Chapter Text
Vox grinned down at him, hand held out, smiling bright and friendly and cute on his silly picture box head.
Alastor's hand twitched with the instinct to just accept, to keep him smiling like that a little longer.
He liked his picture box dearly. He liked his ruthlessness, his charm, his dancing, his manipulations, his wit, his violence.
He felt a warmth in his chest.
Wrong. That was wrong.
(His breath came quick, heart pounding in his ears.)
It was alien, foreign, threatening.
(A spoon in his hand, a calloused palm on his cheek, a wracking cough from a deathbed.)
He didn't feel things like this creeping fondness.
(A friendly face laid cold in the mud, sirens ringing out around them.)
(His favourite club's best saxophonist, barefoot, swaying in the wind.)
(Himself, so, so, small, clutching at skirts and being swatted away.)
Black smudges edged in on his vision.
The world fizzed away.
(A twig snaps. A gun fires.)
"Together." Vox glowed like headlights in the night. "As partners."
He was in danger.
The world came back into focus. Danger was familiar. He knew how to respond to danger.
***
"What's under here then, papi?"
Valentino picked at Vox's shirt so casually it almost looked like he didn't care that, in the month they'd been sleeping together, Vox had never taken it off.
Credit to him, Vox had done a decent job pretending it was an accident. Too eager and pushy to get to it, or making it a power play, or pinning down Val's limbs with his cables to keep him from undressing him.
Val was tired of waiting though - more than that, he was tired of being curious. Whatever Vox was hiding, he was ashamed of it, and, in the hands of an expert, shame twisted beautifully into pleasure.
Vox's silly little boxy face streaked with grey snow, eyes wide, antennae wilting. He looked so uncomfortable.
Valentino straddled his waist, both sets of hands at work undoing his buttons. It took Vox precious seconds to fumble his way to stopping his upper hands, clamping down on his shirt with his elbows and pushing his plump chest up into a fiendish distraction.
He really was hypnotic.
But Val was determined.
He pinned his hands with his upper arms and continued with his lower, slow and sensual now as Vox squirmed beneath him, his words straddling the line between ordering and begging him to stop.
"Wait, Val, stop it - seriously, I mean it, that's enough, Val, pl- let go of me, you can't-"
He let the shirt sit as it was, each button undone, his chest covered and private and safe, if barely, the fabric a curtain about to reveal all his secrets to him.
He interlaced their fingers and leaned down for a kiss. Vox returned it.
He traced the line of revealed skin, smooth like the best silicon toys one way, rough like sandpaper the other, in a handsome navy blue. Through the white shirt, he could make out the sensitive squares of his nipples, glowing faintly.
He was lucky Val liked him so much, because his body was so stupid. It was embarrassing.
Next time he was subbing with someone else, he might suggest they degrade him over his relationship with this ugly little nerd. That would be hot.
Sometime, he'd have to degrade Vox the same way, maybe tie him to a cuck chair, bring in a third, show him how big they were, how they satisfied him, how he moaned for them. Show him how much prettier all his other fucktoys were, how worthless he was and how lucky he was that Val thought he was worth fucking. He would cry so prettily, would beg so nicely for Val to be good to him again. Maybe Val would just keep being mean.
Maybe if he said the right horrible words to him, they would mark themselves on his skin. Fuuuuuuck, that was so hot.
Vox was limp under him, breathing shallow, shirt billowing weakly under his fans. His screen was almost grey.
His hands trembled in his.
Whatever. He'd suck his dick or something after this, and they'd be even. It was stupid he wouldn't let him see him anyway.
He held eye contact with Vox as he pushed the shirt open, watched his pupils shrink, his eyes water, before he slammed them shut.
"Please, don't."
He was beautiful like this.
Val kissed him again, and he didn't resist.
He sat up, squeezing Vox's hands in his, and looked down, his eyes immediately drawn to the words written in scratchy red ink around his heart.
"I am quite disappointed in you."
Valentino grinned. He could definitely work with this.
***
"Hey, Alastor, did you- Oh!" Charlie half-skidded into the kitchen in her haste, immediately distracted by the sight of Alastor without his coat. Her eyes caught on his rolled up sleeves, his ungloved hands, the fit of his vest, before she averted her gaze.
It wasn't that there was anything wrong with what she was seeing or anything, it wasn't inappropriate, but it.
Well, on Alastor, it felt inappropriate. Unguarded.
Even looking away, his ease was visible throughout the room, in the dishes not yet washed, a tin of yeast and bag of flour left out on the countertop, in the cheery, charming music she could hear him humming to.
"Hm?" He didn't look up from kneading dough, or show any visible discomfort at being seen in a less-than-pristine state.
Her heart warmed to see him growing comfortable here.
He glanced up at her and oh shit she forgot what she was here for. Hopefully it wasn't important. If he would let her stay while he was being a… normal person, kinda, she wouldn't want to squander that.
"What are you making?" she asked.
"Bread. It will need some time to prove, but should be ready for lunch. I'll prepare the toppings in the meantime."
She settled in a chair, close enough to watch but not so close she was in his way. "What does that mean? What does the bread need to prove?"
He chuckled. And then explained.
He gesticulated as he did, animated and content, tossing flour about the place, and she jumped up to fetch him an apron. With his hands sticky with dough, he let her place it over his head for him, but objected firmly to her tying it about his waist.
"That would be wholly unseemly, Charlie, dear," he gestured, and, closer now, her eyes caught on a flash of blue across his palm, "And your efforts were enough to save my outfit, and Niffty from the work of restoring it."
She wasn't quite listening, instead staring at the words, written from the base of his palm to the inner knuckle of his thumb.
"Together, as partners!"
That was the worst thing a soulmatch ever said to him?
Alastor found a soulmatch? Where were they?
They should be with him, right? She should have met them. Charlie and Vaggie were basically joined at the hip, after all.
(The words wrapped around her own wrist like a clasped hand burned. "You don't want me." It hurt, but it was also good. Sure, Vaggie said that, which was awful, and confusing, but the fact that she had the mark was proof that it was wrong!
She usually liked to scribble over the "don't". It was more honest like that.)
She knew she'd been staring too long when he dashed to the sink to wash his hands, dough unfinished and steps just a bit too quick and a bit too haphazard compared to his usual casual grace.
He would probably prefer if she pretended she hadn't seen anything. He was a pretty private guy, and he hadn't meant to share that, and acknowledging it aloud would make him uncomfortable.
Ignoring discomfort didn't get rid of it though. It just let it fester.
"Sorry for staring," she said. "It wasn't any of my business."
With his back to her, she couldn't see his smile. Just his tense shoulders and stiff ears. He towelled off his hands, careful with each digit, the cloth always covering the right completely.
"Could you pass me my gloves, please, Charlie, dear?"
She opened her mouth, then closed it.
She passed him his gloves.
He slipped them back on beneath the towel, which he then hung up carefully, adjusting it to sit perfectly straight and without creases.
When he turned around, he was smiling like nothing had happened. He rolled down his sleeves and fetched his coat and summoned a little minion to finish off the dough, as though he had not clearly been having a great time working on it himself.
"I'll… I'll let you get back to it, Alastor." Charlie edged towards the door. She'd ruined everything, but maybe he could be okay on his own. "I'm sorry I disturbed you."
"That's quite alright, my dear." He stepped forwards, casual and easy, and placed himself between her and the door. "But if you'd like, you could do me a little favour."
He purred the words as a threat, his eyes dark and ticking. She steeled her resolve.
(He was just stressed, and scary, and he was usually scary so this was no different.
He wasn't normally mad at her, but she didn't normally catch him… vulnerable.)
"What can I do for you?"
He leaned in closer. "I value my privacy very highly, my dear. I would prefer it if you kept anything you saw to yourself."
Her instinct was to look at his hand again, never mind that the mark was now covered up, but he was too close.
The mark wasn't greyed out though, she knew that much, and she also knew he didn't seem to have any close friends. Definitely not any 'partners'.
"Do they know about the mark?"
Static screamed around her in confirmation.
She hopped back a step, skipping to the side around him and barely dodging a lashing hand. They both froze.
He retracted his hand, holding it primly behind his back with the other. It was as good of an apology as she would get, and he hadn't actually touched her anyway.
She didn't blame him. It seemed more reflex than intent for him to lash out when he felt threatened. She'd have to talk to him about that another time; he'd hurt himself as much as the people around him if he couldn't manage that better.
She wondered how many pieces he'd left his soulmatch in. Hopefully just the one, and it was awful of her to assume otherwise, but she knew well how much it hurt to get a mark. There was no way he took it well.
"I won't tell anyone," she said, an apology of her own.
He nodded, then stepped aside for her to leave.
She circled around him, but hesitated before opening the door. "If you ever do want to talk, though-"
"I don't."
But he knew he could go to her. That would have to be enough.
She gave him a nod goodbye, and left.
What was she doing before anyway?
Oh shit the tax forms-
***
"-you know, no one in Hell is even afraid of you anymore, everyone looks at you and just sees my fluffy little prey, my prisoner-"
A day of showboating and parades and praise was ending in Vox's private lounge, alone with a bound Alastor and scrambling to find the words:
"-and no one thinks you're funny, or charming, or likes to hear you talk, they just put up with it because they had to, and now they don't! Not now that you're powerless, my fucking - my little bitch, you're my fucking-"
Vox grabbed at Alastor's ears and pulled harshly, claws all over his face and neck, eyes hungry.
He just had to find the right words. He has to say the right thing, the worst thing, and Alastor would understand.
He ran a claw over the delicate skin under his eye. If he said the right words now, they should appear there. His words, permanent, across Alastor's fucking face for everyone to see. He fucking deserved it.
He just had to find the right words.
Alastor was laughing at him.
Vox dug the claw in, wondered if ripping his eye out would be as satisfying as writing Alastor's hurt across his cheek.
"Goodness, Vox!" he chuckled, uncaring at the blood dripping down his cheek, "You're acting like a teenage boy on his first date! Throwing out the worst words you can think of and hoping something will stick. Don't you know I have to care about what you think for your words to hurt me?"
"Fuck you!"
He held his face tight, inches from his own, both of them snarling into the same air. He could just kiss him now. There was nothing Alastor could do to stop him.
Alastor's tongue darted out to lick up his blood.
Freak, Vox thought, far too fondly.
He loosened his grip on his face and sat back, half-falling into his own chair.
"So," Alastor smirked, "What did I say?"
Like fuck was Vox going to tell him that.
"I am quite disappointed in you."
Like it was actually possible to be good enough for Alastor, and he had simply failed. Like even with fate itself telling them to try again, Alastor simply didn't see the point.
Why the fuck would Alastor even want him, with his disappointment written atop his heart? Even knowing he was supposed to, from a begging Vincent on his doorstep, hat in hand, the day after their fight, he had simply closed the door on him. Hadn't even fought him, not 'til Vox forced him to.
Decades of growing bigger and brighter, one of the most powerful sinners in Hell, most influential, most wealthy, most respected and beloved and capable didn't keep him from Alastor's door every few years, asking if he was good enough yet.
(It shouldn't still hurt like this. It wasn't like Alastor was his only mark. Scrawled across his hip were the words, "I only date tens. And Vox." It still stung.
It was just a matter of time, they all knew, before he or Velvette came out with something cutting enough to mark the other. He was pretty sure she and Val had a bet on about it. He was almost looking forward to it.)
He'd bested him. He had to be good enough now.
Vox stood, pulled inexorably into Alastor's space again. He ran his fingers through his hair, slowly tightening his grip, and Alastor just smiled wider in response. Always so fucking opaque, he probably wouldn't even tell him if he-
He wouldn't tell Vox if he did mark him.
He wouldn't have told Vox if he had marked him.
Vox smiled, big and bright and predatory. Blue light glinted off of Alastor's teeth.
"I already got you, didn't I?"
Alastor laughed. He was always going to laugh.
Vox didn't let it bother him. He let him have a moment, let him pretend his bluff would work, let him bluster, then twisted his grip and yanked his head back.
On anyone else that neck would be a sure sign of death, pulled back a full hundred-and-eighty degrees, bone grotesque and visible under skin. Alastor didn't even stop laughing.
Cables adjusted themselves, pinning his arms to the armrests and leaving his torso available.
Vox let his free hand drift to Alastor's bowtie, undoing it with the ease of a man who wore the same item every day. The top buttons were trickier one-handed, but still opened smoothly enough to get the point across.
Alastor didn't stop laughing, only paused to inhale - too sharp - as his shoulders went tense. Vox grazed his claws across Alastor's wound, plucked at the stitches. He couldn't see his face at this angle, but he could see his pinned ears, could hear the increasing strain of his laugh.
"You can tell me where it is," he leaned in close, wished he had breath to brush across the raised hair on his ears, "Or I can find it myself. Your choice."
If he didn't already have words, he thought, watching Alastor stiffen so he couldn't tremble, he was pretty sure those words would be burning across his body right about now.
He gave Alastor a moment to process, then undid the next button.
Alastor didn't give in.
Another button. So much chest on display, visible ribs, soft fur he longed to run his hand through.
He refrained, instead undoing the next button.
Alastor still didn't give in.
Something curdled where Vox's gut should be. He would keep going, there was no other option, but that didn't mean he wanted to.
He plucked at the next button, but didn't undo it just yet.
His hand in Alastor's hair was loose, idly petting him. He wasn't sure if Alastor was leaning into the touch or not, but he sure wasn't pulling away.
He scratched his scalp. Alastor shivered.
"Hand." The word came as an exhale. "Right hand."
Vox did his buttons back up. He retied his bowtie. He tried to gently lever his head back into place, then left off when Alastor resisted.
He forcibly opened the fingers of Alastor's right hand, his own fingers slid underneath in imitation of a mutual hold.
He peeled off his glove, lifting and turning the hand to see his own vulnerability stare back at him.
"You ruined it," Alastor said, head still turned up and away from him. Vox wondered if he kept smiling when no one could see it. "You could have left things as they were, but you had to ruin it."
Vox traced those three words with a fingertip, gripping tight with his other hand so Alastor couldn't pull away.
The mark's placement wasn't lost on him. A handshake, a partnership: the worst thing he could have offered him.
He didn't understand.
"You know what this means," he said. "You were supposed to come back. We were supposed to try again."
"No."
No wit, no passion, no explanation. He wasn't worth any of that. Just refusal.
"Why not?"
"Because I don't want to."
"Why not?"
Alastor worked his jaw, then forcibly relaxed.
Vox grabbed his shoulders and shook him.
"Why don't you want me, Alastor?" He could feel ashamed tomorrow. Today, he wanted answers. "What did I do to ruin it?"
"You asked."
Vox released him to clutch at the sides of his screen. Fuck, he missed having hair, having something to grab and ground himself. He couldn't grip as tight as he wanted to without cracking his screen.
"That can't be it!"
Alastor shrugged.
"Tell me!"
"You asked," Alastor said, "And in that moment I knew I had to get rid of you."
Like the sky was red and Val was a whore and Alastor was a smug little prick. A fact. Irrefutable.
He had to get rid of him.
"Why?"
"Because I did."
Vox grabbed the closest heavy object he could find - a desk lamp - and hurled it at the wall. Alastor kicked his feet lightly, the picture of comfort, even with his head tilted and expression hidden. He hummed.
"Explain it to me!"
"I don't see why I should."
Vox clenched his fists. One breath in, one out. Another.
He dropped back into his seat, it sliding back a little on its wheels at the force.
"Explain it to me," he said, tone even in a way he didn't feel, "And I'll let you go."
Alastor stiffened. His feet stopped kicking, then restarted, choppy and stilted.
Right. "And if you're up to something," Vox added, "I'll let you. I'll help you, even."
Alastor chuckled, low and throaty and deeply unhappy. "A partnership?"
Blood dripped from a clenched fist. Vox's words stained red.
Vox dropped his head into his hands. "For old times' sake."
Alastor hummed in contemplation. Vox gave him a full ten seconds to think, just sitting and listening to his heart pump straining ever more, even as he tried to calm down.
"Are you sure," Alastor asked, "That you're offering me something worth the price you're asking for?"
So he was definitely up to something. He should have known. Fuck.
Something he didn't need Vox's help with, obviously, but also something he - unless he was bluffing, entirely possible - was sure he could accomplish even with Vox trying to intervene.
That was an issue for later.
In the meantime, he could threaten to let him go, deny him whatever he wanted from him, if he wouldn't explain. It would be the smart thing to do.
Hell, getting rid of him anyway would be the smart thing to do - the last thing he wanted right now was to get caught in the Radio Demon's schemes, and throwing him away like an undersized fish would only serve to make him look more powerful. The guy who'd beaten the Radio Demon didn't even care to hold him prisoner, he was so beneath him.
He wondered what Alastor wanted so desperately he was willing to drop himself, helpless, in the lap of his nemesis. He wondered how much Alastor trusted that he wouldn't hurt him. He wondered if neither was true, and he simply didn't consider any of what Vox could do to him worth worrying about.
…On the other hand, it was possible that Alastor really was just so awful at talking about his feelings that he genuinely didn't consider Vox's assistance worth the cost.
Maybe it wasn't that Vox wasn't a threat to him, even with Alastor at his mercy, but that Alastor just really, really, didn't want to talk to him.
He could haggle. Set himself up to be completely screwed over in exchange for peanuts. It might be worth it. He'd wanted those peanuts for decades.
All he wanted was his regard. There weren't many promises in life or death, but Soulmatches came pretty close.
Alastor was supposed to be his. He'd known it for decades, had no way to deny it, and denied it anyway.
Vox really wasn't asking for much.
"Fuck you, Alastor!"
He grabbed his shoulders, felt them tense under his grip, and electrocuted him. Alastor twisted, bones cracking, static shrieking around him.
Alastor laughed. He still wouldn't fucking look at him.
Vox stopped the voltage, but held the grip. He straddled him, an enemy sat in his hostage's lap, feeling his heat and bony thighs.
"I'm not asking for anything you don't owe me."
Alastor hummed. Vox's claws bit into his shoulders, puncturing the meat. Blood darkened his coat.
He loosened his hold.
His head dropped to Alastor's chest. With how hard he pressed, if he'd had flesh on his face, he probably could have felt the stitches through Alastor's layers.
Alastor sighed. "You're so sure that I have what you're asking for."
He felt his voice vibrating in his chest, against his face.
Vox pressed in harder.
"Of course you do."
One of Alastor's hands tugged at the wires binding it. Vox let it go, and it came up to pet the side of his casing.
"I couldn't know for sure what this little deal of yours would compel me to say. If you kept me talking to your satisfaction, I don't think I would ever stop."
Vox wrapped his arms around him, all skin and bones and fine-tailored fabric. He wondered what he would smell like, if he had a nose. Probably blood. Dirt. Rot. Cigarettes and alcohol and jazz bars and dancing and the belief that he was wanted.
He squeezed him until he squeaked, then did it again until pointed teeth snapped at his antennae, the hand on his casing starting to scrape.
He pulled back, kneeling precariously atop his prisoner, both balanced on a wheeled desk chair, his hands gripping Alastor's sides for stability.
"Just give me something, Alastor."
And there he went. Bargaining himself down to nothing.
Alastor looked down on him, unflappable as ever. He might have been planning to kill him, or thinking over his offer, or listening to some old rag in his head, bored by Vox's pleading.
"I have a response for you, Vox," he said, eventually, "That is the truth, though you will certainly find it unsatisfying. Would it suffice?"
Probably not.
But if it was all he was going to get, then…
Vox held out his hand. "Tell me your honest response, even if it's unsatisfying, and I'll either let you go or help you with your current scheme, as you request."
Alastor raised his hand, black and blue and red all over. Vox gripped it, and the room lit up.