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Summary
Alastor loses a bet and Vox loses his mind.
Or: The radio demon puts on a show for a captive audience of one.
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Vox, in all the years he had known and fought the radio demon, had never even seen so much as his exposed collarbones and now… holy shit he could see everything.
His thighs were completely uncovered (satan have mercy) and criminally long and streaked with small deer spots amidst the glossy fur (Vox was going to throw up, holy fuck) fuck, his legs were unreal, really— and to top it all off he had on a pair of high heel platforms in a matching, shiny black.
It should’ve been some sort of illegal for someone to look this unreservedly appealing, even in hell. Fucking satan, apparently his chest and the base of his neck had little tufts of fur as well and his— he was so— Vox was actually going to vomit and then come completely untouched and then just fucking die.