Archive of Our Own

The box was decorated with nothing more than a piece of ribbon. Fastened neatly, the red material was tied in a bow to keep the lid firmly in place. Almost weightless in his hand, the item sealed inside was light and small, but in no way fragile. Tailored with the strongest fabric known in Hell, Alastor had made certain that the gift would last through the most harsh wear and tear.

Disappearing into his magic, Alastor slipped past the security of the obnoxious tower the Vees called home with relative ease — after all, how did one defend against literal shadow? Darting up through the many floors, his intended destination was but a few seconds travel in normal time. Manifesting outside one of the rooms, he straightened to his full height and rolled his shoulders, stretching his back to a satisfactory degree.

Then, after he was comfortable and had dissipated the faint flickers of power still sticking to his form, Alastor willed his hand to reach for the door handle.

It failed to obey the command, instead curling into a fist at his side.

Alastor's eye twitched. "Is that necessary?" he asked no one in particular, glaring down at the traitorous appendage and squeezing it further to halt the tremble permeating through his claws. How foolish. Anxiety was a pathetic ailment, attacking the weak and cowardly, marking them with the fear of rejection. He wasn't a child.

Clearing his throat, Alastor lifted his chin to stare in accusation at the door. The stupid thing was probably locked, anyway.

Hm. Why, exactly, had he not just appeared inside of the bedroom?

A growl rumbled up his throat. Keeping his grip on the box tight, Alastor pulled in a deep breath through his nose, ignoring the scent of chemicals and metal clinging to every surface surrounding him. Clinical, was how he'd describe this floor. Unbecoming of someone so . . . lively, but who was he to judge the taste of another Overlord?

His smile twitched. This tower truly was vile, wasn't it? Had Vox's taste declined that much without his brilliant supervision and advice?

Well. Nevermind.

His heart thundered under his chest, wanting to escape from its cage and, annoyingly, his mouth had gone dry. Was this what being nervous felt like? Disgusting. Repulsive. He sniffed; the soothing, familiar tang of static and electricity wafting through the air whenever he was near Vox was the only thing he could appreciate about this place. Although, it was softer than usual. Quiet.

Deciding he'd wasted plenty of time already, Alastor tugged a string of magic from within and wrapped it around the metal handle. There were steps required to achieve his goal; opening the door was at the top of the list, and he'd be damned if he fled the scene before succeeding at the most simple task. Defiance ruptured the trepidation staining his thoughts, bringing courage, pride, and Alastor narrowed his eyes to glower at the wooden barrier.

Emotion would not claim victory over sheer willpower.

Alastor twisted the swirl of green and black, opening the door quickly and efficiently. Not caring to swipe at the bubble of sweat around his neck, he released the magic once its work was done. He quirked an eyebrow. Unlocked. Did Vox trust his companions with his life? Idiot. What a complete and utter buffoon. Rolling his eyes at the absurdity of it all, Alastor stepped over the threshold and into the dimly lit room.

Immediately, he was met with the unmistakable warmth of Vox's frequency. It was everywhere, filling every corner, penetrating through every air molecule and flooding his senses with its vibrant, energised presence.

Alastor gasped. The startled suck of breath was involuntary as he was engulfed in the delightful thread of another's signal. It had been far too long since he'd had the joy of tangling his natural aura with someone else. And—Oh, Vox's was one he'd missed. He couldn't deny it — wasn't capable, at this moment — because the torment of being cradled in something both too pleasant and too irritating at the same time was simply divine.

Perfect, was the only way to describe it, as it swept unapologetically through Alastor's own, stagnant frequency.

His ears drooped and he gulped.

"Pull yourself together." The words were nearly silent, hissed through clenched teeth. Keeping quiet was proving to be difficult. Wetting his lips with his tongue, he blew out a shuddered breath in the hope it'd somehow calm the skittering energy pumping through his veins. Adrenaline certainly wasn't needed, here. Could his body cooperate? The damn thing was going to get him caught.

Alastor bit his cheek, fixing his expression so it wouldn't be marred by a scowl. He glanced around, taking in the decor to distract his mind from the present. Various pieces of furniture were dotted around — nothing important, mostly shelves and drawers — and multiple bulbs were strewn about, casting everything in a blue glow.

His attention shifted to the bed and the sheets adorning it. Decorated in sharks. His smile grew, and he almost snorted in amusement. Predictable, juvenile, yet oddly charming. At least his earlier assessment had been proven wrong; Vox's preferences had not changed one bit since Alastor's departure years ago.

How wonderful.

A drop of sweat trickled along his brow; this time, he scrubbed angrily at it to remove the itch. Then, continuing forward, deeper into the pit of Vox's bedroom, Alastor took what comfort he could from the plump cushioning of carpet beneath his feet. Thick and bouncy, the softness was a nice change compared to the rough, filth-ridden floors of the hotel.

Stepping up to the bed, Alastor took note of the items collected on the bedside table. Photographs, mostly — Vox had always been a sentimental one — and a digital clock flashing the current time. He paused, head tilting as he pondered the possibility of any of the picture frames containing his visage. It wasn't often that he allowed his face to be snapped without interference, and there were only two people who'd ever had the privilege of such a gift.

Rosie still had her little collection, but did Vox? If he pried enough, would he find his face amongst the multitude of photos Vox kept? Alastor slid his tongue along the roof of his mouth. A question for another day, perhaps. Besides, he could always grant new pictures once plans surrounding the hotel were finalised.

"All in good time," he said, nodding to confirm his assurance.

Moving his attention to the bed — or, more specifically, the lump situated upon its mattress — Alastor found his heartbeat making another appearance. Lying on his back — and, really, with that head, was it a surprise that Vox didn't sleep on his side? — Vox's screen brightness was low and his eyes were closed. His breathing was even, slow, making the bedsheet rise and fall as his chest moved with each pull of air.

Alastor's smile softened, muscles relaxing as he caught a chuckle in his throat. "Hello, dear."

He watched Vox for a moment, before a thought hit him, quick and sudden. Struck by the sudden notion that he'd never actually questioned how Vox achieved such a miraculous feat, Alastor's ears flicked. Why did it seem important now? It didn't matter, did it? But, well . . . The man didn't have a nose, for God's sake! How was he breathing?

Was seeing him like this bringing the pointless question to Alastor's mind? Had he ever seen Vox sleep before? He couldn't remember.

There was probably some odd anatomy involved. Yes, definitely. He knew some sinners — marine types, usually — that had gills on top of the normal, functional human lungs to allow them the dual ability of air and water breathing. Was Vox similar? He certainly required oxygen to function; Alastor had choked the man enough times to know that.

Hm.

Curiosity piqued, Alastor planted the box on the table to free his hands. Disregarding privacy completely, he grabbed at the sheets covering Vox's form and tossed them to the floor, relishing in the breeze that tickled the scorching flesh on his face as it flew by him in a flurried, graceless chunk of material. Landing with nary a sound, the bedsheets crumpled into a messy heap, forgotten and neglected.

Alastor swallowed. Vox didn't react to the removal, keeping perfectly still and calm as he rested, now laid bare for Alastor to observe and play with in whatever way he saw fit. Giving the younger demon a quick once over, Alastor's eyes lingered momentarily on the thin piece of clothing covering Vox from the waist and to his feet. A strange disappointment filled him.

How long had he known Vox? Too many decades to count. In all of that time, he'd never seen Vox naked and vulnerable, open to anything and everything Alastor wanted to do to him. Even now, he was denied. Forcing his gaze back up along the length of Vox's slim body, Alastor squashed his feelings down. Shirtless would have to do, for now. He'd get what he wanted eventually.

Thankfully, something interesting caught his eye, giving him the opportunity for distraction.

"Is this another thing you can upgrade, old pal?" he whispered, intrigued by the cyan ports placed where nipples would normally be. He wasn't up to date on technology and its advancements, but he was certain the type of connector adorning Vox's chest was not around when the fool had first dropped into Hell. There was a familiarity about them — had he seen them on that ridiculous portable computer he'd seen Charlie carry around?

Humming, he pursed his lips as he let his gaze travel down Vox's torso, admiring the dark flesh and hint of muscle lurking under it. He licked his lips.

He'd never tasted Vox before — the man was far, far too careful to let Alastor get close enough to try — and the temptation to grind his teeth into the clean, untarnished flesh was vicious as it surged through him. His mouth began to water, drool threatening to slip from between his teeth. Leaning closer, his eyes closed and he inhaled, drinking in the scent of sweat and burning metal clinging to Vox's skin.

Opening his eyes, he turned his head, peering up at Vox's obscured face and grinning far too wide. His stomach growled. When would he get another chance like this? Vox was terribly private, so trapped in his delusions of paranoia that, once he awoke and checked the cameras, the poor thing would become hysterical upon realising how close Alastor had gotten.

The thought made him salivate harder, and Alastor couldn't resist snapping his focus back to the hot skin and slipping his tongue out to have a taste. Licking one clean, straight line across Vox's stomach, Alastor's ears were pinned upright as a thrill similar to one he'd get on a hunt sliced through his body. As he pulled back, lapping at the unfamiliar taste filling his mouth, it took everything within him to not tear into Vox's skin with his teeth.

He wanted more, wanted to bite and chew and savour every fleck of blood and muscle and flesh he could rip from the body presented so nicely for him. Fuck. Fuck, he wanted—

Vox shifted slightly, bringing Alastor back from his lapse of control.

Coughing, he outright refused to acknowledge the embarrassment stinging his cheeks with heat. Cracking his neck to ease some of the tension building around his shoulders, Alastor leaned back, correcting his posture until he was the embodiment of calm once more. Devouring Vox would come later when this was all done and but a silly memory to seek amusement from.

He sighed, shifting his attention to the vent-like structures lining each side of Vox's torso. His eyebrow arched. Ah. Was that the remedy to the breathing question plaguing his thoughts? Excellent! Alastor did love gaining answers without putting in the needless effort.

Squinting, his hand reached out of its own accord. Once his claw was close enough to touch, Alastor hesitated, gaze flitting to Vox's face to assure himself that the younger demon was, in fact, asleep. He was. Obviously. Good. Clicking his tongue in frustration when his heart stuttered yet again, Alastor squashed the cowardice striking his form. He'd faced demons and horrors more terrifying than Vox could ever hope of being, so why was he letting this cause such . . . terror?

Growling, Alastor tossed the idea aside and pressed a finger against the top of the vent closest to him.

His eyebrows shot up. Oh. Applying more pressure, he brushed his finger along the grilled gap, surprise creeping through him. It was completely organic, soft and squishy like the pads of a paw. Fascinating. He'd always believed Vox's cybernetic parts would transcend to more than just his head, trailing throughout his body and intertwining it with metal and wires, but this . . . It was biological, despite looking like something that a robot or computer would be more suited to.

Vox shuffled once more, features contorting strangely as a mumble slipped through his mouth. Alastor tutted.

"Hush, you silly picture box," he scolded, voice void of its usual distortion. "This is what you take issue with, and not the licking?"

Removing his hand from Vox's side so he could caress his face instead, Alastor traced his thumb over Vox's screen. His grin lowered, becoming more genuine and, dare he say it, fond as a fuzzy static tickled his skin. Vox quietened instantly, settling back down as his breaths evened back into a steady rhythm.

Amusement spilt through Alastor, making him want to chuckle. "If only you were so susceptible to my orders when awake," he said, trilling lightly when the static in the air popped, fizzling with a spark of electricity that sprung from Vox's antennae.

Letting his hand linger for a moment longer than necessary, Alastor glanced back at the box he'd recklessly placed on the bedside table. He hadn't written a full note in explanation of who it was from and why, but there was a piece of paper tucked inside with his immaculate cursive written across it. An affirmation, to accompany the actual gift.

Vox would understand what it meant the moment he laid eyes on the tie, revealing an item—

No, a promise.

Something strong, unbreakable, that would confuse Vox with its message. Alastor hummed. Would Vox gasp when he realised its true meaning? Would he rage, tantrum and cause a city-wide blackout? Or would he be ecstatic, jumping for joy, grabbing the nearest bystander to dance his way across the tower with a racing heart and a radiant smile? The possibilities were endless, exciting in their unpredictability.

But Alastor wouldn't get to witness whatever Vox chose to do in response. Unfortunate, yet a requirement for the message to be correctly addressed. Interferring would destroy the sincerity, making him think it a joke.

A harsh bark of a laugh tore from Alastor's throat. The sharp noise was high pitched, awful in volume; stiffening, Alastor clamped his jaw shut and darted his gaze to Vox's face when he moved. Vox's screen had brightened slightly, his mouth twisting with a groan. Alastor's ears flattened, dropping to his head.

What a fool. What a complete and utter moron. How had he let his control slip so easily? Hammering away in his chest, Alastor couldn't remember if his heart had always been so damn loud, or if it was merely his imagination making every beat sound like thunder crashing along the skyline.

Forcing his ears back to their proper position, Alastor drew in a long breath through his nostrils. Ridiculous. Allowing himself to get worked up over nothing was beneath him. Standing straight, he fiddled with the cuff of his jacket, swallowing the bile trickling along his tongue. He eyed the bedsheets he'd so callously dumped on the floor earlier. Getting distracted was a mistake.

And yet . . .

He grumbled. "Typical."

And wasn't it just? Vox always managed to garner unfathomable reactions, regardless of intention. Even in sleep, the man was capable of such marvellous provocations! Absurd, but Alastor couldn't fault the twinge of humour in it. Ha! He let his strained grin dim, changing from the ugly lour it had grown into until it resembled something more akin to a cheery smile. His focus switched back to his dear friend.

Vox hadn't woken up; the alarm had been false.

Rolling his eyes, Alastor adjusted his tie needlessly. He blew out another sigh as his eyes trailed back over Vox's relaxed form. It couldn't be helped. Admiring the angles and curves of his arms, his chest and stomach, his narrow waist and covered hips, Alastor's eyes lowered, becoming half-lidded. It wasn't often he got to see Vox being calm, quiet. Always moving, always hopping around and fidgeting and bouncing and gesturing, Vox was someone who shunned the very idea of stillness.

To have him in such a state was unusual. Beautiful. Sleep suited him, if only temporarily. It would get awfully boring if Vox were to remain like this permanently, of course. Sure, there was a fragility in its existence — the need for unconscious rest — and it exposed him in a way that was tempting, alluring. The very nature of its vulnerability created a hunger deep within Alastor, hitting him with the desire to pounce, to take advantage, to indulge.

But that would ruin the reason for this visit.

Destroying the delicate relationship he'd been weaving since their falling out would make all of the work pointless; Alastor was not about to break his facade for the simple release of an impulse.

"You're lucky I have to play nice," he said, words nothing more than a murmur. Brushing a claw down Vox's chest, his pulse puckered as heat tickled the tip. If he applied just a tiny bit more pressure, he'd pierce the bare skin, opening it to spill blood onto his fingers.

"Our next fight will be legendary; I plan to consume every piece of this ridiculous body of yours until you're worshipping at my feet."

The cameras in this room wouldn't pick up the words; they were too quiet, too low. Vox would undoubtedly seethe at the realisation that he would never know what Alastor had said, and the thought brought glee to Alastor's soul. A sigh ghosted his mouth. Bending down, he brushed his lips across the edge of Vox's screen — another gift, and one that might cause a bluescreen if Vox was riled up enough when he viewed the footage.

When he lifted back up, his mouth was tingling with static, and Alastor hummed, content.

"I'll be seeing you, my dear."

Pulling his magic around himself, he enveloped his form in shadow, before disappearing back into the blackness of his void power to make his exit.