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Alastor realizes something is wrong with the whiskey on the first sip.
He must have made a face, although he can't tell what exactly has Valentino jumping in – far too quickly – to explain himself. Top shelf Gluttony smuggled liquor, practically a cocktail to taste, yet delivers a heady buzz even to Overlords and leaves not a trace of hangover behind, the absolute best one could afford, only available by exploiting nearly impossible to find connections. Maybe Valentino was prepared to give that short speech in advance just for the opportunity to flaunt his skills of acquiring rare delights, Alastor would prefer it over Valentino being able to read the micro expressions of surprise and suspicion he has done his best to suppress.
Well, he isn't versed in the ways of how one would spike a bottle opened and poured right before his eyes. He wants, idiotically, to take the long-winded explanation at face value, for Valentino's eagerness to down half of his own glass in one long swig without hesitation to reassure him.
Curiosity kills cats, not demons. Alastor nods along, pretends to miss the tiny pitchiness in Valentino's tone he has learned to recognize as nervous uncertainty.
He supposes their entire dynamic revolves around personal trust and morbid curiosity. Valentino is one handsy, touchy, obnoxiously pushy man, Alastor keeps him in line with brute force when the very easy to read glares and piercing static don't get the job done – Valentino ignores the warnings on purpose, Alastor is well aware. The Radio Demon trusts himself enough to enforce his boundaries. He trusts Valentino enough to know breaking every bone in his hand for daring to flick Alastor's ear won't put an end to their weekly meetings.
As to the why said meetings are being arranged in the first place: it just happened!
During his 'imprisonment' Alastor was forced to spend every moment in the presence of either Vox or one of his business partners. He and Velvette got along well enough for the time being, gossiping about the few still relevant public figures Alastor was familiar with, and he became the unofficial and uncredited – by his insistence – co-designer for a vintage-inspired fashion line. He'd say they are currently sitting on positively neutral terms, although exchanging pleasantries on the occasion they run into each other is about as far as their relations stretch.
With Valentino, things are more... complicated.
After the novelty had worn off and Alastor had taken it upon himself to annoy – or as Velvette put it, 'ragebait' – Vox into short-circuiting on the hourly, the picturebox started leaving Alastor in Valentino's care, presumably as the greatest form of punishment he could think of. Valentino, for the sake of his studio's equipment surviving Alastor's persistent static abuse, spent the majority of the time working on scripts in his room and complaining about Vox while sipping on hot chocolate. Which turned into Alastor expanding his vocabulary with words and phrases he has no intention of ever uttering, and paying back with anecdotes about the back then called Vincent.
Which made their initially forced proximity mutually bearable. Which then escalated to pleasant. Which neither of them was willing to give up once Vox made a fool of himself and almost blew up half of Pride and himself.
So, about once a week, Alastor ends up spending an evening in Valentino's kitschy quarters. Surprisingly, they have a fair bit in common, enough as to keep conversations effortless. And, to Alastor's absolute dismay, Valentino has quite extensive knowledge on just about anything. A well-rounded conversation partner is hard to come by, Alastor will take whatever he can, even if Valentino always manages to steer the topic into something sexual.
Still, Alastor isn't complaining, for the most part. Valentino's entire career revolves around tempting his victims with whatever they want to hear, and Alastor, even if he lacks the addiction gene, isn't immune to a masterful artist of seduction. Valentino so carefully worms his way into Alastor's routine, a practiced sort of violation that can make Alastor disregard being boiled alive slowly. Lucky for the pest, Alastor's sadism runs deep to the point he could be amused by his own discomfort under the right circumstances, as long as Valentino remembers who pays the piper.
Soon enough, he grows comfortable with Valentino's presence enough to accept the offered drinks and finger foods. Gets used to his... peculiarities. Starts finding them engaging rather than grating.
How Valentino ever so casually smacks Alastor's leg as he gesticulates. Flops around like a fish out of water, and, somehow, ends up with his head on the Radio Demon's lap or shoulder every so often. One of the great mysteries of nature as to how that happens! He rambles a lot, about his work, about the painting he's currently working on but is stalling because he has no idea whether a strong light source would make or break the atmosphere, about his latest fascination with the inappropriate use of ribbons and lace. Alastor listens only as much as politely necessary – Valentino clearly craves an audience as much as, if not more than, invading Alastor's personal space, so Alastor supposes the difference between one and two sacrifices isn't worth throwing a fuss about.
Valentino talks as if he isn't in the company of the Radio Demon. Doesn't measure his words or tone, throws in Spanish here and there fully expecting Alastor would understand by the context alone, flails his hands around and doesn't recoil when he happens to brush against his somewhat willing listener – on accident of course. Alastor is yet to meet another demon – Mimzy is an exception since their history runs long before their deaths – who would treat him not as if he hung the stars in the sky or like the horrific monster he has proven to be. Simply... normal.
It's a breath of fresh air. Unique. Interesting.
Alastor likes... how Valentino isn't scared of him. It's hard for the Radio Demon to find someone who could keep up with him, not cower, exist as they are. Broken toys aren't fun to play with, even the ones he damaged himself. Valentino, however, doesn't snap – he bends, he adjusts.
Boredom is a state he is yet to experience around Valentino. Indifference on occasion, sure – he couldn't bring himself to care about anything regarding the film industry, or how night clubs and workers are managed. Valentino talks, and talk, and talks, with such a passionate cadence and animated gestures that his delivery alone is worth Alastor's time. He moves like he operates on ever wound up springs, glows like the embodiment of the saying "do what you love and you'll never work a day in your life". A man dedicated to his career, even if said career revolves around sex, Alastor can admire silently.
Still, only occasionally, he wonders how he allowed things to go this far.
Like right now, drinking the whiskey he's certain has been tempered with as his mouth goes slightly numb and his salivary glands ache as if he's consuming honey by the spoonful.
Instead of making Valentino's internal organs into external ones as he holds the back of Alastor's head and kisses him, Alastor kisses back.
He can't relay the exact chain of events as to how things escalated in that direction. He remembers this – the comforting scent of sweet decay perfuming the air whenever Valentino has smoked enough cigarettes to leave the room clouded in pink, red wings unfolding gracefully to obstruct the view of the blinking camera pointed precisely at Alastor, Valentino tilting his head to the side, regarding Alastor, offering both of them one last moment of reconsideration, leaning in carefully, Alastor deciding that he'd allow Valentino to learn the hard way what cannibals use their teeth for.
Except, Valentino was buying himself one second at a time. Gently pressed his lips against Alastor's, held his ground for a few moments, pulled back for a breath, leaning in again, more deliberate in his machinations, made Alastor think, "just one more moment" because he wanted to see how far Valentino's audacity stretched.
Alastor didn't end up delivering on the mentally promised threat. Valentino pulled away first, Alastor reflexively chased after him an inch too much because he wanted to draw blood, he wanted to correct this unexcusable behavior so it could never happen again.
He got the opportunity later. The following week, actually. Valentino dared to grope at what little curvature Alastor had to offer and promptly had all offending fingers bent the wrong way.
Their game didn't stop.
If anything, Valentino took full advantage of the allowed slack and yanked at it until he choked. Endured whatever violence Alastor saw as a fitting punishment without a sound or complaint, found the hard way exactly what he could get away with.
Usually Alastor allows teeth and suction to leave bruises on his neck, and he will claim until his second death is only because of his annoying deer instincts reading lips on his throat as a sign of submission from Valentino. Sometimes he allows hands placed on his body, open palms over his clothes that radiate heat so strong it makes his skin crawl and itch. Often enough he permits proper kisses that don't end with spilled blood.
Valentino is... human, or whatever would pass as one in Hell. Flesh and fluids and foolishness. Alastor should have found him repulsive when it came to anything physical. He doesn't, to a degree. Once Valentino, surprisingly quickly, learned how to entice Alastor into allowing a tongue to trace the ridges of his soft palate, Alastor realized he didn't particularly hate the way Valentino kissed.
He tastes sweet. Honey and flowers and the tiniest hint of strawberries. Distinct and odd enough so Alastor can separate the act of glossal muscles rubbing together and simply enjoy the taste, the numbness left in his mouth afterwards, how Valentino, without fail, tenses and bristles, expecting to lose his tongue any second now. And, what can Alastor say, Valentino can hold his interest piqued. As soon as he concludes he has figured his companion out, the rug is pulled right underneath him and Valentino makes himself entertaining again.
There's an odd type of comfort in knowing Valentino wouldn't even entertain the possibility of Alastor's permission holding any emotion, any attachment. That Valentino has slept with more people than he could care to count, so, in the grand scheme of things, what they are doing isn't a big deal for him. That either of them could decide to cut their losses and go back to regarding each other with the casual indifference of Overlords staying clear of the other's turf.
Alastor doesn't need physical closeness, won't ever stoop as low as to admit he might enjoy taking part in such carnal activities, he's indulging the whims of his conversation partner, as extraordinary and invasive as those whims are.
When things do go farther than Alastor seems fit, Valentino takes the behavioral correction Alastor chooses, and knows better next time. Mostly. Because Alastor is vengeful, he's mean, he likes to tease too. What he allowed one day might not be tolerated the next. Valentino keeps trying to guess, and, Alastor has to begrudgingly admit, is usually correct on his assumptions.
Somehow, Valentino manages, with good enough success rate to not be attributed entirely to luck, to toe the line between handling the Radio Demon with the appropriate respect and caution which would have grown tiresome quickly, and taking whatever he wants without a care in the world as if Alastor is yet another one of his workers. Alastor hates anything that could pass off as a love charged contact, as sexual desire. Hates soft caresses as much as demanding pulls and tugs, yet somehow, Valentino slots himself right into Alastor's ever changing comfort zone, doesn't treat any of it as either a declaration of romantic intentions or blatant display of lust.
Still pushing the edges of boundaries, still insistent, but considerate. Learned that Alastor would most likely kiss back and allow him to keep his tongue intact as long as he didn't sink into predictable patterns. That Alastor would allow hands to roam the expanse of his back and, rarely, the sides of his hips, as long as the touches couldn't be strictly placed as affectionate or overly crude, and stayed over his clothes. That Alastor's ears, tail, and the general area around his groin are always forbidden, but only after triple-checking. That any verbal comment acknowledging the encounters, flattering or degrading or straight up cocky, would cause Alastor to leave and Valentino would be left frantically shoving his innards back into his stomach cavity. And, if he were to nudge Alastor's thigh just so as a suggestion and a generous mood has taken over Alastor, he could get the Radio Demon into his lap, and that the next week Alastor won't even allow a hand on his knee.
All because Alastor thinks it fun. Finds joy in the way Valentino is assembling a puzzle with jagged pieces never meant to fit in the first place, much less form a cohesive picture. Wants to string Valentino along, bait him into crossing the line Alastor has pinpointed the location of only seconds prior.
Usually it works. Valentino is so easily provoked Alastor barely has to do anything as long as he keeps the facade that maybe, just maybe, Valentino could get away with his ministrations.
Which is exactly why he wants to find out what Valentino's plan is now, why the whiskey carries the notes he has learned to associate with sickly sweet kisses. Is curious to see if Valentino's saliva could do anything more than leave his mouth tingly when infused with whatever else the infamous Love Potion contains.
Nothing really, at least from the single glass Alastor has had so far. He's fully coherent as Valentino gently sucks on Alastor's bottom lip, trails his tongue along the curve of a neutral smile, tilts Alastor's head to the side for a better angle. Nothing they haven't done before.
Alastor refuses to be the one to pull back unless it requires physical damage to follow. It ruins the fun. He also refuses to deepen the kiss. Such displays are below him. He takes whatever he's offered and only objects if strictly necessary.
Valentino doesn't go as far as Alastor would have permitted.
Alastor doesn't complain as Valentino leaves him hanging.
The evening goes on, pleasantly ordinary. His tongue is looser, Alastor realizes eventually, he isn't thinking over his words as much as usual. His limbs are heavier, muscles relaxed and void of tension he wasn't aware of previously. Almost like he has slipped into the shadows, has melted into the darkness.
He plays along the drowsiness. Exaggerates it, fumbles over his words, loses his train of thought. Lets his ears and eyelids droop, for his grin to soften.
The bottle is emptied in no time. Alastor made sure of it, even if Valentino was quite reserved in his participation. He sinks into the couch farther, briefly closes his eyes and takes account of his body. A different sensation than having a pleasant amount of alcohol in his bloodstream, he would be able to sober up from fully if need be regardless. A gentler sort of dizziness, determined to rock him into unconsciousness if he would only allow it.
"It's getting late," he says, draws out the syllables, and, not for the first time, wonders why he's even bothering to entertain Valentino when it should be the other way around. "I wouldn't want to extend my welcome too much."
"Already?"
Alastor doesn't miss the telling glint in his eyes – the pest is getting exactly what he wants, and Alastor has to remind himself he's the one calling the shots.
He doesn't bother to reply as he stands up. The heaviness in his limbs is barely a nuisance to the point he forgets to lean into it at first, balances himself upright without difficulty, realizes this isn't the expected response, and sways back. His thoughts are ever so slightly muffled, the world is ever so slightly blurred around the edges. He takes note, cross-references how blackout drunk people at bars stumble over themselves, and hopes his acting skills would suffice.
Valentino reaches for him, cautious, but figures he's in the clear to grab at Alastor's shouders and hold him steady. "Hah, someone can't handle their liquor."
Alastor hums, pretends he didn't process the remark. "I should take my leave." He repeats himself, slower, sways to the side, gives Valentino the opportunity to catch him.
"Oh no, I can't have you wandering off like this, what would people think! You're staying the night," Valentino says, so obnoxiously fake in his kindness Alastor wonders whether he's only capable of manipulation if the other person is under the influence. "It's no problem, really. Gonna send you off first thing in the morning, yeah?" As if Alastor can't teleport himself directly to his Hotel room.
Alastor is too coherent, too composed. He slumps against the moth, relaxes his body weight on him. He wants to see what exactly Valentino would do if Alastor's defences are low. If he would be unfortunate enough to forget who Alastor is. If he would dare.
He does.
Sweeps them away from the lounge room, slowly, carefully. Alastor slurs a protest under his breath, wondering if he's overselling it. If he is, Valentino is none the wiser to get suspicious. Alastor isn't as inebriated as he portays by a long shot. As clumsy as his steps are, as much as he's leaning on Valentino for balance, he is just on the side of tipsy, his vision swaying gently.
He wants to find out where Valentino's stupidity would lead.
To the bedroom apparently.
Valentino sits Alastor down on the bed once he hastily moves the covers and the enormous amount of decorative pillows out of the way. Alastor leans back groggily, decides he's overacting, straightens himself back up with Valentino's 'assistance'.
"'m tired," Alastor voices out under his breath. He needs to pay attention to his body to a degree he despises. What little the drug is doing to him he has to concentrate on, diagnose, emphasize. Drowsiness melting into his bones, flowing through his veins to warm his insides, wanting to spill out. There's a barely present itch under his skin. He thinks it intentional design that, even through the layer of fabric, the annoying sensation becomes pleasantly sharp where Valentino lays his hands, that the miniscule discomfort is practically non-existent where clothing doesn't cover him. With what he hopes is drugged determination, Alastor paws at his tie, makes a charade of loosening it.
"Here, let me–" Valentino jumps in instantly, slipping the tie off of Alastor's neck and placing it on the nightstand with more care than Alastor anticipated.
Alastor swallows down the disgust.
He thought Valentino wouldn't all too eagerly start undressing him the first chance he got. Considered their meetings harmless, lighthearted, mutually entertaining, figured offering a finger wouldn't entail getting his entire arm being bitten off. Based on the information he has received against his will, Alastor doesn't make the cut for being attractive enough for Valentino's advances. But, there's a type of thrill in exerting control over a fellow Overlord, physical appeal hardly has anything to do with the power trip.
Valentino so easily maneuvers Alastor's mostly limp form and slips the coat off of him, undoes the first button of Alastor's shirt, the second–
And moves on. Bends down, kneels on the floor, makes quick work of removing Alastor's shoes. Smiles up at Alastor, eyes gleaming with satisfaction behind his hideous heart-shaped glasses. "I swear you can be so difficult sometimes," he says with his voice ringing in contained laughter, quietly filling the air as if expecting no response. "Really, the shit I have to put up with to get you compliant!"
Alastor feigns disorientation as Valentino pushes him onto the bedspread, keeps his eyes open only a sliver. He needs to sell the look, he reminds himself. Lets his head loll to the side and ears lay back, drapes his arms above his head, curls his legs in and twists them to the side, propping his hip up. He hopes he can present himself as a helpless creature, malleable and defenseless, up for taking.
Not like Valentino is paying him much attention, considering he's trying to kick his heeled boots off in a haste. Alastor barely contains the chuckle threatening to escape at the clumsiness. Who's supposed to be the intoxicated one again?
Valentino crawls up over Alastor at last, settles with his knees on either side of Alastor's waist, grins. "Scooch up– there you go." He has to yank Alastor a good few inches to get Alastor's head on the pillow meant to serve a purpose besides crowding the space for the sake of questionable aesthetics.
When Valentino finally decides to touch after a bit of either hesitation or just admiring the view, Alastor flinches despite himself. A strand of hair that has arranged itself over Alastor's forehead is brushed away, and the tiny contact sends pins and needles all the way into his skull. Not painful, not pleasant, just sharp and sudden, topping it all off with how gentle the brief touch comes off as.
"Fucking hell," Valentino breathes out, "you're adorable! Look at you!"
Why the hell is Alastor bothering with this again? Even such a little remark wouldn't fly on a regular day, but he waits. Anticipating. Wanting, ready to tear Valentino apart once the torture he's planning would be justified. Pretending he has no idea what's happening around him, that he will permit anything with minimum resistance.
"If I could just keep you like this all the time–" he cooes as he runs the back of his knuckes down Alastor's cheek.
And because Alastor is convinced Valentino's brain is so fried from watching exaggerated sex on the daily nothing will be too over the top of a reaction, he seals off his performance with a tiny inhale, lets it catch at the back of his throat in a gasp. Stares back through hooded eyes as Valentino frowns and draws his hand back as if Alastor burned him.
Valentino leans over, still immensely tense, and with all the impudence in the world snaps his fingers in Alastor's face.
It's a very conscious and hard choice not to bite them off.
"Oh, you're really fucked up," Valentino states, almost shocked.
Okay, maybe this is fun. Just a bit. "Valentino, what..." he trails off, slurs his tone so much he wants to smack himself out of embarrassment.
The shock evaporates. Valentino shrinks into himself, lowers his voice instantly, "I know. I know, it's okay, it should wear off in a few hours. You won't even remember, I promise."
Oh, he will. And Valentino would too. The sheer amount of idiocy even attempting to drug an Overlord requires! Their bodies heal exceptionally fast, clear up toxins from their bloodstream in practically no time. Mind altering powers of other Overlords barely affect them in the first place! And there the biggest moron of Hell is, thinking he could incapacitate Alastor for hours! How does he even believe himself?! How does he think he could get away with–
With gently grabbing Alastor by the upper arms and turning him to the side properly. Then, he slings one leg over so he isn't caging Alastor between his knees, and flop down. The mattress jumps. What–
"Just relax, okay? Close your eyes, take deep breathes, the dizziness will wear off," he whispers as he pulls Alastor against himself.
Chin placed right above Alastor's head, an arm snakes under Alastor's neck so he could hug the Radio Demon around the shouders, another ends up wrapped around his waist. His hands are balled into loose fists, intentionally not grabbing at Alastor. Just... keeping him close. Valentino shifts his legs to fit the bend of Alastor's lower body perfectly, wiggles for a bit to get comfortable, and settles back with a content sigh.
Alastor stares at the wall.
What?
Did– did Valentino actually–
Alastor grinds down on his molars to stop himself from cackling. He knew Valentino was as eager to cuddle as the personification of a plush toy but this is ridiculous! He almost cracks his teeth from the force when Valentino chirps. Chirps, like a cicada in a summer evening.
What's even more ridiculous is that, well, Alastor doesn't exactly hate it. The drug is doing its job to make him susceptible to touch at least. He doesn't feel grossed out or trapped, more like his nervous system has been screaming for this and is finally satisfied. The weight of Valentino's arms is strangely comforting. The body heat too, Valentino runs hotter than most demons, and Alastor despises it even more than the invasions of his personal space, yet the warmth is somehow both more intense and enjoyable, like Alastor has been left to freeze in a snowstorm and is now heating up his hands over an open fire.
It's nice. Odd, but nice, tolerable with a touch of pleasant. He shifts slightly, more to see if Valentino would allow any sort of movement. Valentino doesn't stop him, loosens his hold, but instantly readjusts himself to not leave even the tiniest gap between them. Alastor wants to read it as Valentino trying to keep the most leverage possible, to trap him as best as he can. And, he can't, can't convince himself that it's anything besides Valentino wanting to keep Alastor close. Not caged, close.
The clock ticks out a couple of minutes. Valentino doesn't move further, either already asleep or is about to, judging by his breathing. Alastor, with perfect coordination, reaches to grab one of Valentino's hands, interwines their fingers, digs his claws in just shy of drawing blood. The moth squeaks. Freezes. Alastor feels every muscle in Valentino's body tense.
"Valentino," he starts, firm, composed, sober as can be, "if you ever attempt anything of the sort again, your lovely robot assistant will be collecting what little remains of you in a bucket. Understood?"
Valentino squeaks again as he tries to pull his arms away.
Alastor doesn't let him. "I didn't say you could move."