising the hair on his arms. His alpha body responded to his omega's call even as his rational mind tried to reject it. If he wants my attention, let him come ask for it.

But it wasn't Vox who appeared at the borders of his territory three days later.

It was Valentino.

Alastor smelled him first, that stench of cheap synthetic pheromones and stale cigarette smoke, mixed with the cloying sweetness of his cologne. The pimp moth planted himself at the entrance of one of Alastor's alleys with all the audacity of someone who believes his reputation serves as a shield, his red velvet wings spread in a gesture meant to be imposing but was simply ridiculous.

"Radio Demon," Valentino spat, adjusting his heart-shaped glasses with trembling fingers that Alastor noticed immediately. The alpha was nervous. "I need to talk to you. Business."

Alastor leaned on his microphone, tilting his head with a curiosity he could barely hide. He could crush Valentino right there, turn his wings to dust and his antennae to ash, and no other Overlord would lift a finger to defend the pathetic moth. But something in his eyes, in that barely contained tremor, sparked his interest.

Business? What business could someone like Valentino have with me?

"Speak," Alastor conceded, his voice modulated with the characteristic echo of his broadcasts, the crackle of old static making Valentino take an involuntary step back. "I grant you five minutes before I decide whether your head will adorn my study or my living room."

Valentino swallowed, and for a moment, Alastor saw something interesting in him: desperation. Real, raw, unfiltered desperation. The moth took a deep breath, and when he spoke, his words hit Alastor like a freight train.

"I want you to breed Vox."

The following silence was deafening. Even Alastor's usual static seemed to hold its breath. His eternally fixed smile tightened at the edges, and his eyes narrowed dangerously.

He must have misheard.

"Excuse me?" The word came out sharper than Alastor intended, an edge of danger that made Valentino raise his hands in a conciliatory gesture.

"You're not my first choice, alright?" Valentino spat the words as if they burned his mouth, his pride bleeding from the open wound of having to stoop so low. "We've tried donors. A dozen of them. Alpha after alpha, the best specimens money could buy. But none... none have worked."

Alastor blinked, processing the information. A dozen donors. Twelve alphas trying to impregnate his omega. The thought made something primitive and violent twist in his chest, a surge of possessiveness that surprised him with its intensity.

"The doctor told us," Valentino continued, his voice cracking with humiliation, "that there's a ninety-five percent chance of achieving pregnancy if we use the alpha who marked Vox. The mark creates a biological bond, a compatibility that no external donor can replicate. It's... your seed that his body needs."

Alastor straightened slowly, his shadows dancing around him like expectant serpents. Interest burned in his red eyes like embers, but also a deep fascination. Vox wanted a pup. His Vox, the omega who had followed him for seventy years like a needy little dog, who had built a technological empire to impress him, who had become enraged and obsessed with him to the point of madness... wanted a baby.

And he can't have one without me.

"Why don't you do it?" Alastor asked, his tone feigning innocence while his eyes glittered with barely contained malice. "After all, you're his partner, aren't you? The great Valentino, the alpha who dominates the pleasure industry across all of Pentagram. Surely a man of your... caliber... can give Vox what he needs."

The hit landed. Valentino clenched his fists so hard his claws pierced his own palms, releasing a wisp of purple smoke. His face contorted in a grimace of impotent fury, and when he spoke, his voice was barely a rasping whisper.

"I don't have a knot."

The words hung in the air like a corpse on a gallows. Alastor felt the laugh rise in his throat, a genuine and cruel sound that reverberated among the twisted trees. He knew it. From the very first moment he had seen Valentino, he had known it. He could smell it in his pheromones, in that lack of depth, in that inability to project the true dominance that only a complete alpha possessed. Valentino was alpha, yes, but he lacked the key piece, the attribute that any worthy omega craved: the knot that sealed mating, that ensured incredible pleasure, that marked territory in the most primitive and effective way.

Pathetic, Alastor thought with disdain. All that theater, all that arrogance, and he can't even fulfill the most basic function of an alpha.

"Vox needs this," Valentino continued, each word a nail in his own coffin of pride. "And I... I can give him everything else. Protection. Power... But this... this only you can do."

Alastor walked slowly around Valentino, like a predator circling its prey. His smile had widened to almost inhuman proportions, showing rows of teeth too sharp.

"Why hasn't Vox come to ask me himself?" he asked, though he already knew the answer. He could feel the omega through the mark, could taste his desperation like a distant echo. "After all, he's the one I would impregnate. It's his womb that would swell with my seed. It seems ill-mannered to send his pimp-in-chief to ask."

Valentino lowered his gaze, and for a moment, Alastor almost felt pity for him. Almost.

"Vox doesn't know I came," the moth admitted, his voice broken. "He's... unwell. He hasn't left his room for months. He spends his days crying in front of empty ultrasound images. Obsessively reviewing the donor catalog. He's devastated, Alastor. Devastated because he can't have the pup he wants so badly."

The image Valentino painted was so vivid that Alastor could see it clearly: Vox curled up in satin sheets, his screen flickering with images of impossible babies, his fingers trembling as he caressed a flat, empty belly. The omega's static must be full of emotional interference, that desperate frequency Alastor had been feeling for months and had chosen to ignore.

Not my problem, he told himself. Vox made his choices. It's none of my business.

But the mark pulled, insistent, reminding him that the body doesn't forget. That the bond doesn't break just because reason commands it.

"Look," Valentino said, straightening with a visible effort to regain some dignity. "No one's going to ask you for child support. We don't want anything from you except... that. You just have to give us your seed and we'll do artificial insemination. You wouldn't even have to see him. We can send a vial, or you can come to the office, whatever you prefer. Just... name your price. Anything. Money. Territory. Souls. I have contacts, I have resources, I have..."

"Do you think," Alastor interrupted, his voice cutting through the air like a knife, "that I'm going to come in a vial like a stud for hire?"

The laugh that escaped his lips was an unnatural sound, a mix of static and disbelief that made Valentino retreat several steps. Alastor advanced toward him, one, two, three steps, his shadows lengthening threateningly around him.

"Do you think I'm just any donor? That I'll hand over my seed like a package and walk away from my omega?"

"Vox isn't your omega," Valentino growled, but his voice trembled, and his wings folded instinctively against his body, a submissive gesture that did not go unnoticed by Alastor.

Alastor leaned toward him, close enough to see the fear reflected in the moth's heart-shaped glasses. His smile was an abyss of teeth and violent promises.

"He's worn my mark on his nape for seventy years," he whispered, his icy breath fogging Valentino's lenses. "His body recognizes me. His static seeks me out. And when you touch him, when you try to claim him, he closes his eyes and thinks of me. So don't come telling me he isn't mine, Valentino. Just because I let him play with you doesn't mean I've forgotten who his owner is."

Valentino opened his mouth to protest, but Alastor raised a hand and the static around them intensified to a deafening screech, making the moth cower.

"Listen to me carefully, pimp," Alastor said, his voice now clear and deadly serene. "I might consider accepting your deal. I might consider giving Vox what he so desires. But it won't be with you as an intermediary. I want him to come ask me himself."

He straightened, adjusting the collar of his jacket with an elegant motion.

"I want Vox to cross the boundaries of my territory. I want him to come before me and ask me in that sweet, pathetic way he did decades ago when he begged me to mark him." His smile grew dirty with something dark, something hungry. "I want to hear him say exactly what he needs from me. And then, perhaps... perhaps... I'll consider being generous."

Valentino was openly trembling now, his antennae vibrating in a way Alastor found amusing.

"What if he won't agree?" the moth asked, his voice barely a thread. "What if he doesn't want to see you?"

Alastor laughed, a genuine and terrifying sound that spread through the forest like a wave of static.

"Oh, my dear Valentino," he said, turning to walk away, his silhouette blurring into the shadows. "He's been calling to me through the mark for months. Every night, he seeks me out. Every tear he sheds over that empty womb is a lash on the bond we share. His mouth may say he hates me, but his body... his body knows what it needs."

A final glance over his shoulder, his red eyes gleaming in the darkness.

"Tell him that if he wants my seed, he'll have to come get it in person. And not to bother bringing you. This is a conversation between alpha and omega. Nothing more."

And then Alastor disappeared, dissolving into the static as if he had never been there, leaving Valentino alone in the alley, trembling and furious.

In the distance, the pull of the mark pulsed once, twice, like a heartbeat thrumming with hope.

Alastor smiled in the darkness of his study, his fingers caressing his own nape, right where he knew Vox's mark still pulsed with such intensity despite the decades.

Come find me, darling, he thought, feeling the omega's static vibrate in response through the bond. Come beg me like only you know how.

--------------------------------

Valentino's suite smelled of synthetic pheromones and cigarette smoke, but beneath all that, Vox could detect the stench of betrayal. He stood with his back to the entrance, his screen reflecting the city's neon lights through the window, when he felt Valentino enter. The moth tried to approach gently, with that false sweetness he used when he had done something he knew would enrage Vox.

"Voxy..." Valentino began, and the simple nickname made Vox's static rise a few decibels.

"You went to see him." It wasn't a question. Vox could smell it on Valentino's clothes, that scent of moss and whiskey and old static that belonged to only one person in all of Hell. "You went to see Alastor."

Valentino sighed, dropping his jacket onto a chair. "Listen to me, darling, I had to do it. We've been trying for months, months of donors, months of negative tests, months of watching you..."

"How dare you?" Vox turned, and his screen displayed a fury that distorted his digital features into a mask of pure rage. "How dare you go talk to him behind my back? To tell him... to tell him about...?"

"About the baby?" Valentino finished the sentence with an exasperating calm that only served to fuel Vox's anger. "Yes, I told him about the baby. Because it's the only way, Voxy. The doctor was clear. Ninety-five percent chance with the alpha who marked you. That's him."

"You have no right!" Vox shoved him, both hands against Valentino's chest, and though the moth barely moved, Vox felt the impact travel up his arms like a shock. "You have no right to go ask him for anything in my name, to expose my... my problems in front of him. He's my enemy, Valentino! The demon who humiliated me, who ignored me for seventy years, who..."

"Who marked you." Valentino stood firm, his arms crossed over his chest, his eyes hidden behind his heart-shaped glasses. "Who marked you and left you with an obsession that lasts decades. Who nearly made you kill all of us. Who has you like this, shattered."

Vox's rage peaked. He grabbed the first thing within reach, a ceramic mug Velvette had given him, and smashed it against the wall next to Valentino's head. Then a book, then a remote, then anything his trembling hands could reach. Each object flew across the room with the force of his fury, accompanied by insults that came out distorted by the static of his voice.

"You don't understand anything! You never understand anything! You think you can negotiate over me like I'm one of your whores! It's my body, it's my... it's my..."

The sob caught in his throat, and before he could throw anything else, Valentino moved.

It was fast, faster than his size suggested. His hands caught Vox's arms with firm pressure, immobilizing him against his own body. Vox struggled, kicked, his static crackling like an electrical storm, but Valentino didn't yield. He just held him, his red velvet wings wrapping them both in a capsule of warmth and the scent of calming pheromones.

"Let me go," Vox growled, but his voice no longer had the same strength. "I told you to let me go, you damned..."

"Shhh, shhh, Voxy." Valentino cradled the back of his head, gently pressing Vox's screen against his chest, where his heartbeat sounded dull and constant. "Shhh, it's over, it's over. I'm here. I'm not going to leave you."

"You betrayed me," Vox whispered, and the tremor in his voice said it all. "You went to see my... my..."

"To see the alpha who marked you," Valentino corrected softly, and though the words stung like salt in an open wound, the way he said them, with that controlled sweetness reserved for when Vox was truly at the edge of the abyss, made the omega's resistance falter. "I went to see the only one who can give you what you need."

Valentino's fingers began to caress Vox's screen, tracing slow circles over the smooth surface where tears were already beginning to form. It was an intimate gesture, one he knew well, one he had learned in the countless nights when Vox woke up screaming from nightmares he never told.

"I can't stand seeing you like this, Voxy," Valentino continued, his voice low and rough. "I can't stand seeing you shattered. Watching you break with every negative test, with every month that passes and your womb stays empty. I look at you and I don't recognize you. My strong Voxy, my Voxy who controlled empires, reduced to this, to crying over negative tests."

Vox made a guttural sound, a whimper of pain he tried to suppress and failed miserably. His fingers clung to Valentino's shirt, hooking into the fabric as if it were a lifeline in a sea of static.

"And the worst part," Valentino continued, his warm breath against the surface of the screen, "is that I know this is your fault."

Vox tensed, but Valentino didn't let him pull away. His arms closed tighter, imprisoning him against the warmth of his body.

"Your fault for letting him mark you decades ago. Your fault for allowing that bond to form, for his seed to be the only one your body recognizes. Your fault for still wanting him, for still needing him, for not being able to let him go even though you know he sees you as a nuisance, as a broken toy he left forgotten in a drawer."

Each word was a knife, and Valentino plunged them with painful precision.

"This is our last option," he said, and this time his voice sounded more tired, more resigned. "You don't want to adopt. We've talked about it. Your body begs to be bred, begs to carry a pup, begs to feel it growing inside you. It's non-negotiable for you, isn't it? It's not something you can ignore."

Vox shook his head against his chest, a small, ashamed movement.

"No donor works. Twelve alphas, Voxy. Twelve. The best, the strongest, the ones we paid fortunes for their seed. And none... none achieved what your body needs."

"I know," Vox whispered, and his voice broke in the middle, fragmenting with pain. "I know, Valentino. I don't need you to remind me."

"Yes, you do," Valentino insisted, his fingers still caressing the screen, wiping away the tears that kept falling. "Because you need to understand that this is all we have left. It's the last thing we have. Asking him for this. Because I... I can't give it to you, Voxy."

The confession hung in the air, heavy and painful. Valentino never spoke of his limitations, never admitted that he wasn't a complete alpha, that he lacked that essential part every omega craved. But there, in the dimness of the room with Vox trembling in his arms, he admitted it.

"I don't want you to cry forever over this," he murmured against Vox's screen. "I don't want to watch you die slowly inside because you can't have what you want most."

The sob that escaped Vox was a heartbreaking sound, a mix of rage and pain and something that dangerously resembled surrender. His body folded, his forehead pressed against Valentino's chest, and the tears kept falling, hot and bright, soaking the moth's shirt.

"This could be a bad idea," Vox finally said, his voice muffled, defeated. "Going to see him... asking him... it could be a terrible idea, Val. You know Alastor. He's twisted, he's cruel, he's going to enjoy watching me suffer, he's going to make me crawl, and then he'll probably laugh in my face and tell me no."

"Shhh, shhh, my love." Valentino cooed at him again, rocking him gently, his wings wrapping them tighter. He kissed Vox's damp screen, a soft, warm pressure that left a trace of his breath on the smooth surface. "That deer will surely ask for some power or something. Territory, souls, favors. Nothing more. Things we can give him. Things that mean nothing."

But Vox was still trembling, and Valentino knew it.

"He's not going to claim you," he continued, and his fingers slid to caress Vox's nape, right where Alastor's mark sank into his skin, an eternal scar that even technology couldn't erase. "If he wanted you, if he truly desired you, he would have done it already. He would have come for you decades ago, would have fought for you, would have claimed you as his omega. But he didn't, did he?"

Vox shuddered.

"He doesn't care about you, Voxy," Valentino said, and though the words were cruel, his tone was terribly tender. "He never cared about you. You're just a memory, a closed chapter in his long life. To him, you are... a mistake from the past. Something he did without thinking and never visited again."

Vox didn't respond. He couldn't. The words got stuck in his throat along with the sobs.

Valentino began to guide him toward the bed, his hands firm but gentle on his shoulders, his wings brushing the floor as they advanced. Vox was docile, too tired to keep resisting, too broken to keep pretending he had the strength to fight.

He sat him on the edge of the bed, and then, with a gentleness that belied everything else, Valentino positioned himself behind him, spreading his legs so Vox could recline against his chest. His arms wrapped around the omega's waist, and one of his hands descended slowly until it rested on Vox's flat belly.

Vox flinched.

It was an instinctive, visceral movement. His body folded in on itself, his arms crossing over his abdomen as if trying to protect it, as if trying to hide that empty space he so longed to fill. His shoulders curved inward, and for a moment he looked like a wounded animal, trying to make himself small so the predator wouldn't see him.

Valentino felt the rejection like a stab, but he didn't remove his hand. Instead, he pressed more gently, stroking Vox's belly with his fingertips, feeling the tremor that ran through his body.

"You deserve this, darling," Valentino murmured against his ear, his voice a rough caress. "You've been so good to me. So good. This past year, with everything that's happened, with your defeat, with the public ridicule, with losing your place in the Overlord meetings... you've been so strong for me. You've behaved so well."

Vox closed his eyes, and more tears escaped from the edges of his screen.

"And the only thing you've asked for," Valentino continued, his hand still caressing that empty belly, "the only thing you've wanted all this time, is a baby. A little one. Something that's yours. Something that completes you. Isn't that right, my love? That's all you want?"

"I want it so badly," Vox whispered, and his voice was barely steady. "I want it so badly it physically hurts, Val. It hurts to wake up every morning and know it's still not here. It hurts to see other omegas with their pups, it hurts to walk past the baby section in stores, it hurts... it hurts to exist sometimes."

"I know." Valentino kissed his shoulder, the frame of his screen, the mark on his nape. "I know, my life. That's why we're going to do this. You're going to go see that wretched deer, you're going to ask him with that sweet little voice you use when you really want something, and he's going to give it to you."

"What if he doesn't agree?"

"He will." The certainty in Valentino's voice was almost reassuring. "Everyone has a price, Voxy. Even Alastor. Especially Alastor. And I'll pay whatever it takes to see you happy."

"But, Val..."

"You'll have it, my life." Valentino gently squeezed Vox's belly, as if he could already feel the pup that didn't yet exist. "You just have to ask him for it. Once. Just once. And then you'll never see him again. I promise you."

Vox opened his eyes, and his gaze seemed blurred and unstable.

"Never again," he repeated, as if he needed to hear it to believe it.

"Never again," Valentino confirmed, and his wings closed around them once more, wrapping them in a bubble of red velvet and empty promises. "I'll take care of the baby as if it were mine. I'll love it, protect it, give it everything we never had. It will be our child, Voxy. Our little one. And Alastor will be nothing more than a forgotten donor, a name we'll never speak."

"As if it were yours," Vox whispered, and there was something in his tone, something Valentino didn't want to analyze too deeply.

"As if it were mine," Valentino repeated, and his fingers continued caressing that empty belly, tracing slow circles over the flat surface. "Now sleep, Voxy. Tomorrow we'll talk about the details. Tomorrow we'll decide how you're going to do it."

Vox didn't respond. He just closed his eyes, let his body surrender to Valentino's warmth, and allowed himself to feel the mark pulsing on his nape, the pull he felt toward Alastor's territory, toward the alpha who had marked and abandoned him over seventy years ago.

He tried not to think about how, despite everything, despite Valentino, despite his fury and his wounded pride, a part of him longed to see him again.

The part that wanted to return to Alastor wasn't small.

It was everything that remained of him after seventy years of waiting in vain. He wanted this so badly.

-----------------------

The three days it took Vox to make his decision were the longest of his existence.

Every passing hour, he felt the mark on his nape pulse with growing intensity, as if Alastor knew he was hesitating, as if he were laughing at him from a distance. Vox spent the nights awake, staring at the penthouse ceiling while Valentino slept beside him, wondering how he had ended up at this point. How his obsession, his need, his damned omega body had reduced him to this: having to beg the demon who had marked and abandoned him.

The day he finally decided to go, Alastor's static was no longer felt at the Hazbin Hotel. Vox had checked, had passed near the decrepit building just to confirm what he already knew: Alastor had returned to his territory, to the life Vox knew well.

And Vox was going to enter his territory.

"You don't have to come," he said for the fifth time, adjusting his suit in front of the mirror. His fingers trembled slightly as he smoothed the lapels, trying to project a confidence he didn't feel.

Valentino positioned himself behind him, his hands resting on his shoulders with reassuring pressure.

"I'm going with you," he replied, his tone leaving no room for argument. "As support. I'm not going to let you face him alone, Vox."

Vox closed his eyes and sighed.

You don't understand, he thought. Your presence will only make Alastor want to humiliate me more. It will only give him more reasons to be cruel.

But he said nothing. Valentino's heart was in the right place, even if his head was light-years away from understanding the dynamic between him and Alastor. The moth didn't comprehend that between alpha and omega there were unwritten rules, power games that played out on a level he couldn't perceive. Alastor wouldn't see Valentino as support; he would see him as a provocation, as an affront to his territory, as a challenge.

And Alastor never refused a challenge.

The journey to Alastor's territory was silent. Vox drove, because he needed to do something with his hands, and Valentino sat in the passenger seat, his wings folded uncomfortably against his body. The landscape changed as they ventured deeper into the Radio Demon's sphere of influence, so different from the Vees' territory.

Alastor's mansion appeared among the trees like a ghostly memory. Vox knew it well. He had been there countless times in the past, in those crazy years after his arrival in Hell, when he still believed he could conquer Alastor with his charm and his technology. It was in that mansion that Alastor had marked him, on a night Vox remembered with painful clarity: the pain of the bite, the feeling of belonging that had flooded every fiber of his being, and the fullness he had felt upon being knotted.

And then he left me when I asked for more, Vox remembered, gripping the steering wheel tighter. He marked me and left me like I was a toy he was done playing with.

The mansion looked the same. The dark windows, the smoking chimneys, the feeling that the building itself was alive and watching. Vox parked the car on the gravel driveway and cut the engine, and for a moment he sat still, listening to the beating of his own heart.

"Are you ready?" Valentino asked, and Vox nodded, though he wasn't.

He would never be completely ready.

They walked toward the front door, carved wood depicting hunting scenes and voodoo rituals. Vox raised his hand to knock, but before his knuckles made contact, the door opened on its own, sliding inward with a creak that sounded suspiciously like a laugh.

"Gods, I hate when he does that," Vox muttered, and entered.

The scent hit him like a wave.

Moss. Rainy forest. Aged whiskey. And beneath it all, that unmistakable essence of Alastor, that blend of old static and raw power that made Vox's body react automatically. His pupils dilated, and he felt his inner omega stir, recognizing his alpha's territory.

Valentino growled beside him, his synthetic pheromones rising in a defensive response. Alastor's alpha presence was overwhelming, even for another alpha, and Vox could feel Valentino tensing, his instincts screaming that he was in enemy territory, that the alpha predator was too strong.

"Control your instincts," Vox whispered without looking at him. "We're not here to fight."

A couple of voodoo servants emerged from the shadows—Vox hadn't seen them in a long time. The little dolls guided them through the carpeted hallways, past rooms full of hunting trophies and old radios, until they reached a double door that opened on its own to reveal Alastor's study.

And there he was.

Alastor sat behind a mahogany desk, his legs crossed, his microphone propped against the arm of his chair. He wore his perpetual smile, but there was something different about it today, something sharper, hungrier. His red eyes gleamed when Vox entered, and his deer ears swiveled toward him like antennas.

"Well, well, well," Alastor said, his voice modulated with that characteristic old-time radio echo. "Long time no see, darling."

His eyes slid toward Valentino, and his smile widened, showing more teeth than necessary.

"I thought I'd been clear, moth. I said for Vox to come. Just Vox. No plus-ones."

Valentino straightened, his wings spreading slightly in a gesture meant to be imposing.

"I haven't come to interfere with any deal," he said, his voice forcedly calm. "I'm just accompanying my omega. As support."

The following silence was deafening. Alastor held it, his eyes fixed on Valentino, and then, very slowly, he began to laugh. It wasn't his usual laugh, the one he used for his radio audiences. It was a low, private laugh, laden with a contempt so deep that Vox felt shivers run down his spine.

"Your omega?" Alastor repeated, as if savoring the words. "Tell me, moth, where is he? Because I only see mine."

Valentino bristled. His fur puffed up, his antennae vibrated, and he took a step toward the desk with clenched fists. The air in the room grew thick, charged with tensions that threatened to explode.

"Don't you dare..."

"Val, stop," Vox interrupted, raising an arm to halt Valentino in his tracks. His voice was firm, though inside he trembled. He didn't look away from Alastor, holding those red eyes that watched him with a mix of hunger and amusement.

"Here I am," Vox said, stepping forward, separating himself from Valentino. "I'm the one who came to see you. I'm the one who needs... what you're offering."

Alastor tilted his head, like a bird observing an interesting insect.

"Are you going to help me, or did you just want to play with me?" Vox asked, and he hated how needy his voice sounded.

Alastor's smile tightened. His eyes narrowed, and for a moment, the temperature in the room dropped several degrees.

"That's not how you ask for things, Vox," he said, and his tone was almost paternal, almost condescending. "You came here for a reason. You came to ask me for something very specific. I think you can make a little more effort to be... polite."

Vox snorted, his static crackling with irritation. The humiliation was already beginning to burn in his chest, and they hadn't even gotten to the important part yet.

"I didn't come to play your games, Alastor. Just tell me if you're going to..."

The click of Alastor's tongue cut his words like a knife.

And then came the voice.

It wasn't a shout, or even a notable increase in volume. It was simply... the voice. That alpha quality that Alastor deployed like a weapon, that deep resonance that vibrated in the bones and made the body obey before the mind could protest.

"Ask me for what you want," Alastor said, and every syllable was a command etched into Vox's marrow. "Politely. Or I won't consider it."

The effect was immediate.

Vox felt his body go from being taut as a violin string to melting like butter. His shoulders relaxed, his clenched teeth unclenched, and his knees suddenly became very unstable. The alpha command had found its target, had penetrated all his defenses, and his inner omega responded with a submission that was equally shameful and relieving.

Damn it, Vox thought, as his voice softened without his permission. Damn, damn, damn.

"Please," he said, and his tone was so low, so sweet, so pathetically submissive that he almost didn't recognize himself. "Please, Alastor. Make me a baby."

The words hung in the air, charged with brutal intimacy. Vox felt the heat rise to his screen, knowing he was probably glowing in a shade that betrayed his shame. Behind him, Valentino made a strangled sound, a mix of fury and vicarious humiliation.

But Alastor... Alastor smiled.

It was a wide, genuine smile that lit up his face in an almost beautiful way. He leaned back in his chair, arms spread over the armrests, and looked at Vox with a satisfaction that was painful just to behold.

"See, darling?" he said, his voice returning to its normal, almost cheerful tone. "That wasn't so hard, was it?"

Vox clenched his jaw but said nothing. He couldn't. He could still feel the echoes of the alpha command resonating in his chest.

Alastor stood up with a fluid motion, straightening his jacket with an elegant tug. He walked around the desk, and each step he took toward Vox made the static in the room grow, tickling his skin, raising the hair on his arms.

"I'll do it," Alastor said, and Vox felt such intense relief that his knees nearly buckled. "But I have conditions."

"Of course you do," Vox murmured, rolling his eyes with a sigh. "There are always conditions with you. What do you want? Territory? Souls?"

Alastor stopped barely a meter from him, close enough for Vox to smell him, for his omega body to register every detail of his presence. The alpha was taller than he remembered, or perhaps Vox just felt smaller today.

"First," Alastor said, raising a gloved finger. "I'm not giving you my seed in a vial. You know it doesn't work like that. Artificial insemination has a much lower success rate, and we're not going to take risks after all this drama. You need my knot, Vox. You need me to fill you properly, to breed you the way omegas have been bred since the beginning of time."

Vox swallowed. The image Alastor painted was too vivid, too... desirable.

"You will spend your heat days here with me," Alastor continued, his voice growing softer, more dangerous. "In my territory. Without him."

He pointed at Valentino without taking his eyes off Vox, and the moth let out a growl of protest.

"Without me?" Valentino spat, stepping forward. "What kind of condition is that? Vox needs..."

"Vox needs my knot," Alastor interrupted, and this time his voice had an edge of warning. "Vox needs me to knot him repeatedly during his fertile days. Vox needs to be in a controlled environment, without distractions, without... external interference. Or do you think your presence would help, moth? Do you think your scent, your pheromones, your... limitations... would contribute positively to the process?"

The blow was cruel and precise. Valentino snorted, his fists clenched at his sides, his wings trembling with barely contained fury.

"Second," Alastor raised another finger, as if ticking off items on a shopping list. "When it's confirmed that you're pregnant, Valentino cannot touch you for the entire pregnancy. No sex. No games. No... nothing."

"That has nothing to do with anything!" Valentino exploded, stepping forward. "You have no right to dictate what we do in our bed!"

Alastor didn't even look at him. His eyes remained fixed on Vox, waiting.

"Why?" Vox asked, his voice carefully neutral. "What do you gain from that?"

"The pregnancy of a marked omega is a delicate process," Alastor replied, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "Your body will be creating a pup with my DNA, my essence, my seed. Any external alpha interference could cause complications. Besides..." His smile grew slightly dirty. "Because I can."

Vox narrowed his eyes. There was something more, something Alastor wasn't saying, but he decided not to push.

"Is that all?" he asked, because he knew it couldn't be that easy. It was never easy with Alastor.

The deer's smile widened, showing rows of teeth too sharp.

"And third. You will owe me a favor."

The silence solidified in the room. Vox felt the air grow heavy, the shadows seeming to lengthen on the walls.

"What kind of favor?" he asked, though he already knew the answer.

"I don't know yet," Alastor said, shrugging with an indifference that was terrifying. "At some point, I might need something from you. It will be an open favor, no questions, no arguments. When the time comes, I'll ask for what I need, and you'll give it to me. Without hesitation, without negotiation, without excuses."

"That's ridiculous," Valentino growled from behind. "An open favor could be anything. You could want souls, ask for territories, that..."

"That I destroy that tower he loves so much," Alastor completed, and his voice was almost cheerful. "Yes. I could ask for anything. But I think it's a fair enough price for what you're asking. Don't you think so, darling?"

Vox felt a shiver run down his spine. He looked at Alastor, searching for some clue, some hint of what he might ask for in the future. But the alpha's red eyes were bottomless pits, mirrors reflecting only what he wanted to be seen.

"That's the deal, Baby," Alastor said, extending a gloved hand. "Take it or leave it. It's your decision whether you want to keep having an empty womb."

The empty womb.

The phrase hit Vox in the center of his chest, right where the need burned like a constant flame. His hand instinctively descended to rest on his flat abdomen, and he felt the emptiness, the absence, the echo of something that should be there and wasn't.

He looked up at Alastor, at that extended hand waiting, at those red eyes that watched him with a mix of hunger and amusement.

"It's a deal," Vox said, and before Valentino could protest, he took Alastor's hand.

The grip was firm, warm, and for a moment, just a moment, Vox felt what it was like to be connected again with his alpha. The mark on his nape burned, and a blinding light, full of static, exploded in the room, coursing through their bodies like an electric current. The entire study seemed to vibrate, objects on the shelves rattled, and shadows danced on the walls like possessed things.

When the light faded, the deal was sealed.

Alastor released his hand slowly, and Vox felt the absence as a loss. The deer returned to his desk, settling into his chair with the elegance of a satisfied feline.

"Very well," he said, crossing his legs. "I'll see you on your next heat, darling. I assume your cycle is still regular, isn't it? I know your timing well."

Vox nodded, not trusting his voice.

"I recommend you sleep all you can until then," Alastor continued, and his smile turned predatory. "Because when you get here, you won't be able to rest. A pregnancy requires multiple attempts, and I am very... thorough in my work."

The double entendre was so obvious it made Vox's screen heat up. Behind him, Valentino made a strangled sound, but Vox didn't turn to look at him. His eyes remained fixed on Alastor, on that demon who had marked his life decades ago and who was now about to mark it again.

"I'll see you soon, Alastor," Vox said, and his voice was firmer than he felt.

"Without fail, Dear," Alastor replied, and his static rose in a crescendo that sounded dangerously like a laugh. "Without fail."

Vox turned and walked toward the door, feeling Alastor's gaze on his nape, feeling the mark pulse with every step. Valentino followed him, his pheromones burning with a fury he could barely contain, and said nothing until they were outside the mansion, until the door closed behind them with a creak that sounded like an ultimatum.

"An open favor?" Valentino exploded, grabbing Vox's arm. "Are you insane? Do you know what that means? He could ask you for anything, Vox! ANYTHING!"

"I know," Vox replied, gently removing Valentino's hand. He walked toward the car with measured steps. "But it was that or nothing. And I... I need this, Val. I need it."

Valentino opened his mouth to protest, but Vox raised a hand, stopping him.

"It's done. The deal is sealed. Now all I have to do is prepare for... for what's coming."

He got into the car, and Valentino did the same, though every one of his movements betrayed his barely contained fury. The return trip was even quieter than the drive there, and Vox kept his eyes on the road, avoiding Valentino's gaze, avoiding thinking about what he had just done.

But Vox knew he had made the right decision. He had done what was necessary to have what he so desperately needed. What his body had been crying for for months.

As Alastor's mansion disappeared in the rearview mirror, Vox placed a hand over his empty womb and closed his eyes.

Soon, he thought. Soon, very soon.

And for the first time in months, he smiled.

---------------------

His heat arrived two weeks after making the deal with Alastor, as precise as clockwork.

Vox began to notice it in small but overwhelming things. His suits started to feel irritating against his skin, too rough, too tight. Every brush of clothing against his skin made him feel uncomfortable and want to tear them off. Then came the heat, starting with cramps in his abdomen and spreading through his body in a suffocating wave. Then the wetness between his thighs—the slightest rub of his underwear or pants made his cunt grow damp. That was the confirmation he needed. He was one or two days away from his full heat arriving.

Vox began to wish his heat would come quickly. He was consumed by nervousness and anticipation, also by a growing need for space. Valentino was driving him crazy, a constant pain over the last week. He swung from suffocating possessiveness—holding him tight around the waist, kisses with bites and too much tongue—to passive-aggressive comments about how they could still cancel the deal, could renegotiate for Alastor to just provide the material. Vox found him so annoying and pathetic. Because if Valentino couldn't handle this, why had he gone to Alastor in the first place? Why had he convinced Vox that this was his only chance to have a baby? It was too late to back out now. The deal was made, and Vox needed this desperately.

He would feel bad for Valentino if he thought he was going to stay behind alone, missing him, thinking about him. But Vox knew him too well. As soon as he left, as soon as he was in Alastor's territory, Valentino would find comfort with one of his whores, with one of his dancers. He would probably seek out Angel to vent the anger he felt. That didn't matter to Vox, as long as Valentino didn't ruin this for him.

---

The day before his heat hit with full force, Vox finished packing.

His bag was small, just the essentials: comfortable, loose clothing made of soft fabrics that wouldn't irritate his hypersensitive skin. No tight pants, no shirts with complicated buttons. Just oversized hoodies and cotton pants he could put on and take off without effort.

And the shark.

Valentino snorted when Vox took the plush toy from his shelf and carefully placed it on top of the clothes. The shark was small, a bluish-gray that had worn down over the years, with one button eye slightly loose and a fin that had been sewn back on at least three times. But its stuffing was still soft, and its embroidered smile was as silly as Vox remembered it.

"Are you really going to take that?" Valentino asked, arms crossed in the doorway. "Alastor is going to make fun of you. A fucking shark plushie, Voxy. You look like a five-year-old."

Vox didn't answer.

He didn't tell him the shark wasn't just any plushie. He didn't tell him it had been a gift from Alastor himself at a fair, decades ago, when Vox was still naive and believed Alastor appreciated him more than others, when he felt he meant something to him. He had been begging Alastor for days to go together, to do something normal, something that didn't involve blood or death or radio broadcasts. And Alastor, with his eternal smile and his impossible-to-read eyes, had given in.

"If you want it so badly, Vincent," he had said, offering his arm as if they were going to a gala ball instead of a cheap fair in the lowest district. "But don't expect me to ride any of those ridiculous attractions."

And at the fair, Vox had seen the shark. It was small, a bluish-gray with a crooked smile and button eyes that stared at him from atop a shelf. He had wanted it instantly, with that childlike intensity he allowed himself to have only with Alastor.

"Win it for me," he had told Alastor, pointing at the shark with a finger trembling with excitement.

Alastor had raised an eyebrow, looking at the shooting gallery where you had to knock down cans with a carnival pistol. "You want me to win a plushie? For you?"

"Please," Vox had begged, his hands clutching Alastor's sleeve. "Please, please, please, Al. Please."

Alastor had smiled, that wide, dangerous smile that Vox loved and feared in equal measure, and had said, "Alright, mon cher. But only because your pleading is adorable."

Vox had nodded so fast he nearly hurt himself.

Alastor had knocked down all the cans with a single shot. The booth owner had protested, said it was impossible, that no one could have such good aim. Alastor had smiled wider, paid for another round, and knocked down all the cans again.

The shark had been his. He had hugged it all the way back to his apartment. Alastor had raised an eyebrow and asked with amusement, "Why do you like that ugly thing so much?" Vox had looked at him, offended, and replied, "It's not ugly! It's adorable, and I like it because you won it for me." Alastor had only responded with an amused hum.

It was one of the best days of my life, Vox thought, pressing the shark against his chest. Before everything went to hell.

"Vox," Valentino said, pulling him from his thoughts. "Are you okay?"

"Yes," Vox lied. He zipped up the bag and stood. "Let's go."

-------

The journey to Alastor's territory was tense. Vox had wanted to go alone, had said it clearly: "I don't want any awkwardness, Val. Let me go alone." But Valentino had insisted, and Vox was too tired to argue. His pheromones were already beginning to shift, and every kilometer they traveled made the mark on his nape burn more, anticipating the proximity of his alpha.

He's not my alpha, Vox corrected himself, though his body screamed otherwise. He's just a means to an end. Just a donor.

But when the car stopped in front of Alastor's mansion, and Vox saw the deer's silhouette waiting at the main door, he knew he was lying to himself.

Alastor was leaning against the frame, arms crossed and that perpetual smile on his face. He wore a red shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and his red hair was messier than usual, as if he had been waiting, as if he couldn't stay still.

He's been waiting, Vox realized, and the thought made his inner omega leap with joy.

Valentino got out of the car first, circling around to open Vox's door with a gesture meant to be gallant but came off tense. Vox took his bag and stepped out, feeling how the air of Alastor's territory wrapped around his skin like a caress. It smelled of forest, of rain, of home, and he had to make a conscious effort not to close his eyes and let himself be carried away.

"Voxy," Valentino said, taking him by the arm. "A moment."

Vox stopped, looking toward Alastor, who watched the scene with his red eyes gleaming with amusement.

Before Vox could react, Valentino turned him toward himself, holding his head with one hand. His eyes, hidden behind his glasses, shone with a determination that turned Vox's stomach.

"A goodbye kiss," Valentino said, leaning toward him. "So you won't miss me too much."

And Vox felt the panic.

It wasn't fear, exactly. It was something more visceral, more instinctive. His body tensed, his screen flickered with alert static, and when Valentino's lips sought his, Vox turned his head to the side, pulling his face away as if he had been burned.

The kiss landed on his frame, awkward and out of place.

The following silence was deafening.

"Vox?" Valentino's voice had a dangerous edge, a barely contained warning. "What are you doing?"

Vox couldn't explain it. He couldn't. He simply felt it was wrong, that it was incorrect for Valentino to kiss him there, in front of Alastor, in front of his alpha. His body rejected it instinctively, as if every fiber of his being knew that gesture was a betrayal, a desecration of the bond he shared with the deer.

"Val, it's not a good time," Vox tried, stepping back. "I just..."

But Valentino didn't let go. His fingers closed around his screen more tightly, forcing him to look at him, and his voice dropped to a hiss that only Vox could hear.

"Voxy," he said, and the name was a warning. "Don't do this in front of him. Don't give him that show."

Valentino's hand squeezed, almost painfully, and Vox felt rage beginning to boil in his chest. Who the hell did Valentino think he was to force him? To try to kiss him when he clearly didn't want it? To mark territory in front of Alastor like a dog pissing on a lamppost?

"Let me go," Vox growled, his static rising. "I told you..."

"I think the goodbye is already done."

Alastor's voice cut the air like a knife, and before Vox could process what was happening, the deer was already between them. An arm slid around Vox's waist, firm and possessive, separating him from Valentino's grip with surprising ease.

Alastor smiled, and his smile was a dangerous thing, full of teeth.

"Since the goodbye is done," he repeated, his voice modulated with that characteristic echo, "you can leave, moth."

His hand slid toward Vox's bag, taking it gently but firmly, removing it from his hands as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

"Don't worry, Valentino," Alastor continued, looking at the moth with a smile too wide. "I'll return him to you intact. Well..." he pretended to reflect, "almost intact. He'll come back with some additional bites, some new marks, and he'll probably be too exhausted to walk in a straight line. But satisfied? Oh, absolutely satisfied. I guarantee you that."

Valentino clenched his fists, his wings trembling with barely contained fury.

"Alastor..."

"Ah, ah, ah!" Alastor raised a finger, as if scolding a child. "You leave. We enter. That's the deal, remember? You agreed. Vox agreed. Now..."

He stopped, because Vox was moving.

It wasn't conscious. Not really. His body acted on its own, guided by instincts that had been dormant for decades and were now awakening with voracious urgency. Vox curled against Alastor's side, his face pressed against the alpha's neck, inhaling his scent like it was air after years underwater. His fingers clung to the red jacket, hooking into the fabric, and when he opened his mouth, he could only utter one word.

"Alpha," he whispered, and his voice was so small, so needy, so surrendered that he almost didn't recognize it.

Alastor tensed for a moment, surprised, and then a vibrating sound came from his chest, a low, satisfied growl that made Vox tremble from head to toe. The alpha tilted his head and pressed his lips against the mark on Vox's nape, right where his teeth had sunk decades ago.

"Shh, mon cher," he murmured against his skin, and his voice was softer than Vox remembered, more intimate. "I'm going to take good care of you."

The door closed behind them when Valentino tried to say something more, his words drowned out by the creak of wood and static.

And then they were alone.

The mansion's foyer was spacious, with high ceilings and crystal chandeliers that cast dancing shadows on the walls. But Vox saw none of that. He only saw Alastor, only smelled him, only felt the warmth of his body through his clothes.

Alastor pressed his face against Vox's neck, inhaling deeply, and a vibrating growl came from his chest, so deep that Vox felt it in his bones. It was a primitive, possessive sound, of an alpha finally having his omega where he belonged.

"It's been a long time," Alastor murmured against his skin, his lips brushing the mark as he spoke. "A long time since I could smell you like this. Since I could taste you."

Vox clung to his neck with a desperation that shamed him, his fingers tangling in the red hair, pulling gently. His body trembled, every inch of his hypersensitive skin screaming for more contact, more warmth, more Alastor.

"Please," he whispered, and his voice was a whining, pathetic moan, everything he didn't want to be and couldn't help. "Alpha, please."

Alastor's laugh was low, warm, and vibrated in Vox's chest like a second heartbeat.

"How impatient you are, Vincent," he said, and his tone was amused, almost affectionate. "I was planning to be more romantic with you. Candles, music, maybe some wine."

Vox opened his mouth to respond, to say something witty or cutting or at least coherent, but instead of words, what came out was a moan.

Because Alastor kissed him.

It wasn't a soft kiss, or tentative, or anything like what Vox expected. It was a kiss that devoured him, that consumed him, that melted him from his lips to his toes. Alastor's lips were warm, firm, and tasted of whiskey and something sweet and of him, of that flavor Vox had spent seventy years trying to forget and had never managed to erase from his memory.

The world faded. Time stopped. All that existed was Alastor's mouth against his, his tongue tracing the seam of his lips, his hand on Vox's nape holding him in place.

Finally, Vox thought, as his body melted into the embrace. Finally, finally, finally.

He didn't know how they got from the foyer to the bedroom. A sensation of vertigo, a twist of reality, and suddenly Vox was falling backward, his back finding a soft surface that could only be a bed. His bag fell to the floor with a dull thud, forgotten, irrelevant.

Alastor was over him before he could catch his breath, his arms on either side of Vox's head, his body a warm, solid presence pinning him to the mattress. His red eyes gleamed in the dim light, and his smile was softer than Vox remembered, but also hungry.

"I've missed you," Alastor said, and the confession was so unexpected that Vox went breathless.

"That's not true," Vox replied automatically, though his body trembled, though his hands were already rising to touch Alastor's face, to trace the line of his jaw, to feel the warmth of his skin.

"It is true," Alastor insisted, leaning down to press his forehead against Vox's. "Decades is a long time, mon cher. A long time for an alpha without touching his omega."

And then he kissed him again, and Vox stopped thinking.

Their mouths met with the intensity of two storms colliding. Vox's static crackled in the air, mingling with Alastor's dancing shadows, creating a symphony of electricity and darkness that enveloped the room. The mark on Vox's nape burned, not in pain, but in recognition, in belonging.

"I want you inside me," Vox whispered against Alastor's lips, and the request was so honest, so naked, that he felt ashamed immediately after.

But Alastor didn't laugh. Didn't mock. He simply let out another of those vibrating, deep growls that made Vox tremble with anticipated pleasure.

"All in good time, darling," he murmured, his lips descending Vox's neck, following the line of the mark, leaving a trail of kisses that burned like fire. "I have all night. All week. All the time you need."

His mouth found the junction of shoulder and neck, and he bit, softly at first, then harder, and Vox moaned, arching his back, offering himself, surrendering.

Everything, Vox thought, as Alastor devoured him. Everything. Take everything from me.

---------------------------

Alastor's bedroom felt like a world apart, a bubble of twilight and dancing shadows where time seemed meaningless. The candles the deer had lit at some point cast orange flickers on the dark wooden walls, creating an atmosphere that was both intimate and wild, cozy and dangerous. Like everything belonging to the Radio Demon.

Vox lay on the four-poster bed, his clothes discarded on the floor like memories of a world that no longer mattered. His screen glowed with a blush that tinted his features with vulnerability, and his eyes—those eyes that had defied Alastor for decades—were now clouded with something that dangerously resembled adoration.

"Alastor," he whispered, and his voice was barely a thread of static, broken by the moans escaping his lips between each word.

Alastor was above him, between his spread legs, his naked, warm body pressing Vox into the mattress. He had forgotten what it was like to have his omega like this, surrendered and trembling, with pheromones saturating the air like the most intoxicating fragrance. His hips moved in a slow but deep rhythm, each thrust carefully calculated to hit exactly where Vox needed it.

And Vox needed it.

Fuck, how he needed it.

"Please," Vox moaned, his fingers scratching Alastor's back, leaving trails of bleeding lines on his skin. "Please, Alpha, I need you... More, more..."

Alastor smiled against his neck, that eternal smile now softening at the edges, becoming something more intimate, more real. His lips pressed the mark on Vox's nape, and the omega moaned, arching his back, offering himself more.

"You have me, mon cher," Alastor murmured, his voice modulated with a warmth few had ever heard. "I'm here. I'm going to fill you, I'm going to remind you who you belong to."

Who you belong to. The phrase resonated in Vox's chest like a bell, and he felt his eyes fill with tears, felt his inner omega writhe and sing with joy.

"I need your knot so badly," Vox confessed, and his voice broke in a sob. "So badly, Alpha. So badly. I've been dreaming of this for years, of feeling you swell inside me, of you knotting me, of you filling me..."

The moan that escaped Alastor was low, guttural, a sound that vibrated more than it was heard. His rhythm changed, becoming deeper, more intense, and his hand slid down to Vox's thigh, gripping the flesh with a pressure that left marks.

"So badly?" he asked, and his voice was a growl, something primitive and possessive. "You've wanted my knot that badly, darling?"

He lifted Vox's leg, pushing it up toward his chest, and the new angle made his penis penetrate even deeper into Vox's cunt. The omega screamed, a sharp, broken sound, his hands clinging to Alastor's shoulders as if they were his only anchor in the world.

"There!" Vox whimpered, his screen glowing with blinding intensity. "There, Alastor, there!"

"Tell me," Alastor ordered, and though his voice was sweet, there was an edge to it, a border of dominance that made Vox tremble. "Tell me you're mine."

"I'm yours," Vox replied without hesitation, without thinking, because it was the purest truth he had spoken in seventy years. "I've always been yours, Alastor. Always."

"Tell me how much you want my knot."

"I want it," Vox sobbed, and tears rolled down his screen now, hot and bright. "I want it so much, Alastor. I want you to knot me. I want you to fill me. I want..."

Their lips met before he could finish the sentence.

The kiss was slow at first, almost tender, as if both were savoring the moment after decades of waiting. Alastor's lips pressed against Vox's with a gentleness that contrasted with the roughness of his movements, and their tongues met in a wet, sensual dance, tangling, exploring, remembering.

Vox moaned into Alastor's mouth, and the alpha responded with a growl that vibrated through their connected bodies.

Seventy years, Vox thought as Alastor's tongue traced the inside of his mouth, as his hips continued moving in that deep rhythm that was driving him crazy. Too many years without this. Years forgetting what it felt like.

And now he remembered. Fuck, how he remembered.

"Tell me you want it," Alastor whispered against his lips, and his voice was a thread of pants and tenderness. "Tell me you want my knot, Vox. Tell me, and I'll give it to you. I'll give you everything."

"Please," Vox replied, and his voice was a plea, a desperate supplication. "I want it so much, Alpha. Please."

"Are you that close, mon cher?" Alastor asked, and there was a smile in his voice, an almost cruel sweetness that made Vox melt even more.

"Yes," Vox sobbed, clinging to him with all his strength, his nails digging into the alpha's back harder. "Yes, yes, yes... Alastor, I beg you..."

The words escaped his lips before he could stop them, naked and vulnerable, without the filter of pride or resentment that had separated them for decades.

"I love you," Vox said, and his voice broke in the middle, fragmenting into static and pain and hope. "I love you, Alastor. I've loved you since you marked me, since before, since always. And I want you to make me a baby. I want to have your baby... so much I can't breathe..."

Alastor stopped.

For a moment, just a moment, time froze. The shadows stopped dancing, the static quieted, and only their gazes existed, their ragged breaths, the confession floating in the air like a crystal butterfly.

Three words Vox had never spoken before. Three words he had kept buried deep within himself for seven decades, out of fear, out of pride, out of knowing they wouldn't be returned.

But he no longer cared.

Nothing mattered except the warmth of Alastor inside him, except the promise of his knot, except the possibility, however remote, that maybe, perhaps, Alastor also...

"I know, mon cher," Alastor whispered, and his voice was softer than Vox had ever heard it, a caress of static and velvet. "I know."

And he kissed him.

It wasn't a kiss of response, not an "I love you too" or "me too." It was something deeper, more primitive, more true than words. It was Alastor offering something he had never offered anyone.

It was enough.

Alastor's arms slid beneath Vox, wrapping around his back, lifting him from the mattress as if he weighed nothing. Vox let out a choked cry of surprise when he found himself in the alpha's lap, sitting on his penis, his legs straddling Alastor's hips, his arms wrapping around his neck by instinct.

"Alastor," he panted, but the alpha was already moving.

The new angle was devastating. Each of Alastor's thrusts made Vox bounce on him, his penis reaching places that made Vox tremble like a leaf. The rhythm was relentless, wild, but the arms holding him were firm and secure, and the lips kissing his neck were soft and warm.

Sweet and wild.

Wild and sweet.

That was what loving Alastor felt like, and Vox loved him, loved him despite everything, loved him because he couldn't help it.

"Alastor!" Vox screamed when the orgasm hit him like a wave, sweeping away everything in its path. His body arched, his screen went white for a moment, and his static exploded in all directions, filling the room with electricity and light.

Alastor followed a moment later, with a deep growl that vibrated in Vox's chest like a second heartbeat. Vox felt the exact moment his knot began to swell inside him, growing until it anchored them together, until it sealed the connection the mark had begun decades ago.

Yes, Vox thought as waves of pleasure coursed through his trembling body. Yes, yes, yes.

It had been so long since he'd felt this. Decades without being knotted, decades without feeling the fullness of having his alpha inside him, decades of emptiness now filled with warmth and promises. His body sang, every nerve ending alight, every cell celebrating the return home.

"Shh, shh," Alastor murmured against his neck, his lips pressing the mark, his arms enveloping him completely. "There now, mon cher. There now. I've got you."

Vox sobbed, clinging to Alastor's back, pressing his face into the hollow of his neck. The pain of the knot swelling inside him mixed with pleasure, creating an overwhelming sensation that made his tears fall uncontrollably.

"It hurts," he whispered, though it wasn't entirely true. It hurt and it didn't hurt, like all good things, like all things worth the price.

"I know," Alastor replied, and his hands traced slow, calming circles on Vox's back. "But it will pass. Just stay still. Breathe with me."

Vox inhaled, and the air tasted of Alastor: of rainy forest, of aged whiskey, of home. He exhaled, and felt his body slowly relax, felt the pain transform into a warm, comforting pressure.

"I've got you," Alastor whispered, and his lips kissed the mark on his nape softly. "I've got you, darling."

The tears kept falling, but now they were different. No longer just of pain or pleasure, but of relief, of gratitude, of the overwhelming sensation of having come home after far too long a journey.

Vox closed his eyes and let himself be held.

The knot would keep them together for a while longer, trapped in that forced intimacy that Vox had missed more than he would ever admit. But he didn't care. He didn't care about time, didn't care about anything at all.

Only Alastor existed.

Only his arms, his warmth, his breath against his skin.

Only the beating of two hearts that, after seventy years, were finally beating in unison again.

"Rest," Alastor murmured, and his voice was a caress in the twilight. "When the knot goes down, we'll start again. I have all the time in the world, mon cher. All the time you need."

Vox nodded weakly, his face still pressed against Alastor's neck, his fingers still clinging to his back.

"I love you," he whispered again, because he could no longer keep it in, because he no longer wanted to.

Alastor didn't reply.

But his arms closed tighter, and his lips pressed the mark once more, and Vox felt the shadows wrap around them like a blanket, soft and protective.

And it was enough.

For now, it was enough.

-------------------------

Vox woke slowly, dragged from the depths of a dream without static or interference, only warm darkness and the distant beat of a heart that wasn't his.

The first sensation was the scent.

It was everywhere, wrapping around him like an invisible blanket. Damp moss after rain, aged oak, smoky whiskey, that blend of ancient power and comforting static. Vox inhaled deeply, and a sleepy purr vibrated in his chest before he even opened his eyes.

Alpha.

The second sensation was the cold.

Not exactly cold, but absence. The space beside him in bed was empty, the sheets cold, the pillow without the pressure of a head. Vox opened his eyes slowly, his screen adjusting to the bedroom's dimness, and found what he already knew: he was alone.

Disappointment was a small prick, a sting of sadness that dissolved almost immediately. He didn't feel panic. He didn't feel that visceral terror that used to accompany waking up alone during his past heats, when Valentino left him because he couldn't stand seeing him like that, or because he had business to attend to, or because he simply got bored waiting for the hormonal storm to pass.

This was different.

Vox knew Alastor would return. He could feel it in the mark pulsing softly on his nape, in the connection that bound them through the bond, in the absolute certainty that his alpha wouldn't abandon him.

Alpha comes back, Vox thought, and the thought was so natural, so ingrained, that he didn't question where it came from. Alpha doesn't leave me alone.

He sat up in bed, and the sheet covering his body fell around his waist, revealing his torso marked with bites and hickeys, purple and reddish traces Alastor had left on his skin during the night. Vox looked at them without shame, almost with pride, and his fingers traced one of them, feeling the memory of the pleasure that had created them.

His entire body tingled. Every muscle, every nerve ending, every inch of his digital skin sang with the echoes of what had happened. He was exhausted, yes, but also strangely satisfied, like after a storm that has swept everything in its path and leaves the air clean and renewed.

But something was missing.

Vox frowned, looking around. Alastor's bedroom was spacious, with dark wallpaper and windows overlooking the twisted forest. The furniture was old but well cared for, and shadows accumulated in the corners that seemed to move on their own. It was a beautiful place, intimidating, his for a few days.

But something was missing.

Vox stood up, and the sheet fell completely, leaving him naked. He didn't care. There was no one else in the room, and his body was just a vehicle for what he needed to do. He looked at the bed, the wrinkled sheets, the scattered pillows, the empty space beside him...

A nest.

The realization hit him like a wave, and suddenly everything made sense. The restlessness he felt, that sense that something was wrong, that need tingling under his skin... It was his omega asking for a nest. A safe, warm place that smelled of him and his alpha. A refuge where he could wait, where he could feel protected while his body held the seed Alastor had planted inside him.

I have to make a nest, Vox thought, and the urgency flooded him like a fever. I have to make it before alpha comes back. It has to be ready.

He moved without thinking, guided by instincts that had been dormant for decades. His bare feet paced the room, his eyes searching for materials, and his attention focused almost immediately on Alastor's closet.

The closet was enormous, a carved mahogany piece that occupied an entire wall. Vox opened it, and Alastor's scent hit him with multiplied force, making him close his eyes and moan softly. Shirts, jackets, pants, all imbued with that smell his body craved.

He began to take everything out.

It wasn't a rational process. Vox didn't think "this jacket will work" or "this shirt is soft." He just took, guided by some internal sense that knew exactly what he needed. The softest garments, the ones Alastor wore most often, the ones with his most concentrated scent. He carried them to the bed one by one, spreading them over the sheets, arranging them with meticulous care.

Then came the pillows. Vox stacked them at the edges of the bed, creating a soft barrier that would surround him when he lay down. He rearranged the sheets, pulling at the corners to make them taut, so there would be no uncomfortable wrinkles beneath his body.

And then, obsessively, he began to reorganize everything.

The red velvet jacket Alastor wore most often wasn't at the right angle. The black silk shirt the deer wore on rare occasions needed to be closer to where he would put his head. The smaller garments, the scarves and handkerchiefs, he rolled and placed as additional barriers.

Vox moved with frantic energy, his eyes shining with concentration, his hands trembling but precise. Each garment had a place, each pillow a function, and nothing could be out of place.

Alastor stopped at the bedroom door, the tray of food balanced in one hand, and the sight that greeted him left him breathless.

His closet was wide open, the mahogany doors revealing empty shelves and bare hangers. And on his bed...

On his bed, Vox was building a nest.

Not just any nest. A nest. The kind of nest omegas made when they felt safe, when they trusted their alpha, when their bodies told them it was time to nest, to prepare, to wait.

And he was using his clothes. His clothes. The shirts he wore, the jackets that had wrapped around him, the garments imbued with his scent, his essence, him. Vox had taken them without asking, without hesitation, as if they belonged to him as much as to Alastor.

As if they were his too, Alastor thought, and something hot and primitive twisted in his chest.

He watched in silence as Vox continued his work. The omega was totally absorbed, his tongue poking out between his lips as he placed a pillow at a specific angle, moved it a centimeter left, then a centimeter right, until it was perfect. Then he took a tweed jacket Alastor hadn't used in years and spread it over the pillows, creating a soft surface to rest his head on.

Beautiful, Alastor thought, and the word wasn't enough. He's pathetically beautiful, how excited he seemed making a nest.

The scent in the room had changed. The smell of moss and whiskey was still there, Alastor's unmistakable stamp, but now it mixed with something new, something sweeter, something Alastor hadn't smelled in decades.

Almonds.

The last time he had perceived that scent was the night he marked Vox, when the omega was so vulnerable and open that all his defenses had fallen, when his true scent had emerged for the first and only time. Then, for seventy years, Vox had hidden it, using blockers, burying his essence under layers of technology and static.

But not now.

Not with Alastor.

The almond scent spread through the room like a caress, sweet and warm, mixing with Alastor's moss to create a unique, intimate fragrance that spoke of two intertwined souls. Alastor inhaled deeply, and felt his inner alpha roar with possessiveness, with pride, in a way he didn't know he could still feel.

Vox hadn't noticed his presence. He kept working, his movements slowing as the nest took shape. Few things were left. The pillows were in place, the sheets taut, the garments arranged in layers that created a soft, cozy surface.

But something was missing.

Vox knew it before his brain processed it. His eyes scanned the nest, evaluating, calculating, and he knew it wasn't complete. The center was missing. The heart of the nest. Something to anchor it, to make it his.

He turned to the nightstand, where his bag had rested since the night before, and opened it with trembling fingers. He searched through the folded clothes, through the personal items, and when his fingers found the worn fabric of the shark, he knew that was it.

He took it out carefully, holding the plushie against his chest for a moment. The shark was faded, one of its fins sewn back on in a way that looked more like a scar than fabric, but its button eyes still shone, and its body was still perfect for hugging.

Vox placed it in the center of the nest, right where he could see it when he woke. The shark was surrounded by Alastor's clothes, like a little king on his throne of fabric and promises.

Now yes, Vox thought, observing his finished work. Now it's complete.

He felt the presence before he saw it.

His nape prickled, the mark pulsed softly, and Vox knew Alastor was at the door. He turned slowly, and found the alpha leaning against the frame, a tray in his hands, his red eyes gleaming.

Vox said nothing. He just stood still, naked, his body marked by the alpha, his newly built nest behind him, and waited.

Waited for his approval.

The silence stretched, charged with electricity and expectation. Alastor didn't move, didn't speak, just watched, his eyes scanning the nest, the scattered clothes, the shark in the center, and finally settling on Vox.

And then Alastor's smile changed.

It wasn't his usual smile, the one he used for his audiences or to intimidate his enemies. It was a smaller, more intimate smile, softening his features and making his red eyes gleam with a warmth Vox barely remembered.

"Darling," Alastor said, and his voice was low, almost hoarse. "What have you done?"

Vox didn't know if it was a rhetorical question or not, but he answered anyway, his voice barely a whisper.

"A nest. For us."

The words hung in the air, and Alastor felt his chest expand, felt the possessive pride run hot in his veins.

He entered the room with slow, careful steps, as if approaching something sacred. He set the tray on the nightstand, next to Vox's bag, and his eyes returned to the nest, to the scattered clothes, to the shark in the center.

"Is that...?" he began to ask, but didn't need to finish the sentence.

"The one you won for me," Vox said, and his voice trembled slightly. "After I begged you for days to take me to that fair."

Alastor remembered. Of course he remembered. The fair, the rigged games, the way Vox had jumped for joy when the shark fell into his arms. It had been such a small, insignificant moment in the grand scheme of his immortal existence, but Vox had kept it all this time.

So much time had passed, Alastor thought. Years keeping a plushie I gave him.

"Mm," Alastor hummed, and his voice was softer than he intended. "The nest is beautiful, mon cher. You've done an excellent job."

The effect was immediate. Vox's screen lit up with happiness and a radiant smile crossed his features. His inner omega strutted, satisfied and proud.

"Really?" Vox asked, and his voice was so hopeful, so vulnerable, that Alastor felt something twist in his chest.

"Really," Alastor replied, and he wasn't lying. "It's the most beautiful nest I've ever seen."

He wrapped his arm around Vox's waist and drew him close, burying his face in the omega's neck, inhaling that almond scent that drove him crazy. Vox's body surrendered immediately, melting against his, and a deep purr vibrated in his chest.

Alastor kissed the mark on his nape, feeling Vox shudder beneath his lips.

"But now," he murmured against his skin, "you need to eat. Before another wave of heat hits you and you have no strength for anything."

Vox moaned, a small complaint directed at no one in particular, but nodded anyway. His legs trembled slightly, and Alastor realized the omega was exhausted, that he had spent his last reserves of energy building the nest.

"Come," Alastor said, guiding him toward the bed. "Get into your nest. I'll bring you the food."

Vox obeyed, climbing onto the bed carefully so as not to undo his work. He settled into the center of the nest, among the pillows and Alastor's clothes, and sighed when his back found the soft surface. The shark was beside him, and Vox took it instinctively, pressing it against his chest.

But something was still missing.

Alastor took the tray and placed it on his thighs, showing him the contents: fresh fruits, soft bread, a cup of steaming tea. Nothing too heavy, nothing that could upset a stomach sensitive to heat hormones.

"Eat," Alastor ordered softly, sitting on the edge of the bed.

Vox looked at the food, then at Alastor, and then reached his arms out toward him.

"I want you to hold me," he said, and his voice was a small, almost childlike plea. "I want you to hold me while I eat."

Alastor raised an eyebrow just as he had that night when Vox asked him to win the plushie for him, but he didn't argue. He moved behind Vox, sliding into the nest carefully so as not to disturb anything, and opened his arms. Vox leaned back against his chest, his head resting in the hollow of his shoulder, and sighed with satisfaction when Alastor's arms closed around him and purred when those warm hands began to caress his belly.

Now yes, Vox thought, as he took a piece of fruit and brought it to his lips. Now it's complete.

Alastor rested his chin on top of Vox's screen, his arms cradling him close. The almond scent intensified with each of Vox's breaths, and the alpha felt his body respond, felt desire begin to stir again in his belly.

But that could wait.

First, Vox had to eat. Had to regain his strength. Had to be ready for what would come next.

-----------------

The last morning arrived without fanfare, like a whisper instead of a slammed door.

Vox knew it before opening his eyes. His body, which for seven days had burned with the fever of heat, now rested in a warm calm, like a sea after a storm. The pheromones that had saturated every corner of the room had quieted, and the voracious urgency that had consumed him had dissolved, leaving behind a satisfaction so deep it bordered on melancholy.

It's over, Vox thought, and the thought didn't hurt as much as he expected.

He opened his eyes slowly. Alastor's bedroom was bathed in a grayish light filtering through the velvet curtains, casting soft shadows on the dark wooden walls. The nest he had built was still around him, though now it was messier, Alastor's clothes scattered across the wrinkled sheets, the pillows piled in uneven mounds. The shark plushie rested beside his head, its button eyes staring at the ceiling with their eternally goofy expression.

And Alastor.

Alastor was beside him, asleep for the first time all week. Vox watched him in silence, savoring the sight. The Radio Demon, the Overlord feared by all, the alpha who had marked his life and soul, lay unarmed among the sheets, his red hair spread across the pillow, his bare chest rising and falling with the deep breath of sleep. His perpetual smile had relaxed, showing lips that at that moment seemed almost soft, almost vulnerable.

He's beautiful, Vox thought, and the truth of that thought didn't surprise him. He had always known it. From the first moment he saw Alastor, decades ago, he had known he was the most beautiful creature he had ever known.

The week had been... Vox didn't even have words to describe it. It had been seven days of pure existence, of being reduced to his most basic instincts and, paradoxically, of feeling more complete than ever. There wasn't a single day he wasn't knotted, not a single night he didn't sleep with Alastor's seed seeping from inside him. They had fucked on every surface of the mansion: in the bed, on the desk in the study, against the hallway wall, on the living room floor in front of the fireplace, even in the kitchen, on the cold marble counter while breakfast burned on the stove.

Positions. They had tried positions Vox didn't even know existed. Alastor was inventive, creative, and his alpha body seemed to have a flexibility that belied his apparent rigidity. He had had him face up, face down, sideways, sitting in his lap, propped against the wall, hanging from his arms as if he weighed nothing. He had lifted him, turned him, bent him, and Vox had let himself be handled with a submission he had never shown anyone else.

His bag of clothes had proven practically irrelevant. Beyond the shark plushie, which had presided over the nest like a little guardian of fluff, Vox had barely touched the garments he had packed so carefully. He had spent the entire week naked, or in underwear, or wearing one of Alastor's shirts.

That shirt. The only one left in the closet after Vox had emptied the rest to build his nest. It was black silk, soft as water, and reached mid-thigh. Vox had worn it almost every day, enjoying how the fabric brushed against his hypersensitive skin, how Alastor's scent impregnated the fibers and wrapped around him like a constant hug.

Alastor had been... Vox blinked, feeling his eyes grow slightly moist. Caring. The alpha everyone believed incapable of tenderness had cooked for him, carried trays of food to the bed, carried him to the shower when his legs trembled too much to hold him. He had wrapped him in blankets when he was cold, cooled him with damp cloths when he was hot, held him when the waves of pleasure left him trembling and tearful.

And the words.

Those damned words.

When Alastor knotted him, when he was so deep inside him that Vox couldn't tell where he ended and the alpha began, then he whispered things in French. Vox didn't understand a single word. His knowledge of the language was limited to a few basic phrases he'd picked up from media, nothing more. But he didn't need to understand. The sound was enough: the cadence of the language, the way the words rolled off Alastor's tongue like melted candy, the way his voice grew deeper and more intimate just for him.

"Ma petite étoile," he had whispered one night, while the knot held them together and Alastor's fingers traced slow circles on his back. "Tu sens si bon contre moi."

Vox didn't know what it meant, but he had cried anyway.

And now, the last night. The last day of his heat.

They had had slow, lazy sex, completely different from the frantic urgency of the previous days. Alastor had moved inside him with an almost sleepy languor, his thrusts so gentle they barely moved Vox's body on the mattress. They had kissed the whole time, long wet kisses that left them breathless and then started again, their tongues tangling with an intimacy Vox had never shared with anyone.

And then Alastor had parted his lips just enough to whisper, in that French that melted Vox's brain:

"Je vais te remplir de ma semence, mon amour. Tu vas avoir mes petits."

Vox hadn't understood. But he had nodded anyway, clinging to Alastor's neck, his fingers tangled in his red hair, and whispered back:

"Don't stop. Please, never stop."

Alastor had smiled against his lips, that small, intimate smile that only Vox knew, and he hadn't stopped. He hadn't stopped until Vox had passed out from sheer pleasure, his body finally surrendering after seven days of being loved, fucked, knotted, filled over and over again.

That had been the happiest week of his life.

Vox knew it with absolute certainty. He had had happy moments before, of course. The day he arrived in Hell and discovered he could be more than he was. The day he met Valentino and Velvette and together they built VoxTek. The day Alastor marked him, despite everything, despite the alpha leaving afterward.

But nothing, nothing, compared to this week. To waking up every morning in his alpha's arms. To being cared for, fed, held. To feeling desired in a way that went beyond sex, that seeped into every small gesture, every glance, every word in French he didn't understand but felt in his soul.

But it doesn't last forever, Vox thought, and this time the thought did hurt, a little. Bubbles always pop.

His heat had ended. He felt it in his body, in the calm replacing the fever, in the clarity returning to his mind after days of hormonal fog. He no longer had any reason to stay. The deal was fulfilled: Alastor had given him his seed, over and over, all week. Now all that remained was to wait, take the test, confirm that it had worked.

And Alastor hadn't asked him to stay.

Vox sat up in bed carefully, without making a sound, and watched the alpha sleep for another moment. The mark on his nape pulsed softly, a steady beat that reminded him of the connection they shared, but that beat was no longer an urgent call. It was more of an echo, a reminder of what had been, of what might perhaps be again.

I never expected anything more, Vox told himself, as he got out of bed and looked for his clothes. I came for a knot. I got it. Now I'm leaving.

He dressed slowly, savoring each garment that covered him after days of nakedness. The tight pants, the leather jacket, the boots. The clothes that made him Vox, the Overlord of technology, the king of screens, not the submissive omega who had spent an entire week moaning his alpha's name.

When he finished, he looked at himself in the closet mirror. His screen glowed with a healthy tone, his features looked more relaxed than he remembered in a year. There were marks on his neck, purples and reds peeking above his jacket collar, and he did nothing to hide them.

Let them see, he thought, and a small smile curved his lips. Let them know I was his.

The shark plushie was still on the bed, among the wrinkled sheets. Vox looked at it for a moment, hesitating. He should take it, of course. It was his. But...

He left it where it was.

A souvenir. So he knows I was here.

Alastor shifted in bed, and Vox knew the alpha was awake. He didn't pretend to hide it; he just stood still, looking out the window, waiting.

"Leaving already, mon cher?" Alastor's voice was rough with sleep, but there was no surprise in it.

"The heat is over," Vox replied, and his voice came out firm, firmer than he felt. "I have no reason to stay."

Alastor sat up, the sheets falling around his waist, revealing his torso marked by Vox's scratches. His red eyes gleamed in the dim light, and his smile, that eternal smile, curved slowly.

"Well, since I've fulfilled my part of the deal, darling," he said, and his voice had an almost singsong, almost cheerful tone. "We'll see if you fulfill yours."

The open favor, Vox remembered. The third condition. The most dangerous. The one that could cost him everything in the future.

He didn't care.

"I will fulfill it," Vox said, and this time his smile was genuine, wide, showing teeth. "When the time comes."

Alastor nodded, as if expecting that answer. He didn't ask him to stay. He didn't tell him he would miss him. He didn't whisper words in French that Vox wouldn't understand but would etch into his heart forever.

He didn't do any of that.

Because Alastor was Alastor, and Vox was Vox, and between them there was only room for deals and conditions, not empty promises.

Vox turned toward the door, and for a moment, just a moment, he hesitated. He could turn around. Could cross the room, climb into bed, press his face against Alastor's neck and beg him to let him stay. Could cry, plead, humiliate himself if necessary.

But he didn't.

"Goodbye, Alastor," he said, without turning around.

"Au revoir, mon petit écran," Alastor replied, and there was something in his voice, something Vox couldn't identify. It wasn't sadness. It wasn't relief. It was... something.

Vox smiled, and his fingers snapped. His energy enveloped him in the familiar electric sensation of his transportation.

When he arrived at the tower, at his room, he didn't feel empty. Didn't feel cold. Just his body still tingling with pleasure. Just his belly that perhaps, maybe, hopefully, already harbored the beginning of a new life.

Vox placed a hand over his flat stomach and smiled.

A baby, he thought. His baby. Our baby. And for the first time in years, the word "our" didn't taste like a lie.

He didn't seek out Valentino immediately. Vox allowed himself one more moment, just one, to remember. The way Alastor said his name. The way his hands traced his body. The way he whispered in French when he thought Vox was asleep.

"Je t'aime," he had said one night, and Vox had pretended not to hear.

But he had heard it.

And he would keep it in his heart like a secret, like a treasure, like the only truth that mattered.

Vox stood before his mirror and touched his flat belly. It was still too soon; he would have to wait a month to know. But he already felt it, already felt that emotion that it had worked. An euphoric laugh escaped his lips, and he threw himself onto his bed, beginning to plan his life around the arrival of his baby.

-------------------

Valentino was already in his room waiting when Vox came out of the shower wrapped in a fluffy robe.

"One week," Valentino said, and his voice was a contained growl. "One fucking week, Vox. No calls, no messages, no..."

Vox didn't let him finish.

He crossed the distance between them in two strides, took Valentino's face in his hands, and kissed him.

It wasn't a soft kiss, or tentative, or anything like what Valentino expected after seven days of silence. It was a passionate, hungry kiss that left the moth breathless and his body vibrating with confusion. When Vox parted his lips, Valentino blinked several times, his brain trying to process what had just happened.

"It's all over now," Vox whispered against his lips, and his smile was so bright, so radiant, that Valentino felt his fury crumble before he could articulate it. "It's going to work, Val. I'm going to have a baby."

The change in Valentino was instantaneous.

His expression softened, his shoulders relaxed, and his arms wrapped around Vox's waist to draw him against his chest. His lips sought Vox's again, more urgently now, with a barely contained desperation that spoke of days of uncertainty, of sleepless nights, of dark thoughts he had tried to drown in alcohol and work.

"Voxy," Valentino murmured, and his voice was a plea. "I need you. I've needed you all week. Please, let me..."

But Vox put a hand on his chest, stopping him gently but firmly.

"We can't," he said, and though his tone was apologetic, his eyes gleamed with something Valentino couldn't interpret. "Alastor's condition. Remember. No sex until the baby is born."

Valentino frowned, his desire fighting against his logic.

"Even now? Even if you don't know yet if you're..."

"Even now," Vox confirmed, and his fingers caressed Valentino's cheek with a tenderness that disarmed any protest. "But I'll make it up to you, Val. I promise. When the baby is born, when my body is mine again... I'll give you a surprise."

Valentino looked at him for a long moment, his eyes searching his face for some sign, some indication that this was a mistake, that the week with Alastor had changed something fundamental between them.

But Vox smiled, and it was the same smile as always, the one Valentino had learned to love despite everything.

"Alright," Valentino said finally, and his voice was softer now. "But only because I'm so generous and because I know how much this means to you."

Vox leaned against his chest, and Valentino held him, his arms enveloping him completely, his wings spreading to cover them like a blanket of red velvet.

"Thank you," Vox whispered with soft caresses on his chest.

The following month was a rollercoaster of emotions.

Vox couldn't concentrate. His contracts, his projects, his meetings with investors... everything seemed blurry, secondary, irrelevant compared to the one thing occupying his mind: the wait. Every morning he woke up and brought his hand to his belly, hoping to feel something, some change, some sign that Alastor's seed had taken.

But he felt nothing. Only impatience burning under his skin like a fever.

"You need to distract yourself," Velvette told him one afternoon, entering his office without even knocking. The young Overlord dropped onto the couch in front of his desk, crossing her legs with her usual carefree elegance. "You're going to drive yourself crazy if you keep this up, Vox. I've seen you check your belly in the mirror at least twelve times in the last hour. I counted."

Vox looked up from his papers, which he hadn't read at all, and sighed.

"I can't help it, Vel. I need to know. I need..."

"You need patience," Velvette interrupted, pointing a gloved finger at him. "And you need to stop staring at your navel as if it's going to talk. Pregnancy doesn't work like that. Morning sickness usually starts around six weeks. You're only at three."

"I know," Vox murmured, resting his head in his hands. "I know. But I can't stop thinking..."

"That's why you need to distract yourself," Velvette insisted, standing up. "Come with me. I have a fashion show next week and I need a second opinion on the designs. I'll keep you busy."

Vox hesitated for a moment, but finally nodded. Velvette was right. If he kept this up, he'd go mad before it was time to take the test.

The following weeks were a whirlwind of work and distractions. Vox immersed himself in Velvette's projects, in Valentino's negotiations, in everything that could keep his mind occupied. He immersed himself so much that when the nausea arrived, it took him by surprise.

It was an ordinary morning. Vox was in the tower's kitchen, making himself a coffee, when a wave of dizziness hit him with the force of a train. The world spun around him, his screen flickered, and before he could react, he was doubled over the sink, emptying the contents of his stomach.

"Vox?" Valentino's voice came from the doorway, worried. "Are you okay?"

Vox wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and despite the dizziness, despite the discomfort, despite the sour taste on his tongue, he smiled.

"Morning sickness," he said, and his voice trembled with emotion. "It's morning sickness, Val. That means... that has to mean..."

He didn't finish the sentence. Valentino was already beside him, helping him up, holding him with a tenderness he rarely showed.

"Let's do the test," Valentino said, and his voice trembled too. "Right now."

The moment in front of the bathroom was eternal.

Vox had locked himself in with the test, leaving Valentino and Velvette on the other side of the door like nervous sentinels. The silence stretched, heavy, endless, broken only by Valentino's restless footsteps and Velvette's impatient typing on her phone.

"How long has it been?" Valentino asked for the fifth time.

"Three minutes," Velvette replied, not looking up from her screen. "The same as thirty seconds ago when you asked last time."

"It should be out by now. If it were positive, it would be out by now. What if it's negative? What if it's negative again? I don't know if Vox could handle..."

"Val," Velvette interrupted, this time looking up. "Shut up. You're making me nervous too."

Before Valentino could respond, a scream echoed from inside the bathroom.

It wasn't a scream of pain. It wasn't a scream of frustration. It was a scream of joy, pure and shrill, that left Valentino and Velvette frozen for a second before the door burst open.

Vox came out of the bathroom holding the test aloft, waving it like a trophy, like it was the most valuable prize he had ever won. His eyes were full of tears he didn't bother to hide.

"Positive!" Vox shouted, and his voice echoed through the hallway, filling everything. "Positive, positive, POSITIVE!"

And then he began to dance.

It wasn't an elegant or coordinated dance. It was a dance of pure joy, of relief, of disbelief. Vox spun around, waving the test like a flag, and laughed, laughed with such contagious laughter that even Velvette felt the corners of her lips curve upward.

"I'm going to have a baby!" Vox sang, as he twirled around the room. "I'm going to have a baby, I'm going to have a baby, I'M GOING TO HAVE A BABY!"

Valentino was the first to move. He crossed the distance between them in two strides and caught Vox by the waist, stopping his dance to draw him against his chest. And then he leaned down and kissed him, a kiss that was laughter and relief and a million emotions that couldn't be expressed in words.

"Fucking finally," Valentino murmured against his lips. "You're going to have a baby, sweetness."

"We're going to have a baby," Vox corrected, and though he knew it wasn't entirely true, that the credit didn't belong to Valentino, in that moment he didn't care. In that moment he just wanted to share his happiness.

Velvette approached with softer steps, her arms crossed over her chest, but her eyes shone with an emotion she tried unsuccessfully to hide.

"Well, well," she said, in her driest, playfully mocking tone. "Looks like you're finally going to be a mommy. Congratulations, I suppose."

Vox wasn't intimidated by her attitude. He pulled away from Valentino and lunged at Velvette, catching her in such an effusive hug that the doll let out a cry of protest.

"Vox, let me go!" Velvette growled, though she didn't struggle to free herself. "I'm not a hugger."

"Today you are," Vox replied, squeezing her tighter. "Today we all hug."

Velvette rolled her eyes, but her arms finally rose to return the hug, just for a moment, just long enough for Vox to feel that she was happy for him too.

When Vox finally pulled away, he was still holding the test, and he brought it close to Velvette's face for her to see.

"Look," he said, pointing at the two lines confirming the result. "Two lines, Vel. Two. Do you see it?"

Velvette turned her face away with a grimace of disgust.

"That has urine on it," she said, gently pushing Vox's hand away. "Get it out of my face."

But Vox wasn't offended. He kept smiling, kept radiant, kept floating on a cloud of happiness that nothing could tarnish.

"I'm going to have a baby," he said, more to himself than to the others, and the word sounded so good, so right, that he felt his eyes fill with new tears.

"We're going to have a baby," Valentino confirmed, wrapping an arm around him.

Vox leaned against him, and for a moment, just a moment, everything was almost perfect.

The second month brought the first visible changes.

It wasn't much at first. A small bump, barely perceptible, appearing low on his belly like a promise. Vox discovered it one morning, coming out of the shower, when his hand found a protrusion that hadn't been there the week before.

He stood looking at himself in the mirror for a long while, his palm flat on the tiny bulge, and felt a wave of tenderness wash over him.

Hello, he thought, addressing the little being growing inside him. Hello, little one.

The doctor confirmed that everything was fine. That the pregnancy was progressing normally, that the measurements were correct, that there was no reason to worry. Vox left the appointment with an ultrasound in his hand, a small blurry image showing a tiny shape barely beginning to take form.

He framed the ultrasound and placed it on his nightstand, where he could see it every morning when he woke up.

The morning sickness had diminished, though not disappeared entirely. Some mornings Vox still woke up with an upset stomach, and other times a sudden smell could trigger a dizzy spell. But he didn't care. Every retch was a reminder that the baby was still there, growing, living.

And the happiness... the happiness was overwhelming.

Vox couldn't stop smiling. He walked through the halls of V Tower with a hand on his belly, caressing the small bump, talking to it in a low voice when he thought no one was listening. His employees looked at him with curiosity, whispering among themselves, but Vox didn't care. Nothing mattered except the little being growing inside him.

"You're radiant," Valentino told him one night, as they lay in bed (without touching, always without touching, respecting Alastor's condition even though it hurt). "I've never seen you like this, Voxy."

"It's the baby," Vox replied, caressing his belly with a dreamy smile. "It makes me happy."

Valentino looked at him for a long moment, and there was something in his expression, something Vox couldn't interpret. Jealousy, perhaps. Or insecurity. Or the simple recognition that this happiness, this fullness, didn't come from him.

But he said nothing. He simply took Vox's hand and squeezed it between his own.

"I'm glad to see you becoming your old self again, Vox," he said and leaned in to steal a kiss. "You also look sexier every day."

Velvette, for her part, had taken the pregnancy as a personal project.

"I'm not going to let you dress like a bum just because you're gestating," she announced one afternoon, bursting into Vox's office with an armful of fabrics and sketches. "I've been designing maternity clothes. For you. Because the stupid designers in Hell have no idea what fashion means for pregnant omegas."

Vox raised an eyebrow, observing the sketches Velvette spread across his desk. They were beautiful, of course. Everything Velvette designed was beautiful. Flowing fabrics that would adapt to his growing belly, colors that flattered the tone of his screen, cuts that concealed the areas Vox preferred to keep private.

"Vel, this is..." Vox began, but Velvette interrupted him.

"Incredible, I know. You don't have to tell me. Now, stand up. I need to take your measurements."

Vox obeyed, letting Velvette measure him while she murmured about seams and fabrics and trends. And while she worked, Vox placed a hand on his belly, now a clearly visible bump under his shirt, and smiled.

The ultrasound on his nightstand showed a shape that grew week by week. The small bump on his belly expanded day by day. And the happiness in his chest grew larger with every beat of his heart.

Alastor, he thought sometimes, when the night was silent and Valentino slept beside him. I wonder if you know. I wonder if you think of me. I wonder if...

He never let the thought finish.

But the mark on his nape pulsed, soft and constant, and Vox smiled, letting his frequency vibrate through the mark.

-------------------------------

The mark burned.

It wasn't pain, not exactly. It was more of a constant, gentle burn, like an ember that had settled into his nape and refused to go out. Vox had felt it since the moment the pregnancy test came back positive, but in the last few weeks it had intensified, becoming more insistent, more present.

It's the baby, Vox told himself, his fingers absently caressing the mark. Or the babies. It's Alastor reminding me that this is his.

Because there was no doubt who the father was. Alastor's seed had taken, had grown, had multiplied inside him, and now his belly rounded day by day with the evidence of that fact. The mark burned like a constant reminder, like a brand of ownership etched into his skin.

I don't need you to remind me, Vox thought, but the mark kept burning, and his hand kept caressing it, and a part of him, that part that had spent seventy years longing for Alastor, reveled in that burn.

The third and a half month arrived without warning, like everything related to Alastor.

Vox was in his office, feet propped on the desk, a tablet in his hands, slowly scrolling through a baby names page. He had started looking out of curiosity, just to pass the time, but now he had been hooked for an hour, unable to decide between options ranging from traditional to absurd.

Alastor Jr., he thought, and a smile twisted his lips. No. Too pretentious. And he would mock it.

Vox Jr., he thought next, and immediately dismissed the idea. I'm not naming him after myself. That's what narcissistic parents do.

Valentino... No. Definitely not. Valentino had already hinted that he would like the baby to have his name, and Vox had changed the subject with a speed bordering on rudeness. That wasn't going to happen. This baby was his and Alastor's. Valentino had nothing to do with that aspect.

And besides, he needed two names. He suddenly remembered and placed a hand on his belly, which already showed a considerable bump for three and a half months. The doctor said it was too early to know for sure, but everything indicated there were two.

Two babies. Two little beings with Alastor's blood running through their veins. The idea was terrifying and wonderful in equal measure.

The cloud of shadows appeared without warning, materializing in the center of the office like a stain of darkness that grew and writhed. Vox looked up from his tablet, an eyebrow arched, without surprise, without fear. He had been expecting this, somehow. The mark had burned more intensely that morning, and he had known that something was about to happen.

Alastor emerged from the shadows with his usual elegance, his perpetual smile in place, his microphone in one hand and...

Vox blinked.

The shark plushie.

Alastor held the shark against his chest, his arms wrapped around it. The plushie looked the same as always: faded, worn, with a fin sewn so many times it looked more scar than fabric. But in Alastor's arms, surrounded by static and shadows, it seemed almost... sacred.

"You forgot this in my territory," Alastor said, and his voice was light, almost casual. "I thought you might miss it."

Vox leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest, and arched an eyebrow skeptically.

"Oh, and you're so considerate that you came to bring it to me personally?" he asked, and his tone was mocking, but his eyes couldn't look away from the shark. "You could have sent one of your voodoo servants. Or a messenger. Or just... done nothing."

Alastor set the shark on Vox's desk, placing it carefully, as if it were a valuable object. His fingers stroked the plushie's head for a moment, and Vox felt his heart accelerate at that small gesture.

"I could have," Alastor admitted, straightening up. "But I also thought it would be a good opportunity to find out if my... effort... had borne fruit. You haven't had the courtesy to inform me, darling."

Vox smiled, a slow, playful smile that curved his lips in a way he knew would provoke Alastor.

"I didn't think you'd want to know," he said, shrugging. "You fulfilled your part of the deal. Mine will come when you decide. We didn't agree on a follow-up."

Alastor opened his mouth to respond, probably with some biting comment or sharp observation, but he never got the words out.

Because Vox stood up.

And his belly, his swollen, round belly, became completely visible.

The shirt he was wearing, one of Velvette's creations, was tight enough to show his silhouette but fluid enough to be comfortable. And beneath the fabric, the bump of his pregnancy was undeniable. Not huge, not for three and a half months, but visible. It was real. It was the living proof that Alastor's seed had taken.

Vox watched Alastor's eyes settle on his belly, saw his smile tighten slightly, saw his deer ears turn forward, as if listening for something his ears couldn't quite catch.

"You tell me," Vox said, and his voice was a playful, intimate whisper. "Do you think it worked?"

The silence stretched between them, charged with electricity and recognition. Alastor didn't respond immediately. His red eyes traced Vox's belly with an intensity that made the omega shiver, and then slowly rose to meet his gaze.

"That would explain why I feel so much happiness through the mark," he said, and his voice was softer than Vox expected. "I've been feeling it for weeks. A constant, warm joy that isn't mine... but it was this, wasn't it? It's the baby."

Vox nodded, and his hand instinctively descended to rest on his belly, caressing the bump with a tenderness he couldn't hide.

"Yes," he said simply. "It's the baby."

Another silence. Alastor didn't move, didn't speak, just watched. His eyes remained fixed on Vox's belly, and there was something in his expression, something Vox couldn't interpret. Fascination, perhaps. Or surprise. Or something deeper, something Alastor would never allow to show on his face.

"Do you want to touch it?" Vox asked, and the question escaped his lips before he could stop it.

Alastor looked up, and his eyebrows arched slightly.

"Why would I do that?" he asked, and his tone was almost defensive, as if Vox had proposed something improper.

Vox smiled, and approached Alastor with slow, deliberate steps. His hips swayed slightly, his belly preceding him like a promise, and when he was close enough, he took Alastor's hand in his.

The alpha's hand was warm, warmer than he remembered, and his fingers tensed for a moment before relaxing under Vox's touch.

"Because they haven't stopped kicking since you arrived," Vox said, and his voice was a whisper.

He placed Alastor's hand on his belly, right where the bump was most prominent, and pressed gently, ensuring the contact was firm.

Alastor went completely still.

His ears twitched, once, twice, as if adjusting to a sound only he could hear. His smile had softened into an expression of such intense concentration that Vox almost laughed.

And then he felt it.

A small movement against his palm. A weak tap, almost imperceptible, but unmistakable. Something inside Vox's belly had moved, pressed against the wall of his uterus, reached for Alastor's hand as if it knew it was there.

Alastor's eyes widened slightly, and Vox would have sworn he saw something like wonder cross his face.

"They?" Alastor repeated, and his voice was strangely slow, as if processing the word. "You said 'they haven't stopped kicking.' Plural."

Vox nodded, and his smile widened, showing teeth.

"There are two," he said, and the word sounded so good, so complete, that he felt his eyes grow moist. "Twins. The doctor said I'll know for sure in a week, but I know there are two, otherwise I wouldn't feel so much movement. They'll be..."

He couldn't finish the sentence.

Because Alastor murmured something in French, so low that Vox could barely hear it, and his fingers moved over Vox's belly, stroking the fabric of his shirt with surprising gentleness.

"Mon Dieu," Alastor whispered, without his broadcaster's filter. "Deux. Il y en a deux."

Another movement against his palm, stronger this time, as if one of the babies had decided to make its presence even more known. Alastor inhaled sharply, and his fingers pressed slightly against the fabric, responding to his child's touch.

Vox watched in silence, not daring to breathe. He had never seen Alastor like this. The Radio Demon, the most powerful Overlord, was looking at his belly as if it were the most fascinating object he had ever beheld. His ears had relaxed, pointing forward, and his smile, though still present, was softer.

"Do you feel them?" Vox asked, and his voice was barely a whisper.

"Yes," Alastor replied, and the word escaped his lips as if it were a secret. "I feel them."

But moments never last forever.

Alastor withdrew his hand slowly, and Vox felt the loss of warmth like a small wound. The alpha stepped back, his expression returning to its usual mask of indifference, though his eyes still gleamed with something Vox couldn't name.

"Two," Alastor repeated, as if savoring the word. "I should have imagined. I always do everything in excess."

Vox laughed, a short, surprised laugh.

"That's what you have to say? That you did things in excess?"

"It's a compliment," Alastor replied, and his smile regained some of its usual edge. "It means I'm... efficient."

"Efficient," Vox repeated, rolling his eyes. "Sure. You're so full of yourself."

Alastor leaned toward him, and for a moment, just a moment, Vox thought he was going to kiss him. But the alpha simply took the shark plushie from the desk and placed it in Vox's arms, as if it were a real baby.

"Don't lose it," Alastor said, and his smile turned sharp. "And take care of yourself. Remember you owe me a favor."

Vox squeezed the shark against his chest, feeling the worn fabric press against his swollen belly.

"I remember," he said. "I haven't forgotten."

Alastor nodded, and the shadows began to stir around him, calling him back to his territory.

"I'll see you later, mon cher," he said, and his eyes traced Vox's belly one last time. "All three of you."

And then he disappeared, dissolving into the darkness as if he had never been there.

Vox stood alone in his office, the shark in his arms, the mark on his nape burning more intensely than ever. His hands descended to his belly.

One of the babies kicked, hard, as if protesting the loss of the warmth of Alastor's hand.

Vox smiled, and dropped into his chair, the shark still pressed against his chest.