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Alastor never wanted to have sex when he was alive.
It would’ve been easier if he had.
Since he was young, he’s been approached by many fair ladies, young and old, and denied them wishes to court — watched their faces twist from practiced confidence to disgruntled rejection as they stomped back to their groups, sniding his heartless words beneath their breath as they went. He tried to be kind, but it was easy for them to see past his charm when their minds were already set.
Regardless, he knew it wasn’t their fault. He knew he was inhuman.
The same pit inside of him that yearned for blood and hungered for flesh swayed him from the carnal desires of humanity. If he were a man of scripture — a Priest, a Sadhu, a Monk — his freedom from such thoughts would be praised and he would be honored for his commitment to celibacy. But he was no longer a man of any loving god, having long since twisted the good nature of his mother’s gods.
He always believed that after death, there would be others like him in Hell. Other cannibals and killers and heartless creatures in human skin who felt nothing towards others. Everyone for themselves, with transactional partnerships and beastly romances that fed on mutual pain.
Instead, Hell was a cesspit of another kind, and he was a fool to begin throwing around trust.
It started one night when they were sat together on Alastor's couch. Him and Vincent. His friend.
Friend was a funny word. A friendship only held the importance that was placed upon it. For some, a few conversations on lunch breaks would suffice, ‘Oh yes, him? Yes we’re friends.’ Do you know their surname? Their favorite color? Their drink of choice after a long and miserable day? No? That’s alright, it's only a word.
But to Alastor, friendship was to be earned, and Vincent was no exception.
He was a funny little thing. A chatterbox in every way possible, who somehow managed to steal the hearts of all those around him, despite the way he spoke of such random things like space and seas and currents in the air. Yet Alastor invited him for a drink and let his nonsense words fill the space between them until they landed back in his home, sprawled together and sinking into his wine-red couch.
They did that a lot since they had made their deal: when Vincent asked to be partners and Alastor had had half a mind to panic, laugh in his face and leave. But he hadn’t. Because Vincent, strange and stupid as he was, was right. He was his friend.
A friend whom he trusted — loved — as much as he was capable of such a ridiculous thing.
"Hey, Al?" Vincent slurred as he melted back into the cushions, vibrant blue claws stretched around a an empty glass. "Do ya- do you think we could rule hell one day?"
They were drunk. Both of them. So Vincent wasn't truly to blame — and who could've blamed him? Alastor had done nothing but lead him on. Like he did every time with every lady and gentleman from his past.
"Perhaps I could." He reasoned, unknowing, with a mischievous tilt of his head and a playful smile. The movement pounded through his head, and he realised that his ears had flopped alongside it. The innocent question was nothing new — Vox had always been ambitious, and he was quite happy to bounce alongside his fantasies. "Though, I suppose I'd be willing to let you survive afterwards."
Between yawns, Vincent nodded and shuffled closer. "Thanks, Al."
He should’ve noticed the signs before. He’d seen them all before and for weeks he'd watched and for weeks he hadn't said a thing.
The quiet glances as they sat side by side at each overlord meeting, sneaking smiles which turned far too soft for their sharpened teeth. The way that Vincent would keep his eyes trained on Alastor in a crowd, ignoring the rest of a room in favor of his swinging hips. The subtle movements of his hands as they itched to run through Alastor's ears. He made comments - most of his acquaintances did — saying how cute they were, and how pretty he was.
He'd allowed it.
The others who’d stare would be impaled by tentacles or torn apart by shadows. But not Vincent.
In truth it was because he liked the television.
He liked having someone who spotted him across a room and came bounding to his side. He liked it when someone asked if he could learn to play piano or asked to cook together or dance and sing or even sit together in peacefully serene company as they ignored the empty threats of Hell.
So this time, when Vincent's drunken body sagged against him, he allowed it as well. Not just that, but he leant into it, softening the fall of the boxy head against his shoulder.
Except, Vincent didn't fall asleep.
Because a blue tipped claw snaked its way onto Alastor's leg.
Had Alastor lifted his leg, Vincent’s fingers would've been able to circle his thigh, allowing the claws of his fingers to clank against the claws of his thumb as they encompassed him whole.
But Alastor didn't move. He sat stark still as Vincent tightened his grip, feeling the soft pressure of the little fat atop his leg squish beneath his hand.
Vincent was looking up at him. Grinning. A toothy thing, so unlike his usual facade of charming elegance that graced Hell’s television screens. It was the smile that Alastor used to differentiate between Vox and Vincent. Hell’s Vox and his Vincent. The Overlord who stole the hearts of sinners and hellborns alike. And the man who’d burrowed into Alastor’s head and built himself a home.
Alastor liked Vincent and Vincent was clearly getting something out of this. There was no harm done. Just a hand on his leg.
So, when he looked through tired eyes to meet his friend's questioning face, Alastor just nodded. He didn't realise what those eyes were asking him — didn't think about what his own nod had condemned him to. Because it didn't mean anything to him. He shouldn't have drank so much.
"Really?"
The stars in Vincent's eyes should've been a warning, but Alastor failed to heed it. He just twisted his head, feeling the jarring, unfamiliar brush of metal casing against his sensitive ears, and nodded again.
"Mm," he let his smile turn soft, comfortable to lie there together as he drifted off. That in itself was already breaching his boundaries. Already far softer than anything a heartless being like him ought to be capable of enjoying. "Of course, pal."
Vincent jolted up right at that which was unfortunate as Alastor had hoped they were equally tired and that Vincent’s hand would drift away in the night allowing him release from the horribly itching touch.
Though, his hand stayed firmly on Alastor's leg, seemingly reassuring. He should've moved. But Vincent wanted him to say — was clinging to him so desperately like the pathetic man he was. There was no harm in letting the hand stay there.
"You want me to-?" Vincent cut himself off, an unfinished question tensing the air.
Alastor's face didn't change. This fact wasn't from any agreement or understanding, but because he was too tired to react.
Of course, that isn't what Vincent inferred.
"Ok, I uh– I always imagined you'd be the one–" He moved his free hand around in vague gestures.
He'd be the one...?
The one clinging to Vincent? The one staying at the television's home, rather than the other way around? The one trying to fall asleep first, letting his friend lean back into him? Alastor giggled at the thoughts. Giggled. Satan, he was going to regret that extra round of drinks in the morning. Or tonight.
Vincent stared at him with bright amusement until his laughter ceased, then shook his head and glanced down at his own offending hand. "Okay– that's fine, that's-"
"Oh, do sit down, Vincent. Don’t make such a fuss."
"Right, yeah. Sorry."
Vincent’s movements swayed him slightly due to the alcohol. Or his excitement.
To Alastor's annoyance, he didn't sit back down on the couch, leaving Alastor’s head with no shoulder to rest on.
Instead, Vincent knelt on the couch before Alastor, adjusting his grip on the deer's thigh to anchor himself. The shifting of his hand felt more akin to strokes. Tickling the fur of Alastor's leg through tight pants.
The position was fine, Alastor justified in his hazy mind. He could pretend the tickling was from a draughty window of his old log cabin in the bayou, or the weight of his mother's crochet blankets. He could let his eyes drift closed and allow the pull of alcohol to drag him under. Vincent had always acted a little like a dog, perhaps this was how he preferred to rest - his head cocked against his owner’s knee and his muddied paw clinging to keep himself close.
Annoyingly, Vincent spoke up again, presenter voice forgotten behind the crackles. "Shall I– how do you want me to-?"
"Continue as you were, old pal."
What Alastor meant to say was 'Sit back down let me sleep, you bumbling idiot,’ but what Vincent must have heard him say was 'Keep stroking my leg, and continue as you please.'
This misunderstanding had Alastor opening a hooded eye to raise a brow when Vincent's palm dragged higher up his leg, brushing his fur backwards and gently demanding it to part into a hidden path.
Vincent's excited eyes met Alastor's drooping one, and it was at this point that Alastor, once again, should've made it stop. This was when the ache in his head began banging at his eyes, and the burning sensation of lingering alcohol in his mouth felt drier than before.
But Alastor knew this scene. He'd played it many a time in life.
He'd whisk ladies away from screaming husbands or gentlemen from violent gangs. They'd talk for a while as they walked the streets to find some place safe. He'd sit them at a speakie, order them a drink. Then they'd move closer.
He was an attractive man — his mother always told him so. Most mothers told their children that with a smile on their face and a tussle of their hair, but Alastor's mother said it with a frown and a tear on her cheek as she lay in her death bed. 'Don't let them hurt you,' she'd said. 'You’ll tempt them, but you must smile through it, my dear.'
So when the suiters made their moves, he danced to the side and smiled a falsely sympathetic thing. 'I'm sorry, you seem to have misunderstood.'
Most took that at face value. They'd apologise and wave their hands, then get up and walk away. Others thought they were entitled to more. 'How dare you lead me on,' or 'You'll finish what you started, boy,’ as they degraded him with insults.
Alastor didn't see what he'd done to 'start' their arousal, but he always wished he could understand so that he could avoid it. But, no matter what happened — no matter how long he'd known them or how much he liked them — they always ended up leaving after that.
Whether they left right away, without questioning his refusal. Or whether they left with a fight, after shoving him and touching him and pushing into places that he’d rather stay untouched. They’d grow frustrated as they failed to stir his crotch into rising to the will of their hand. They always ended up leaving.
And Alastor... liked Vincent.
He didn't want Vincent to leave. Not yet.
He was always told that when he found the right one, he'd change his mind. When he was in the right position for it, with a stable job and a healthy outlook. That he may not like it at first, but it gets better. Addictive. Pleasurable.
And Vincent looked so happy. His movements so open and gentle and slow.
It wasn't like it cost Alastor anything to let him continue. It wasn't like Alastor could put up a valiant fight in the moment, should Vincent choose to deny his rejection.
So he let his eye close once more and tried to ignore the touching. The circles tapped into his leg and the body pressing more and more into his side. Alastor jolted as a thumb landed on his crotch, continuing with its own small circles in sync with the rest of the hand.
"This alright, Al?"
No. No it wasn't.
He wanted to bite down on it and tear it apart, then grind it into fine mince to serve as he saw fit.
He did none of this, and simply replied, "Do as you must."
Do whatever it takes to remove these rotten impulses from your body so that we can continue living in common civility.
Vincent shuffled onto the sofa, kneeling over Alastor to pull at his friend’s zipper. He didn't ask this time, and Alastor was almost relieved by that fact. He despised to be giving permission for such simple-minded activities.
The whole time, Vincent's hand stayed on that thigh, desperate to hold on. To stay close. Until he'd managed to jostle the zipper down and he moved to hook both hands on Alastor's waistline.
Then he tugged.
There was no big reveal. No needy cock bursting against laced underwear, begging to be freed. Just Alastor's furry legs and red boxers.
Vincent gasped anyway. "God, you're so pretty, Al."
Alastor hated the way his name sounded in that tone. Hated to be called pretty, based purely on the bony curves of his legs and the limp limb tucked between them. It was disgusting.
Unaware of the building repulsion beneath him, Vincent kept exploring. Running his hands beneath Alastor's shirt and up his soft sides and moving his face closer to–
Oh.
Vincent’s lips were warm and electric.
Alastor could almost understand how it felt to feel that ‘spark’ which so often came with love, if it weren’t for the slight pain which proved the electricity was real. It wasn’t the metaphorical burst of love and passion he’d read so often about.
A hand tightened around Alastor’s jaw, pushing claws into the flesh just enough to be uncomfortable. Just enough that when Vincent's teeth cut into Alastor’s lip, they parted with an instinctive growl.
Taking advantage of the discovered space, Vincent wasted no time in shoving his tongue into his friend’s mouth. The tongue was big and left bright strings of neon saliva dripping over Vincent's screen like he was a drooling dog. Wherever Alastor tried to move his own tongue, it couldn’t escape from brushing against the other, feeling the slick flesh of it grazing him with small shocks.
It was when Vincent's knee rocked forwards between his legs, that Alastor realized what he ought to be doing.
He brought a hand to Vincent's chest and shoved, hoping to get him to move enough so that he could speak. Only, Vincent yanked that hand away from Alastor’s thigh to grasp at his wrist. His fingers overlapped atop the skinny thing, and with Alastor intoxicated, he couldn’t find the strength to break free.
After a few more desperate yanks, Vincent finally left his mouth, but the rock of his knee continued to hold any words he might’ve said stuck in Alastor’s throat. Without the tongue to block his voice, he couldn’t help the muffled grunts from taking shape.
“Sorry, Al…” Vincent said with a delicate kiss to his fingers. He closed his eyes as he did so, and Alastor thought of how Vox would bury his whole hand into that big mouth of his were he not careful enough. The apology was appreciated, he must’ve noticed Alastor’s struggles and seen the chance to stop, lest he allow lust to overwhelm him.
As such, Alastor didn’t say a word, just hummed in approval as the rocking of his friend’s knee came to a stop. He let out a small breath, feeling his crotch sink in relief at the lost pressure.
Then Vincent opened an eye.
“I’ll get to the good part soon.”
“Wait, you-” Alastor tried. Then he frowned as the words stopped tumbling.
Vincent’s eye was red.
It swirled with shapes and colors that hurt Alastor’s already-pounding head. He couldn’t- he didn’t want to- but his body stopped resisting. When Vincent let go of his wrist, Alastor’s hand put up no fight and simply dropped to his side.
“It’s okay,” it wasn’t, “Just relax.”
His hand didn’t rise as the angles of the box dug into his shoulder, pushing Alastor’s head uncomfortably back as he buried it into his neck. It didn’t rise as shark teeth sank into tender deer flesh, and the sound of wet lips sucking skin tinkled his ears.
Alastor, numbed by the small shocks of electricity, wasn’t sure if the drag of liquid running from his shoulder was the blood or the saliva. A mixture of both, he supposed, though he wasn’t able to tilt his head to assess the color. Even if he could, he was distracted by another sensation.
He let out a low whine as a palm dragged against his boxers.
“That’s right, Al,” There was a growl to Vincent’s voice as he spoke into his friend’s wounded shoulder. “Just like that, doll.”
No, no, no, no, no.
He wasn’t his doll. He wasn’t his anything.
Alastor didn’t belong to anyone.
Not to his father when he came from smelling of booze and took a fistful of his mother’s hair. Not to the men who followed who insisted he called them uncles as they made his mother cry out all night. Not to the producers at the radio station who took turns making snide comments after every show. Nor to the colleagues who took him outback and beat him until his voice gave out. Alastor had killed them. Nobody could own him. Not Rosie, not Hell, and certainly not Vincent.
Yet, as the palm pressed harder into his crotch, kneading the area in small circles, Alastor’s only response was to groan, “Vincent–” stop. Stop, stop, stop. The words were stuck in his throat.
Vincent did stop, and in the time it took him to recover his thoughts, Alastor almost believed that Vincent had read his mind. His hand stayed rested against Alastor’s boxers, but the movements stopped and he pulled his teeth from his friend’s shoulder to meet his eyes.
With his free hand, Vox ran a finger between Alastor’s furrowed eyebrows and Alastor had never noticed before how rough Vincent’s skin was. ‘Sharks have thousands of teeth!’ He recalled his Vincent’s excited voice as he rattled on one drunken night. ‘And they regrow continuously. Also, their skin is basically one big sheet of tiny teeth, all lined up like armor and pointed into little triangles that can scrape off your skin if you thrash against it.’ Alastor didn’t dare test that theory and stayed still as the finger ran gently up and down between his eyes.
“You must be bored.”
Bored wasn’t the right word but Vincent sounded apologetic so it seemed appropriate enough for Alastor to nod in agreement and move to speak.
“Vincent, no, I–”
“–I’ll make it more fun.” He promised and smiled mischievously as he dipped down to lick his tongue against the boxers. It was thick and drooling like he was a common mutt and it dragged the fabric roughly against his slackened bulge.
Alastor managed to move his head then. Managed to swing his eyes around the room, searching for his shadow or his staff or a radio to gasp onto for help.
He found none, and another stroke of the tongue dragged an interrupting whimper from his lips as he tried to ask, “Where–?”
“Your staff?” Vox looked up at him with a smirk between licks. “You left it at the bar, remember? Culver will hold onto it until the morning, I’m sure.”
“Culver–” the barkeep. He was trustworthy enough, knew when to keep quiet, but he would never stick his neck out to get it back to Alastor sooner - no matter how long the neck. “Culver can’t be trusted,” Alastor lied, gaining enough movement in his numb hands to dig shaking claws into the couch. “We need to — ah — get it back.”
Vox only hushed him and turned a spinning eye upon his gaze. “We’ll get it in the morning. Let me have a proper taste of you first, Al.”
At that, Alastor saw his own claws retract from the cushions. Watched his own hands drift towards his boxers and hook around the top. They shook with each movement, and Vox’s eyes stared with manic glee as he fought back against the building pressure in his mind.
“Vincent.” Alastor gave up on saying please. “You’re drunk, old pal. You’ll come to regret this little tantrum by morning.”
“I knew you’d try to back out on me,” Vox replied, his eyes swirling faster by the second. “It’s just like in the bar last year.”
No?
No it was nothing like at the bar.
Sure, he was drunk - he was unsure - but he’d liked Vincent at the bar.
He didn’t like Vox now.
“Let me in.”
The eye flashed red and Alastor stopped feeling his hands as they ripped through his own boxers and tossed the torn fabric to his dark, wooden floorboards, leaving his crotch bared to creeping eyes. It was disgusting.
“Gorgeous.” Vox licked his lips and hovered over his friend’s uncovered length.
Alastor hated it.
Hated it when he was alive and hated it now that he wasn’t.
It was hardly even part of him — certainly not the same as its human counterpart all those three decades ago. It was long and thin and curved in a way that he’d assume was a mockery of a deer’s genitalia, though he’d never thought of comparing them. It was just another way for Hell to belittle him, by turning him into a physical reminder of his pathetic, preyish death.
Alastor braced himself to be touched — to feel Vox’s grating, shark-teeth skin attempt to arouse an erection — but it never came.
“Not this time,” Vox said, as though he was reading his mind and not just controlling it.
Not ‘this time’? As if Alaator would allow this to happen again. As if he wasn’t going to tear that man from limb to limb and throw his scattered parts to Rosie’s feet without wasting time feasting on them so that they had no chance to regenerate. What idiotic part of Vox’s mind thought that he could walk away from this?
Vox slid off his jacket, reaching into his pocket for a small bottle, before tossing it away and pumping the lotion onto his palm. “Still not figured it out yet, Al?”
Alastor choked on a gasp as a cold finger dragged the wet, oily substance past the base of his length and down, down beneath him. His body responded to Vox’s hand, lifting his hips in time with the swirls of the eye and the pressure of the claw.
“I’ve figured out…” Alastor tried through gritted teeth. “That you are a pathetic, perverted excuse for an Overlord, and I never should have–”
He bleated. Bleated — like goddamn prey — as the finger hooked on his clenched rim.
“Relax, Al, buddy.” Vox spoke lowly, in a predatory growl which demanded anything but relaxation. Yet Alastor felt himself melt further into the cushions. His legs, already slack, fell apart to his sides as his hips stayed obediently tilted for the pleasure of Vox’s viewing.
As he massaged the oil in slow, filthy circles around Alastor’s puckered hole, Vox drawled on.
“You never quite figure it out.”
His fingertip tilted into the welcoming hole, facing none of the resistance that clouded Alastor’s thoughts as it pushed in.
“I’ve told you enough times.”
He stroked his finger back and forth, far too patiently for a man with a hand inside of the Radio Demon, until he was buried to his knuckle.
“It’s cute how you always trust me until it’s too late.” He wiggled the finger for emphasis, so that his claw and rough skin grazed against the deer’s soft walls, and Alastor felt his insides shiver. “Look how easily you let me in.”
Just as slowly, he removed the intruding finger, the slick sound sending a shuddering squelch echoing through Alastor’s sensitive ears. Without a care to clean or wipe his disgusting hand, Vox raised it to cup his friend’s frowning face.
“Look at you.” He stroked back a strand of hair with his sticky fingers. “My favorite face of yours. Have you ever let anyone else see you like this? Lilith? Rosie?” Alastor growled and Vox smiled with a chuckle. “I’m only joking, Al! I know this is a private viewing for me.”
“How many times?” Alastor spat out, watching the roaming fingers from the corner of his eyes.
“Oh? How many times have I done what, Al?”
“Hypnotised me. How many?”
“Eeerrr!” A wrong buzzer sound rang out from Vox’s speakers. “What a boring question! Ask me the fun one.”
“How many times have you made me forget?”
“Forget what?” His screen swapped face, batting digital long eyelashes in feigned innocence. “What good friends we are?”
“Touching me.”
“You think that’s all I do?”
“Vox.”
“What do you think I’m going to do, Alastor?”
Vox stepped back, drinking in Alastor’s pained, flushed face and how his spread legs framed the neat red hole like a target meant for him to find.
Vox was going to fuck him.
“Ding ding ding!”
The clipped chime of bells felt like they clattered against Alastor’s skull. Vox was inside his head. Vox was inside of his brain and planning to be inside of him.
“And to answer your question,” he continued on with glee. “Every chance I get, of course! Why would I let a body like yours go to waste?” His hands idly unbuckled his belt, keeping his gaze locked on his precious prize. “And I explain so every time.”
Alastor would’ve rolled his eyes — if not for the ominous sound of the zipper scratching at his ears — typical of Vox to drone on and on just to hear his own voice, knowing that his audience wouldn’t remember any of it, come morning.
Out of his pants shot two thin cocks, standing rigid and grooved, pointed together at the top. ‘Claspers,’ Alastor recalled Vincent explaining, ‘Sharks have two because they have two pelvic bones, but they only use one at a time, depending on where the female is.’ He wasn’t sure why Vincent had explained that, though he supposed it made sense now. Vincent was preparing him. Vox wanted him to know.
“You really shouldn’t have laughed at me at the bar, Al.” He rubbed the oil onto both claspers, smearing it up and down the cleft between them while staring into Alastor’s eyes. The pointed tips were already beaded with precome, and he let moans fly out as he made no effort to close his mouth or suppress them as he stroked himself.
Distantly, Alastor wondered why he wasn’t looking away — why wasn’t closing his eyes and escaping into his mind. But Vox was in his mind and there was no escape from that pressing, lust-filled gaze.
“You laughed at me and I almost cried!” Vox laughed. “Can you believe it?”
He stepped forwards, his lengths sliding across Alastor’s ass as his laughter jostled his poor attempt to line them up.
“But then I figured it out! You didn’t hate me. You love me, Al. Look how far you let me get before I had to take over this time!” He was insane. “It’s not insane! My hypnotic eye only revealed itself after you attacked me, and it helped me to calm you down — helped me show you the right way.”
One of the claspers caught Alastor's rim and his breathing picked up. Vox’s words became a distant drawl as he struggled harder against the eye.
“You were made for me, Alastor! My eye is red for you! I got it for you — to stop you from leaving me! Television is the evolution of radio, Al, so we need to be inside of each other like we always have been.”
Vox pushed. Alastor’s bleat sounded more like a scream this time. He hadn’t felt this kind of pain before — or, he supposed, he had felt it, but he couldn’t remember feeling it. He wasn’t used to the way it stretched and burned and pushed. He wanted to squirm and kick and fight but he could only yelp once he felt a pop resonate from his entrance.
“That’s it, Al. That’s the tip,” he purred. “Let out all those beautiful cries.”
Alastor wasn’t sure how much was meant to go in after the tip — surely not it all. Surely it would end soon and Vox’s grinding would cease as he released his load.
“The first time we did this, I came right away. Ha! I was pathetic!” Vox prattled on as Alastor jostled back and forth on his cocks, his insides obeying him for once by resisting entry. “But I’ve gotten better — you have as well! You bled so much back then.”
Bit by bit, Alastor felt himself yielding under the pressure. Vox’s thrusts became faster and his hands gripped tighter around Alastor’s thin waist.
“That’s why I bought the lube. For you! Everything I do is for you, Al. And it only took one finger this time. One finger to warm you up and you’re already sucking me in. Your body knows it was made to be mine.”
His claws sunk into Alastor’s hips, just enough to draw pinpricks of blood. Alastor tried to concentrate on that. On the taste of blood in the air like a blanket draping over him, stitching his wounds with clots and needles. But the taste only made his stomach churn around the deep pressure, flooding his mouth with bile.
“You don’t need as much prep now that I’ve helped you. It was pretty painful for me too, but we worked through it! We make a great team, Al.”
Vox stopped his movements, and Alastor tried so very hard to screw his eyes shut and use the time to escape to an empty space in his head, but his words kept flowing through.
“You take me, and you love it. Then, this time, I’ll get a taste of you without ever touching that beautiful cock of yours.”
Before Alastor could compute the words, Vox thrusted. He pulled Alastor up by the hips and rammed him down onto his lengths, forcing them deep enough to squeeze a static-filled cry from the overlord beneath him, which joined in a chorus with Vox’s deep moans. He didn’t pause to let them adjust to the feeling — he just moved faster, slamming himself into the hole and slamming Alastor onto his lengths in equal measure and in such a way that Alastor wasn’t sure which of them were moving more.
It was hard to breathe and it was hard to look around the room. Maybe Hell had been too easy. Maybe this was what he deserved for believing he could trust someone. Maybe no one was as broken as him and this was the only way to set him straight. It was his punishment for never lusting for another person — never finding joy in God’s creations from His image.
He rocked further into the couch, some quiet part of him whining about the mess they’d made with the lotion and the claw marks and the fluids. But a louder part of him moaned. Sure, he’d cried and bleated but this was the first time (to his warped memory) that he’d ever moaned.
He felt his hips moving against his own will, joining the dance as he sung to the music of a song he wanted no part in.
“Almost there, Al. I told you how much you’d love this.” Vox choked out the words, then, more clearly spoke an order. “Come.”
Alastor felt his body fold in on itself — his aching muscles contracting for one last, relentless burst of pain as a premature orgasm was torn out of his body. Just as quickly as his own load came out, another load was shot from Vox’s cocks into his ass, filling him with the rotten stuff. The rocking didn’t stop as their frequencies pitched and whined in a symphony of pain and pleasure.
Eventually it quietened down.
Alastor’s legs were shaking but he still couldn’t move them. His hips, his back, his ass ached. And yet…
As Vox pulled out, ever so slowly, ensuring that nothing spilt from Alastor’s quivering hole, it wasn’t a shout or panicked plea that left his friend.
No.
Alastor laughed.
He regained his ability to speak and all he could do was laugh.
“You couldn’t–!” His own laughter interrupted him as he spoke. “You couldn’t even pleasure me without the hypnosis!”
Vox frowned, mood worsening as he came down from his high.
“All that talk about being destined for one another… for what!? Ohh Vox! How I love you so~” Alastor mocked, batting his eyelashes because it was all he could move. “You mean nothing to me, Vincent. You’re a joke.”
Vox grabbed him by the ears and slammed the back of his head against the couch, but Alastor kept laughing.
“Poor baby!” He cooed. “Is the big scary picturebox bad at sex? Can’t keep me satisfied unless I’m not here?”
“Shut up. Shut up! SHUT UP!”
The red eye was back, spinning faster this time, shutting Alastor into the back of his head, exactly where he wanted to be.
It made it harder to hear Vox’s moans as he choked down Alastor’s length.
Made it harder to feel the swirl of his tongue, encompassing the tip and sucking it up and down and up and–
In the back of his mind, where Alastor was forced to sit, he recalled Vincent telling him that sharks don’t taste with their tongues, ‘basihyal’ they were called. Most sharks have ‘basihyal' and ‘they can’t taste things with those like human tongues can.’ Vincent had opened his mouth, showing off the pit of teeth which shouldn’t have logically fit within his head. ‘Our taste buds are inside our mouths, see?’ Alastor couldn’t see the taste buds, of course, but it got the point across — it made him smile softly as his friend pulled ridiculous faces to show off his knowledge.
When Alastor returned to the present, Vox was clambering off of his dick with deep swallows and pushing himself back onto the couch with a satisfied smile.
“Did you have fun, Al?”
Alastor didn’t bother looking at him. It’d been a few minutes since the eye had turned on him and he knew he could speak again, but what did it matter? Vox had gotten what he wanted and Alastor had already suffered for it. No amount of ridicule was going to reverse that.
Letting the question hang in the air, Vox summoned his wires to rearrange the room. They pulled fresh underwear from drawers to replace Alastor’s torn boxers; wiped the spilled cum from his entrance, and returned his belt to its place atop his fastened pants.
“I love you, Alastor.” Vox said, staring up at him from where he curled into his side.
Alastor said nothing.
“I love you,” Vox repeated, eyes growing wider as Alastor kept his silence. As though it were shocking that his friend was refusing to answer.
He gripped Alastor’s ears again, clenching them tightly in a single fist to force him to make eye contact.
“Say it back.”
Alastor said nothing.
He was still partially hypnotised. His thoughts still far away and his body not his own. Yet he didn’t speak.
Vox grumbled and let go, shifting to lay his head on Alastor’s shoulder. “You never say it back.”
Good.
“Forget about tonight. Forget about the pain. Just let me sleep here till morning.”
And Alastor was Alastor again. Or perhaps he wasn’t, because who are you if not your memories?
Vincent had fallen asleep on his shoulder and that was alright — they were friends, after all. Alastor was tired and he loved his friend, he knew that he could trust the silly man to have his back.
He tipped his head on top of Vincent’s silly picture box, resting his cheek against the hard edges and letting his ears flop to the side.