Chapter Text
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Although the house was quite small, it was fitting enough for the purpose he needed it for. Acting as a temporary location away from those all-seeing drones of his rectangular-headed parasite, the brick building was relatively simple in design. One bedroom, one bathroom, a sitting room, and a kitchen. Tiny, in the grand scheme of things, yet perfect for his little experiment.
Moving into the kitchen after finishing his check for hidden cameras — privacy was paramount, so evidence could not garnered for blackmail purposes — he allowed his smile to relax. Placing his microphone against the doorframe, he stepped over to the sink and turned on the tap. The splashing of clear water hitting metal was obnoxious as it filled the silence, but he didn't mind. Rinsing off the blood and grime from his earlier excursions — a simple kill to exercise his need to fill his stomach — Alastor watched the red liquid slip down the plug hole with disinterest.
Switching the tap off once he was done, he grabbed a tissue from his pocket to dry his dripping fingers. The coolness of the water evaporated as the moisture lessened, and he tossed the paper aside before making his way back out of the room. Grabbing his cane as he slipped into the lounge, Alastor lifted his chin, inspecting the rudimentary pieces of furniture that had been abandoned here when the occupants had vacated the building.
A sigh fell from his lips. It wasn't the best predicament to be in — he'd much prefer to be doing this back at the hotel, but there were far too many curious patrons to have complete peace from interruptions. And this required absolute solitude. If anyone got wind of the fact that he was partial to the animalistic goings of Hell's more primal natures . . . Well, he couldn't have that kind of rumour going around, now, could he?
Strolling over to the singular seat tucked away in the corner of the room, Alastor settled himself upon its cushion with little enthusiasm. For two weeks, he'd been waiting for this opportunity, ever since the television had abstained from the Overlord meeting like a coward.
Lifting his free hand, he drew some of his power into a ball and pulled it open so he could reach into the void dimension of his shadows. Plucking an orb from its depths, he closed the darkness back up as soon as his prize was in his grasp. He held the sphere up to bask in its beauty.
Summoning orbs were quite rare. It was sheer luck that he'd been in the graces of someone who'd found one in all its glory. Where the princess had gotten it, he didn't care to know. All that mattered was that it was now in his possession, and he was free to do whatever he wanted with it.
"Think about it, Vaggie! We could use this to send help from Heaven! Think of all the new friends we could make, too!"
His smile became loose and free as he remembered her words. She'd been so very excited to try her new trinket out. Poor thing. The taste of disappointment in the air when she'd tried and failed to get it to connect with Heaven had been one of the most delicious meals he'd had in years. Charlie had been inconsolable for the better part of a week, regardless of how much her girlfriend had tried to appease her.
To think that this small object could cause such devastation.
The deep blue of the orb seemed to glow in the soft light pouring in through the window. Turning it slightly to admire his treasure for another, singular moment, Alastor released a hum to calm his racing heart. Was he truly going to use it? It was the most simple way to get his target to his location without catching attention, but . . . He shook his head. The effort taken to remove it from Charlie's clutches was enough to warrant its use, even if he didn't follow through with his plan.
The rumbling of passing cars caught his attention momentarily, pulling him from his musings. The soft muffles were almost constant — this part of Hell was a busy networking area — and the droning noise blocked out the thundering under his chest. Rolling his shoulders, he placed the orb down on the stained coffee table in front of him. The night was cool, the air surrounding him musty with old dust and filth. Trailing his tongue along his top lip, he decided to wait no longer.
He leaned forward until he was practically towering over the tiny sphere. Drawing in a long breath, he prepared himself for the inevitable. Slowly, calmly, he blew onto the orb in a steady flow, letting all the air in his lungs pass out and over the smooth surface. Once finished, he reached out to place a finger atop its casing and waited.
One.
Two.
Three.
Removing his finger, he sat back up and spoke his target's name, loudly and clearly.
He made sure to keep the radio effect from his voice — it was a requirement to use one's natural tone — but there was something else present that he wasn't happy with. It had sounded strange, pitching awkwardly as if the frustrating anxiety of the day was trying to break free. Why that was happening was a mystery. He wasn't nervous. Quite the opposite, in fact. This was a game, a ploy for something to do.
He couldn't be scared.
A crackling noise tore him from his thoughts. Snapping his attention to the source, Alastor's breath caught in his throat when a swirl of magic splashed into existence not too far from him. Standing up, he couldn't help it when his eyes widened and his smile tightened into a painful grimace. Backing out now was not an option. The pool of black grew in size, stretching and pulsing with life as it transformed into some sort of portal.
Staring at the opening for a moment, Alastor could do nothing more than stand there, admiring its power.
Then, without warning, something came through the portal and fell onto the floor with a thud. It was a body. It was a person.
Alastor blinked.
It was Vox.
He shivered in anticipation.
Excellent.
He watched with mild curiosity as the TV-headed demon clambered up from the floor in a graceless mess of limbs. Once upright, Vox's gaze darted around in obvious panic; releasing a string of expletives, the buffoon seemed to be having a crisis about being dumped into an unknown location. It was taking him a surprising amount of time to wrap his head around the forced teleportation.
Alastor couldn't contain the swell of amusement that filled his very being. Silly boy. What if this had been an attempt at his life? Surely, this wasn't the first time Vox had been summoned without consent? He was an Overlord, for God's sake. Lower-class sinners tried their hand at summoning all the time; it was almost a given that unwanted calls would happen. And yet, Vox apparently required practice to deal with it while keeping a sound composure.
Alastor's attention flitted to the portal as it began shrinking, removing itself from existence, leaving him alone with the other demon.
"Alastor?"
The name brought his attention back to the matter at hand. Returning his focus to Vox, he locked eyes with the younger demon. Ah, outstanding. Vox had finally gained his bearings and was looking at Alastor with pure bafflement. Alastor swallowed down the urge to chuckle. What a peculiar creature. None of the other Overlords would dare display such open vulnerability in his presence.
A second passed.
Then, lowering his head and feeling his smile thin, Alastor noticed a very familiar expression sweep over Vox's features — one he'd been expecting — and he felt his muscles tense in response.
He saw the attack coming before it made contact. Sidestepping the bolt of electricity with ease — it was a warning, a display to show exactly what Vox thought about being in his vicinity, and nothing more — Alastor decided to be far less forgiving in retaliation. Tapping his cane on the floor once, he swept a string of magic into the void and forced out a tendril of black. The shadow tore through the space between the demons, striking out at Vox who couldn't react in time to dodge it.
The grunt that erupted from the TV's mouth was satisfactory enough as he was slammed into the far wall. It was done with an aggression that, truly, wasn't all that necessary, but Alastor couldn't be faulted for the passion in his attack. After all, Vox had prodded first, had he not? Taking joy in the sight of Vox trying to scrape away the tentacle that was slithered around his waist, Alastor tittered. He strolled over to the struggling demon with a sweet smile.
"Now, is that any way to greet an old friend?" he asked, condescension seeping into every syllable. He stopped just a foot or so from the other demon, eyeing him with casual interest. Opting to halt his frivolous attempt at escape for the moment, Vox snarled as his features became marred by a hideous glare. The expression didn't suit the fellow, but Alastor couldn't deny that it was one of his favourites.
"I was in the middle of something, you prick. What the hell do you want?" Barking the words out, Vox's tone was vicious and bristling with a much more refined rage than Alastor was accustomed to. Hm. Whatever could be the cause?
Tilting his head slightly, he took a moment to inspect the other. And blinked in surprise. Vox was . . . rather underdressed. The whole of his upper wardrobe was missing — no shirt, tie, vest, or jacket — and both his hat and shoes were nowhere to be found. One of his exposed shoulders was patched with rough markings as if someone had taken a liking to his flesh and had tried to take a chunk out with their teeth. A small sheen of sweat coated his dark skin.
Oh.
Alastor's nose scrunched in disgust. The moth. That fucking disgusting thing. Red-hot rage shot through his veins and his teeth scraped together. A deep, rumbling growl crawled up his throat. His fingers clenched into fists, tight, tight, tighter, until he was sure his claws were piercing the flesh of his palm. Pain splashed into existence, but he found himself numb to it as he took a very deliberate step towards Vox, shortening the distance between them until only an inch remained.
"Alastor!"
That was the second time Vox had called his name, yet the difference in intonation was beyond marvellous. Whereas before, Vox had been confounded by his sudden change in location, now, all Alastor could hear was fury. Screeching out of the picture box in a tangle of feedback and static, Alastor's given name was spoken with a demand for answers. Almost as if the person saying it thought they were in control of the situation.
Placing his cane against the wall beside Vox — watching with hidden glee as Vox's eyes followed the movement with meticulous focus — Alastor leant forward until his breaths were brushing Vox's screen. Vox's expression didn't change, but the odd twitch that attacked the corner of his mouth gave him away. Baring his teeth, Alastor lifted a hand and placed a finger under Vox's screen, tilting it up slightly.
This time, Vox visibly tensed, and his eyebrows knitted together in clear bewilderment. The fool probably assumed this was a trick. What a pity. How unfortunate it was that the TV couldn't predict the deer's next move. Vox didn't have the necessary information. If he did . . . Well, Vox wouldn't be standing there letting Alastor touch him. A much more hostile encounter would be occurring right now — one fighting for freedom, the other battling for possession — and the result would not be pretty.
Vox would almost certainly be calling for backup if he knew. But he didn't. The simpleton's ignorance would be his downfall. Alastor was banking on Vox allowing him access to his neck — intentional or not — before he could work out what was happening.
"Care to explain what this 'activity' was that was taking up your precious time?" he asked, carefully, politely, keeping the pitch of his voice deep and monotonous. Distraction was the quickest method to get Vox into a malleable state.
A buzz of electricity crackled across Vox's antennae. "That's none of your damn business."
"Oh, but it is!" Alastor brushed his thumb along the smooth black of Vox's monitor, relishing in the emotion that flashed through Vox's eyes. "I'm sure it was thrilling if you're this upset about being pulled away from it!"
Opening his mouth but failing to form a reply, Vox's screen dimmed ever so slightly, changing shades to a darker blue. Alastor's eyes narrowed as amusement filled his chest, his stomach, leaving a heated pool of something inside of him. Flustering this fool was almost too easy.
"Were you participating in coitus with that diseased insect, by chance?" Just saying it made Alastor's blood boil. The very thought of that moth touching what was soon to be his was . . .
Hm. Let's just say, it made Alastor want to feast. On what, he didn't know. Sinners, hell-born. Anything within reach would do. It was a carnal feeling, brought on by nothing more than an emotion he was too prideful to name.
"So what if I was?" Vox said, voice scratchy and filled with contempt. His claws dug into the tendril still wrapped around his waist, and Alastor saw the blue knives begin to shine as a buzzing loop of static began to fizzle in and out around them. "You still haven't told me why you brought me here."
Drawing in a deep breath to try and calm his erratic heart, Alastor came to a decision. This would be easier in a different position. Lifting his chin, he made sure his gaze was locked with Vox's before raising a hand and clicking his fingers. The effect was immediate: The tentacle around Vox squeezed and pulled, dragging the demon away from the wall and into the middle of the room in one swift motion. A squeal of surprise erupted into the air.
Before Vox could respond, the tendril lifted him from the ground with incredible ease. Then, in the blink of an eye, it shoved him to the floor and stilled itself. Vox roared in anger, shouting a string of curses that would make some of the older Overlords blush if they heard them.
Watching the struggle with mirth, Alastor stalked over to the poor thing and raised an eyebrow. Vox stopped grappling with the tendril long enough to glare at him.
"What the hell is wrong with you?!" he shrieked.
A verbal reply was not required. Instead, Alastor moved to stand over him with his feet on either side of Vox's legs and, leering at him with narrowed eyes, he huffed out a laugh. Vox frowned, but made no attempt to act. Taking that as his cue, Alastor dropped down until he was on his knees and straddling the younger demon's hips. Not allowing Vox time to register their new position, Alastor grabbed the TV's wrists and pulled them above his head. He pinned them against the floor. Looming over Vox with a wicked grin, Alastor clicked his tongue in victory.
Their bodies were almost flushed together, fabric rubbing against fabric and bare skin, and Vox's chest was rising and falling rapidly with quiet pants. Vox was staring at him, eyes wide and mouth parted. His screen had somehow turned an even darker shade of blue. Was he concerned? Most likely. Rendered completely speechless? Definitely. What a sight to behold. Like this, claiming Vox would be more simple than taking a walk in the park. How delightful.
Alastor's eyes slowly trailed over to the marks adorning Vox's shoulder. Messy, rushed. Ugly. How vile. The bug couldn't even brand his own property correctly. A lesson was about to be taught. Shifting his gaze back to Vox's red eyes, Alastor knew he was about to cause an uproar.
Trilling in glee, Alastor's grin stretched unnaturally. "I have a new trick to show you, my dear."
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