Archive of Our Own

Alastor had always told him that he needed to expand his palate. “No, Vox, you cannot simply eat cheeseburgers. No, Vox, you cannot live off the same trashy fast food.” Well, fine!

Here they were at the same stupid, stuffy Overlord gala, a rotating event that each Overlord eventually hosted in their own territory. Back when Vox first attended in his younger years as a budding Overlord, he genuinely thought these gatherings were the crème de la crème. He used to count down the days for his chance to attend one. Fast-forward centuries later, and he couldn’t stand them. Now, it was nothing more than mindless small talk with the same old faces, save for the occasional newcomer who popped up with the same ambitious, naive gleam Vox used to have.

But socializing wasn't what caught Vox’s eye tonight. It was the immense spread of food beckoning from across the ballroom.

Tonight’s host was Rosie. A lot of people foolishly assumed that because she was a cannibal, all she knew how to cook was sinner meat. They were dead wrong. If a sinner was caught insulting her cooking, they became the next meal. Rosie actually excelled at normal, exquisite culinary dishes; she reserved those high-end meals for special occasions or close friends. Tonight was a special occasion.

Naturally, Rosie was mindful enough to separate the cannibal spread from the non-cannibal side. Looking over at the exclusive section, Vox couldn't help but think that setting up an entire table for the only two cannibals in attendance was a bit much. Still, the non-cannibal options looked incredible, and Vox was determined to taste them all.

Scanning the array, Vox had to admit Rosie had pulled out all the stops. There were prime cuts of meat, herb-crusted prime rib, rich spreads, delicate pastries, and even a couple of different types of wines or drinks to choose from, with some indicating which paired best with each food. Classy~ Vox thought as he piled his plate high, making sure to get a little bit of everything.

With the first bite of the prime rib, any lingering thoughts of truly savoring each bite and chewing at least 17 times (it’s a thing that Alastor insisted he do, lest he choke like the last time when dining on breakfast the other day) had all been dismissed from his mind.

The rich, savory juices of the meat exploded within his mouth, which, combined with the velvety, truffled mashed potatoes, made this to die for. Vox found himself eating with a sudden, relentless intensity. He barely took a breath between mouthfuls, driven by a stubborn desire to prove to Alastor that he could appreciate high society’s finest culinary offerings just as easily as his usual greasy fast food.

By his second plate, Vox could feel the physical shift beginning within his torso. His silk vest, tailor-made to fit his usual sharp silhouette, was starting to lose its slack. With every heavy spoonful of rich lobster bisque and every bite of a buttery mushroom pastry he swallowed down, his stomach expanded outward, greedily claiming space against the stiff fabric. It was a strange, intoxicating sensation at first—the literal weight of the feast settling deep into his middle. The fine silk of his shirt stretched taut across his abdomen, the weave tightening with every deep breath.

Yet, the sheer perfection of Rosie’s cooking kept him going. He ignored the initial warning signs his body was trying to send him as he piled even more onto his plate. His midsection bloated up so much that Vox had to subtly shift his posture, shimmying here and there to stop the cut of his slacks from biting into his hips. Unknowingly, he began to arch his back slightly to give his belly a little more room as it threatened to spill over his belt. He was pushing past his limits right there in the middle of the ballroom, completely stuffed to the brim, entirely drunk on the rich flavors and the smug satisfaction of showing Alastor exactly what he was capable of conquering.

The small mountain of food on Vox's plate had completely disappeared. Vox really should stop now, he thought. He had already eaten enough to feed three adult hellhounds, but he couldn't bring himself to step away. He half-wondered if Rosie had slipped in some secret ingredient to cause such an insatiable craving.

Of course, that wasn't the case. The simple truth was that Vox was being a glutton.

He finished off the remaining honey-and-chive biscuits, cramming them into his large digital mouth. God, that last biscuit felt like it slid straight into the final empty pocket of his swollen stomach. Urgh. Okay. Now he would stop.

Preparing to set down his spotlessly clean plate, Vox approached the buffer between the two tables so a waiter could retrieve it. His belly briefly brushed against the edge. He turned his television head to the left toward the cannibal food section.

Big mistake.

Even while being with Alastor, Vox had never fully warmed up to the idea of eating sinner meat. Alastor even kindly enough had tried his best to alter the meat to be something tolerable for Vox’s taste buds. But after a couple of bites and Vox having the worst stomach ache imaginable, he had since declined any further offers.

And yet, why was his mouth watering? A small amount of drool pooled at the corner of his mouth. His stomach let out a low gurgle.

You gotta be kidding me... Are you still hungry?

He looked down at his bloated form, checking his surroundings before subtly resting a hand on his stomach to massage it. That simple touch did the trick. Something inside shifted, making room for more, like gates opening after a flood.

I mean, one look at the spread wouldn't hurt, right? It’s not like I'm actually going to eat sinner meat… right? No. Of course not. Just a quick peek! It would be rude not to appreciate Rosie’s efforts at least right? Yeah, it’ll be fine.

It was not fine. He should not have walked over. He should have turned the other way around and perhaps even walked and engaged in a bit of banter to work out all that food that he just stuffed inside him. But it seemed his stomach was the one making the decisions that night.

Vox circled the table like a shark circling its prey, but in this instance, it was literally sinner meat. Even though only two people were meant to eat from this section, Rosie had certainly gone all out. The table was lined with delicate finger sandwiches made with rare cuts of what Vox thinks might be kidneys, livers, and oh. Was that a bit of intestines, yet they were all covered in different sorts of glazes of sweet crimson sauces, and intricately prepared roasts that smelled unnervingly decadent. The funny thing was that, while this was definitely sinner meat, Rosie’s decorating had made it look so normal-looking compared to when Alastor tried to feed him the same thing, albeit in a different manner…

Okay, just one bite couldn’t hurt.

Vox checked two things first: he glanced left and right to make sure no one was watching him, or at the very least not paying attention to him, and the second thing, which was considerably more crucial, Alastor wasn't looking. If Alastor caught him eating from this table, Vox would never live it down, or worse, Alastor would start making these meals at home, leaving Vox with no excuse to decline. Along with Alastor, he was more than likely feeling highly offended by his eating Rosie’s food but not his.

Everyone else was chatting away or watching the evening's mild entertainment. Rosie had hired one of the local cannibal groups to perform for the evening. They played a variety of musical styles, each tailored to a specific overlord's preference. Currently, they were blasting a Zeezi genre piece, a performance that would certainly provide enough of a distraction.

Satisfied he was unobserved, Vox checked himself once again. He slid his hand over his protruding belly to see if any space truly remained. Prodding gently, he found a bit of give. Huh. Must have digested some of it already.

He rubbed the underside of his stomach, which produced a series of quiet gurgles and a tiny burp. He quickly pressed a fist to his mouth to muffle it. Ugh. That freed up a bit more room.

Okay, I should be fine just grabbing one of these… and one of those… Oh, that actually looks good, too. Wait, what kind of sauce is that? How on earth did she source these ingredients?

In the end, Vox’s "two little things” turned into a medium-sized mountain that sat glistening on his plate.

Now, where to hide and eat this? Vox scanned the room and spotted a dark corner where no one would bother him. Beelining for an enclosed space without so much as a glance at anyone, he pressed himself into the corner and focused on the task at hand.

It all looked so damn delicious. Taking a bite of a slow-roasted chunk of beef, he felt his middle bloat out even further, growing softer with every mouthful. He moved on to his third selection, a dish he hadn’t seen since his human years, and was honestly surprised that he found it on this side of the “normal” food section.

A small, remaining thread of Vox’s rational mind tried to scream at him to stop. This was a sinner. Just an hour or two ago, this was a person who walked the streets of Hell. It wasn’t that Vox cared about a random sinner; it was just the thought of consuming another being that unnerved him.

Yet, as the rich aroma wafted up from his plate, his insatiable ravenous need to keep tasting Rosie’s unbelievable cooking completely shattered his conscience. He took a large bite, and any lingering disgust dissolved in an instant. The tender, slow-braised meat practically melted on his tongue, dripping with a thick red wine sauce infused with smoky bacon lardons, sweet pearl onions, and wild mushrooms.

Did Rosie do that on purpose? Vox wondered, swallowing down the decadent bite as his stomach strained further against his vest. Or did Alastor somehow manage to persuade her to make something from my past so that I would give sinner meat a try?

As the flavors exploded on his tongue, he melted. This is fantastic! God, maybe I should—

"Oh my god, is that Vox?" a hushed voice whispered nearby. "Jesus, was he always that big? It looks like he ate half of Hell's population."

"Pfft, well-fed, isn't he?" another snickered. "Hope he left some food for the rest of the Overlords. I thought a TV was only supposed to add ten pounds, but that looks like a lot more. How is he supposed to be an Overlord when he's stuffing himself like a pig? He used to look sleek, and he was voted Hell’s hottest? What a downgrade. Look at him."

Vox’s antennas drooped slowly downwards with each passing word; he nearly choked on his food. He didn’t dare look up fully, but a quick side glance revealed two young sinners, a pair of skinny nobodies who practically looked like sticks. Newer Overlords who clearly didn't know their place. If he really wanted to, he could zap them where they stood.

But no. That wouldn’t be fair to Rosie, and he had promised Alastor he would be on his best behavior. So he ignored them and turned back to his plate.

Yet looking down at the half-eaten pile, it was suddenly far less appetizing. The food tasted like ash. Vox became painfully, acutely aware of just how large he had gotten during his spree. The tightness of his clothes, the heavy swell of his stomach stretching out a dress shirt he'd bought just a month ago... A cold pit formed in his chest. He felt sick. He wanted to go home.

“Al?” Vox transmitted through his internal shared frequency, his voice trembling. “I think… we’ve done our part, right? We’ve stayed long enough. I want to go home…”

Alastor’s ears perked up at the incoming transmission, though the feedback felt strangely strained. “Vox? Come now, I was just in the middle of a fascinating discussion with Overlord Zestial. It will only be a moment, darling, and then we can head straight—”

“NO!”

A harsh burst of static blasted through the connection, making Alastor’s ears fold back sharply.

“No… please, Alastor. I just… I want to go home. I feel sick. Please.”

The line cut off abruptly, leaving behind a sour, heavy resonance in the air.

Alastor hummed, annoyed. Fine. Bidding Zestial goodbye, he made his way toward the buffet area where he had last seen his picture box. But as he approached, he noticed a small crowd lingering near the edge of the room. Had something happened? If so, why hadn't Vox said anything over the frequency?

Alastor didn't find Vox at the food spread. Instead, he spotted Rosie whispering to him in a shadowy alcove near the edge of the room. Tuning his radio frequency to listen in, Alastor caught the tail end of her quiet, maternal tone.

“Come along, dear. Let’s have you sit in my private room.”

From across the floor, Alastor watched as Rosie gently guided the larger demon toward the back rooms. She had clearly spotted him huddled in the corner minutes earlier. Vox, who was never quiet, hunched over with his arms wrapped tightly around his middle as if all the spark had been zapped right out of him.

Alastor had caught the tail end of their exchange from across the room— he way Vox trembled when Rosie touched his shoulder, his screen bearing such a sorrowful expression that tiny digital tears shimmered at the edges of his displays. Seeing his distress, Rosie had immediately escorted him away from prying eyes and into the quiet sanctuary behind her shop.

Inside the private room, Rosie set Vox down in a plush armchair before stepping over to prepare a soothing tea.

“Here, darling. Have some tea while we wait,” Rosie said softly, pouring the golden liquid into a cup.

Vox’s eyes narrowed at the steaming cup. Subconsciously, his hand pressed over his bloated stomach, which let out a loud, miserable gurgle. Vox’s screen flushed with a bright cyan blush. God, now even Rosie can hear how much I gorged myself. The shame threatened to swallow him whole.

“Did you tell Alastor where to meet us, Vox?” Rosie asked softly. “If not, I’ll step outside and bring him over. You stay right here.”

Before Vox could protest, Rosie was already heading back through the double French doors. She scanned the gala floor until two red, fluffy ears came into view above the crowd.

When Alastor spotted her approaching, his signature smile looked unusually strained, his brows knit tightly.

“Rosie? Vox told me to come collect him, but… is he quite alright? Where is he? I saw you usher him inside, but—”

Rosie raised a hand gently. “Now, Alastor, I know you care for him, but please try to be gentle. He seems quite upset. Just… be patient with him, alright?”

Alastor looked perplexed, pushing past her into the back room. What could have bothered Vox so much?

When he walked in, the sight made something in Alastor's chest tighten uncomfortably. Vox was staring blankly at the untouched teacup, both arms wrapped tightly around a midsection that was noticeably rounder than when they had arrived. Alastor’s initial assumption was simply that Vox had overeaten, which would explain the sour frequency, but the sheer misery written across Vox's screen didn't fit a simple stomachache.

“Vox, darling, come now. Let us go home.” Alastor called upon his shadows, an inky puddle forming at their feet as a dark tentacle offered itself to Vox.

Vox remained frozen in his chair.

“Vox? You said you wanted to leave. This is the fastest way.”

Still, Vox made no move to get up.

Growing slightly impatient, Alastor dismissed the shadows and stuck out his hand to shake Vox’s shoulder. “Vox.”

That finally pulled Vox out of his trance. “I hear you, Alastor, but… I’m feeling sick. I don't want to throw up, and you know I don't do well with shadow travel.”

Though they had been together for a while now, shadow travel still made Vox deeply motion-sick. Alastor sighed softly, the irritation melting into mild compromise. “Of course, my dear. But we won't be taking that dreadful limousine of yours either. Instead, perhaps a nice little stroll will do you some good.”

Vox stiffened instantly. Outside? Walking all the way back on the open street?

That meant exposing this huge, hideous gut in front of dozens of onlookers. Everyone on the street would see what a horrific glutton the CEO of Voxtek really was. Vox’s mind began to spiral downwards, and the horrible thoughts that would plague him constantly at night began to resurface

And what then? Alastor would finally see what a failure he had become. He would realize there was nothing more to Vox than a fat face and a growing waistline. He would wonder where his little picture box had gone, replaced by a man that does nothing but eat and eat and is just a whale, a failure so full of lard, and once he saw just how huge he had gotten, he would leave him, and this time, Vox wouldn't even blame him.

“Vox… Vox? VINCENT.”

The use of his former name snapped him straight out of the spiral consuming his mind. Vox jolted violently, his screen flashing a brief gray static. His chest heaved as his fans whirred at maximum speed, trying to cool down his overheating system. He blinked, the hazy silhouette of the back room slowly coming back into focus.

Alastor was leaning down slightly, his crimson eyes scanning Vox’s screen with an intensity that made Vox’s stomach twist into an even tighter, more painful knot.

“There you are,” Alastor said, his tone dropping its usual dramatic flair into something far quieter, though his signature smile remained firmly in place. His hand, still resting on Vox’s shoulder, gave a firm, grounding squeeze. “You vanished on me for a moment. Are you quite alright, my dear?”

“I—I’m fine!” Vox blurted out instantly, his voice cracking with desperation Please just let it go. Vox prayed. He forced himself to sit up straight, pulling his coat together to hide his swollen middle. “Fine. Just… tired. I think I just… ate too much, and my stomach is just messed up. Let’s… go. Before anyone sees.”

He stood up a little too quickly. A sharp, heavy cramp flared through his abdomen, making him wince and instinctively hunch over again with a low, miserable groan.

Alastor’s smile strained just a fraction more, his ears twitching back. He reached out, catching Vox by the elbow to steady him before he could stumble. “Careful now. If walking is going to prove this much of an ordeal, perhaps—”

“No! No, walking is fine!” Vox insisted hastily, refusing to look Alastor in the eye. He couldn't bear to see disgust on that face. Not yet.“Let's get out of here. Please.”

Alastor studied him for a second longer. Alastor wanted to insist; he knew he was not getting an answer anytime soon. Alastor sighed softly and demanded a real answer as to why Vox was acting this way and what had caused all this. But seeing how tense he was, he knew he would not get an answer anytime soon. Alastor sighed softly, “Very well. Step by step, then.”

He wrapped an arm securely around Vox’s waist, a gesture meant to support his weight, though Vox internally cringed, terrified Alastor could feel just how bloated and soft he felt under his clothes.

As they made their way toward the double doors, Rosie stepped into the hallway, blocking their path.

“Leaving so soon, boys?” she asked gently. Her black eyes darted from Alastor’s tense expression down to Vox, who was clinging to Alastor’s side, looking thoroughly exhausted and upset.

“Duty calls, I’m afraid,” Alastor replied, offering a polite nod. “Our TV demon here has declared an early night.”

Rosie’s expression melted into sympathetic warmth. “Of course.” She stepped closer and gently placed a decorative paper gift bag into Alastor’s free hand. “Here. Take this with you.”

Alastor looked down into the bag, raising a brow. Inside sat a small glass jar filled with the soothing herbal tea leaves she’d just brewed, along with a box of Hell-grade indigestion medicine and anti-nausea chews.

Before Alastor could make a witty remark, Rosie reached out and caught the lapel of his coat, pulling him down just far enough so Vox couldn't hear over the low hum of his own fans.

“Now, Alastor,” Rosie murmured, her voice dropping into a stern, motherly whisper, her eyes locking onto his. “I know how you get when things don't go according to plan, but look at him. He is miserable and utterly embarrassed. I tried asking, but it didn’t seem like my place; for you, it should be. However, be gentle with him tonight, do you hear me? No teasing, no walking too fast. You take him straight home and take care of him. Let him be the one to tell you what happened.”

Alastor’s smile softened into something far more genuine. He gave a quiet, subtle nod. “You have my word, Rosie.”

“Good boy,” she whispered, patting his cheek before stepping back with her usual radiant smile. “Safe travels, you two! Vox dear, drink that tea when you get home, alright?”

Vox gave a weak, muffled hum of agreement, his screen hanging low to avoid eye contact anymore, as Alastor guided them out the back exit and into the cool night air.

The walk back was rather short, and, in fact, not many sinners were out this late at night; even if some were, as soon as they saw the pair, many fled or turned in the opposite direction. But it was silent nonetheless, minus the angry-sounding gurgles emanating from Vox’s painfully swollen stomach.

Vox kept his head down the entire way, his coat pulled tight, and by the time they made it to their street, Vox looked up to see their apartment door. He practically threw himself up the front steps the second the front door was unlocked.

“Vox—” Alastor started, stepping through the entryway after him.

“I’m going straight to bed,” Vox interrupted, his voice clipped and tight. He didn't wait for a response. He hurried down the hall, slipping into their bedroom and clicking the door shut behind him.

Once inside the dark room, Vox leaned his back against the heavy wood, his chest heaving. His system was overheating, his fans whirring in a desperate attempt to cool down his screen. Trembling, he moved toward the closet, deliberately turning his back to the large vanity mirror. He couldn't look. He couldn't bear to see his own reflection.

He unbuttoned his vest with shaking fingers, shedding the tight layer with a heavy shudder of relief. But the relief was short-lived. Stripped down to just his undershirt and dress pants, his swollen, bloated stomach was completely exposed. It was firm to the touch, and small cramps littered throughout Vox’s stomach. Quickly, Vox ripped off the dress shirt and pants, replacing them with one of his extra oversized shark graphic shirts, along with some pj shorts that at first felt tight, which caused Vox’s heart to leap into his throat before being able to slide them up all the way.

When he heard Alastor’s hooves clicking toward the door, panic spiked through him again. Vox scrambled under the heavy duvet, pulling the blankets all the way up to his chin and curling tightly onto his side, facing the edge of the bed.

Alastor opened the door quietly. He set Rosie’s care package down on the nightstand, the jar of tea leaves, and the box of anti-nausea medication, gleaming faintly in the dark.

“Vox, my dear,” Alastor said softly, walking over to his side of the bed. “Rosie was kind enough to pack a few things to settle your stomach. Let me fetch you a glass of water—”

“No.” Vox’s voice came out muffled, buried in the pillows. “No, I don't want it. Just leave it.”

Alastor paused, his ears twitching back slightly. “Vox, it will make you feel considerably better—”

“I said no!” Vox snapped, a sharp spike of static lashing out before he immediately squeezed his eyes shut, tone dropping to a quiet, pathetic murmur. “…Please. I just want to sleep.”

You don't deserve the comfort, the ugly, cruel voice in his head whispered, digging its claws in. You gorged yourself like a pig, and now you suffer for it. Taking medicine to fix your own disgusting greed is a joke.

Alastor studied the shape of Vox beneath the blankets for a long moment. He sighed, letting a puff of air through his nose, “Very well.”

The bed dipped as Alastor climbed in, slipping beneath his own side of the covers. He settled onto his back, hands resting over his chest, his crimson eyes staring up at the ceiling in the dark.

Hours had passed, and Alastor lay on his side as he stared boringly at the dresser and the little knick-knacks that littered it off to the side. He was never one for sleep, but did at least play the part for Vox’s comfort.

But for Vox, there was no comfort. The night felt like someone was torturing him. Vox’s stomach churned violently, sharp, agonizing cramps rolling through his distended abdomen. Trapped gas bubbled and gurgled loudly in the silence of the room, each sluggish shift sending a flare of nausea right up to his throat. He clutched his stomach under the blanket, biting down hard, using his own hand to keep from whimpering out loud, and a small trickle of blood welled up.

On the other side of the mattress, Alastor still lay wide awake. He smelled blood even though it was so faint. Had Vox perhaps scratched himself? It wasn’t really that uncommon. Vox’s claws were razor sharp, and there were nights when he had accidentally scratched himself or Alastor, but this didn’t feel like what was happening in the moment. Alastor remained motionless, listening to the strained, shallow breaths beside him and waiting for the inevitable shift in the sheets.

Normally, when Vox was sick or overwhelmed, there was no hesitation. Vox would roll over, wrap his arms around Alastor’s waist, and in turn, Alastor would turn to face him to allow Vox to bury his face into his chest and demand comfort without a second thought. Alastor was waiting for it. He was ready for that usual reach, ready to rub Vox’s back in slow circles, speaking words such as

Je t'aime, je t'adore, Mon cœur bat pour toi.

Words that allowed him the comfort he always so desperately needed, and that Alastor was always willing to give until he fell asleep.

But Vox didn't move one inch. His back still turned to Alastor, yet he was shaking and trembling. The physical pain was unbearable, making tears prick at the corners of Vox’s screen. I want Al, he thought desperately, his heart aching just as badly as his stomach. I want him to hold me.

Slowly, Vox began to shift beneath the covers. He trembled, hesitantly extending one hand across the dark space between them. His claws hovered just inches from Alastor’s back, reaching for the fabric of his shirt. He just needed to touch him. Just needed to grab his shoulder and ask—

Don't you dare.

The voice slammed back into his mind, cold, mocking, and loud.

Look at you. A repulsive, pathetic mess lying in the dark, and you want to drag him into it? You think he wants a grotesque glutton clinging to him? You’re disgusting. You’re a creep for even thinking you have the right to ask that of him.

Vox’s hand froze mid-air.

A sharp, painful lump formed in his throat. His fingers twitched, hovering in the silence before he slowly, painfully pulled his hand back, tucking it tight against his own chest.

He curled back into a tight ball, turning away into the cold, empty edge of his side of the bed, tears finally spilling down his face, landing on the pillowcase as his stomach continued to ache.

And on the other side of the bed, Alastor felt the subtle shift in the mattress, his ears drooping as he realized Vox had stopped reaching and wondered why his lover was suddenly keeping him so far away.

Two more agonizing hours dragged by; it had to be at this point, three in the morning, and still Vox was refusing to ask for anything.

Which, in turn, meant that Vox was losing his battle with the pain. His system was overheating, he felt so hot, his fans buzzing a weak, frantic hum while his stomach twisted into relentless, blinding knots. Every sluggish roll of trapped gas felt like a blade scraping against his stomach. He pressed his knuckles hard into his mouth, his screen washed in dark blue as tear after tear slipped past his eye, vanishing into the fabric of his pillow.

He tried to stay quiet. He tried so hard to be invisible. Then, a sudden, brutal cramp ripped straight through his distended gut. It was just too much at this point. Vox couldn't stop it. A sharp, hitching gasp tore from his throat, followed immediately by a raw, pathetic whimper of pain that echoed loudly in the silent room.

That was it. Alastor had tried to be patient as Rosie asked, tried to let Vox do it his way, let him take his time in asking for him. But clearly his picture box needed a helping hand,

Enough. Alastor’s voice echoed harshly throughout the room. Alastor threw the heavy duvet off of both of them. Before Vox could even register the sudden loss of warmth, a shadow loomed over him.

Vox gasped as two clawed hands pinned his shoulders to the mattress, and Alastor climbed directly on top of him, straddling his waist. The sheer weight and suddenness of it made Vox’s heart hammer frantically against his ribs.

“That is quite enough!” Alastor’s voice boomed, laced with a crackling radio static that made the air feel fuzzy. His red eyes glowed brightly in the dark, narrowed into slit-like pupils.

Vox flinched, instinctively pulling his arms up to shield his stomach, trying to curl away. “Al—Al, please, don’t—”

“NO,” Alastor growled, leaning down until his nose was mere inches from Vox’s screen. His signature smile was pulled into a tight, frustrated, strained line. “I have sat here for hours in this bed! I have listened to you squirm, I have listened to your breath hitch, I have watched you suffer in complete silence while lying less than a foot away from me!”

Vox choked on a sob, his screen glitching with chaotic grey static. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’ll be quiet—”

“I don't want you to be quiet!” Alastor snapped, his claws digging slightly into the mattress beside Vox’s head. His ears were pinned flat against his scalp, “I felt you reach for me, Vox! I felt you extend your hand! And then you pulled away, why? Tell me right now why you did such a thing.”

Alastor’s voice softened just a fraction, though the intense, burning frustration remained in his eyes. He leaned closer, his chest pressing lightly against Vox’s chest.

“Why?” Alastor demanded, his voice trying to maintain its calm, yet through the airways of their frequencies, his true feeling of genuine hurt lingered, “Why must you lock me out? Why do you suffer in silence when you know—when you know—all you have to do is reach out and ask for me? What in Hell’s name is going on in that absurd head of yours? Speak to me!”

Vox stared up at him, trapped beneath Alastor, his breath hitching as another painful cramp rippled through his middle. He squeezed his eyes shut as the cramp left him breathless and squirming to be let go.

Alastor reached down, sliding his hand beneath Vox’s screen to gently guide his face back toward him.

“Shit, Al, I just…” Vox wiped frantically at his screen with the back of his hand, leaving smudge marks across his screen. “How can you even stand to be with me anymore? I've let myself go… and now people are not only going to humiliate me, but you for being with me.”

Alastor’s eyes softened slowly. He shifted off Vox’s waist and settled onto the mattress beside him. He pulled Vox up with him and settled him into his lap, wrapping his arms securely around Vox’s stuffed belly.

Vox stiffened instantly, a terrified gasp catching in his throat. “Al, don’t—it’s disgusting, it’s—”

“Quiet,” Alastor commanded, though the edge in his voice was purring, impossibly soft. He laid a hand firmly over Vox’s trembling fingers where they clutched at his stomach, pressing his palms flat against the warm, heavy swell. “Do you truly believe my affection for you is so fragile, Vox? That it rests upon the sharp angle of your hips or the curve of your stomach?”

Vox squeezed his eyes shut, a fresh tear trailing down his screen. “It’s not just that… It’s what people say, what they think of me. What they think of us.”

Alastor let out a low, rumbling laugh that vibrated directly into Vox’s back. “Let the miserable little worms chatter. They mean nothing. Nothing in this realm compares to the thrill of having you by my side. You and I are partners, Vox darling, we are overlord of our own medium that can crush any sinner we please. And most importantly of all, you are mine.”

He leaned down, pressing his forehead gently against Vox’s shoulder, his radio frequency dropping into a rhythmic pulse that mimicked a soothing heartbeat to help calm the frantic beating of Vox’s own.

“You have not lost me, my dear. Nor will you ever. If anyone dares speak a single snide word about you or how I choose to cherish you, I will personally rip their tongues out and feed them to you for breakfast.”

A weak, choked huff of laughter escaped Vox’s speakers, the unbearable weight in his chest finally beginning to loosen. “You’re fucking insane, Al.”

“Perhaps,” Alastor hummed softly against his screen. “But it’s that what you love about me, Mon chéri?

Alastor’s claws hooked into the hem of Vox's shirt, slowly dragging the fabric up to expose the full extent of Vox's stomach to the cool air, before pressing his palm directly skin-to-skin against the hot swell. Vox gasped at the temperature shock, a sudden shiver running down his spine as Alastor’s long fingers spread, applying firm pressure right over the center of his abdomen.

The initial weight made Vox catch his breath, but as Alastor began to move his hand in slow, heavy circles, a shudder of relief washed over him. The deep kneading pushed against the trapped pressure, coaxing a helpless whine from the back of Vox's throat as the sharpest edge of the cramping began to give way.

"Ah—f-fuck... right there," Vox choked out, his head falling back against Alastor's shoulder.

"You are mine, Vox, every single piece of you, no matter how small or big you get, I will love every inch of you," Alastor purred softly against Vox’s screen, his breath hot, peppering Vox’s screen in kisses.

As the physical pain settled into a dull ache, the nature of the massage slowly mutated. Alastor’s thumb stroked lower, digging possessively into the soft, sensitive dip of Vox’s hip before sweeping back up over his full waist. The steady, circular friction on his bare skin began to build a heavy, throbbing heat lower in Vox’s pelvis.

Alastor’s free hand slid up to grip Vox’s thigh, hiking his leg up to open him wider, while his massaging hand flexed, sinking deeper into the soft flesh of his belly.

"Better, my dear?" Alastor murmured, fully intending to keep going until Vox gave a verbal answer.

Vox hitched his hips forward with a desperate, shuddering sigh. The line between physical relief and arousal was blurring quickly. Every possessive stroke across his stomach was a silent reminder that Alastor wasn't repulsed by his new plump body. Alastor wanted to dominate every inch of it.

"Alastor, please," Vox panted, his hands coming down to cover Alastor’s wrist, not to push him away, but to press those clawed fingers even harder into his gut as his body flushed with heat. "Don't stop... more."

Alastor chuckled, a low, dark sound in the quiet room, his hips rolling against Vox as the heavy rubbing resumed, sending waves of intense, dizzying pleasure straight to his core.

He held him through the heat, through the last of the lingering stomach cramps, and through the slow, soothing hum of his radio frequency until Vox finally fell into an exhausted, deep sleep.

The next morning, Vox woke up to the heavenly, mouth-watering aroma of rendered fat, sizzled herbs, and rich, savory meat drifting up the stairs.

His stomach, though still slightly tender, gave an eager rumble. Wandering down into the kitchen in a pair of loose sweatpants, Vox rubbed at his screen that flickered to life with a soft, warm glow. There stood Alastor at the stove in an apron, humming a jaunty jazz tune as he flipped thick, perfectly seared cutlets in a cast-iron skillet.

“Ah, good morning, my dear!” Alastor chimed, sliding a plate stacked high with seasoned meat, roasted potatoes, and a piping hot mug of Rosie’s tea onto the counter. “I thought a proper, hearty breakfast would do you some good after such a taxing night.”

Vox blinked, a genuine, soft smile tugging at the corners of his screen. “Al… you cooked for me?”

“Only the finest cuts for my partner,” Alastor said, leaning over to press a soft kiss to the side of Vox’s screen before handing him a fork.

Vox sat down, cut off a generous chunk of the tender meat, and popped it into his mouth. The flavor was incredibly rich, gamey, and perfectly spiced. But as he chewed, his fork hovered over the plate.

Right beside his mound of potatoes lay a charred, distinct piece of garnish that didn't look like any herb he recognized. In fact, if he looked closely at the edge of his cutlet… it bore the distinct, unmistakable neon-pink tattoo design of one of the high-end paparazzi sinners who had been whispering behind his back near the gala entrance last night.

Alastor stood by the counter, watching Vox closely. His sharp ears twitched back slightly, his hands subtly tightening around his dish towel. For a fraction of a second, a flicker of rare hesitation crossed the Radio Demon's mind. Did he go too far? Would Vox be revolted?

Vox stared at the tattoo on his plate for a beat, processing the gift Alastor had prepared for him. The insecurity from the night before flickered, but Alastor's fierce words echoed in his mind, smothering the panic completely.

Vox took another slow, deliberate bite, chewing thoroughly before swallowing with a satisfied hum. He looked up at Alastor, whose signature smile was holding an unusually careful edge.

“You know, Al,” Vox displayed a dark, smug smirk spreading across his screen as he cut another piece. “I always knew those snide little bitches had terrible taste… but they actually taste pretty damn good with a little rosemary.”

Alastor’s ears perked back up instantly, his smile broadening into a delighted, wicked grin. "I thought you'd appreciate the subtle notes of vengeance, darling. Does that mean you are a fan of sinner meat after all ?”

Holding Alastor’s gaze, Vox stabbed another thick, peice cutlet with his fork, lifted it to his mouth, and took a huge bite. He chewed slowly, letting the savory sweetness with a hint of heat coat his tongue before swallowing, before flashing Alastor a smile full of sharp teeth.

"Only when you prepare it for me, Al."