An indie, PRIVATE and selective roleplaying blog for VOX, self proclaimed media god of HAZBIN HOTEL. Trusted by Gill. Do not interact with this account if you are under the age of 21. He/they/it pronouns. Heavy TWs in place for disturbing and triggering content. DDDNE. Vox is a bad person. A very bad person. You've been warned.
His movements had begun to slow as he held Vox's wrists against his hips. His mind was an irritating fog of need ━ not something innate to him, not something he understood in any intimate fashion ━ it was merely the annoying side effect of possessing a body, one filled with base nerves and instincts that could be stimulated just like any other organism.
He hates it. He hates that he can be touched in a way he had no real capacity for, and he hates that Vox was the one to do it, but most of all, he hates how right it felt in its wrongness. How in the haze of his mind, the electric feeling of pleasure resonating from his depths made finish the shining, singing thought he couldn't ignore.
And then cold, sharp dread. Not for Vox's wellbeing, but for the ruination of the moment lanced through him. Had he killed him ? Had the pathetic thing finally short-circuited for good ? The symphony couldn't end like this, not before the finale. The thought of being left here, unsatisfied, straddling a corpse, was… Unacceptable.
No it wasn't some sense of concern ━ it was a crystalline disappointment. A profound, aesthetic annoyance. Had the show ended prematurely ? The final act, his own long-denied release, would be cheated if his co-performer had dropped dead on stage before the encore. His ears began to slip back with this, the only other clear thought that managed to form in his mind.
Disappointing. How utterly, pathetically disappointing. That fear, that selfish, artistic need for a proper conclusion, is the only fucking reason he moves at all, but just before he could utter a curse, his ears shoot back up and his smile pulls tight "Don't caa-aall me thaaaAt, you fuuUcking- freak" Vox's warbling, distorted voice comes like music to his ears as he lets out a sound of pure, dark delight. ❝ Aha ! There you are ! Good boy, Vox. I just knew you had it in you ~ ❞
The condescension never leaves his tone, though his response was as genuine as it could be. That was his Voxxy; the man who always came when he was called, and in that, there was a cruel, taunting warmth, the strange, wicked fluttering feeling that fills his chest as the life returned beneath him. Vox fought himself back from the void, and Alastor's irritation melted into something else: demented, exhilarated pride. His toy wasn't broken. Not yet. It had the strength to obey.
Good.
The pain was the final key. The sharp, cruel dig of Vox's claws into his hips, breaking the skin, drawing thin lines of his own dark blood ━ it was the perfect, agonising counterpoint to the overwhelming pleasure building within him. The disgust, the fondness, the hatred ━ they all swirled into a single, undeniable truth: he was going to cum on this deluded fool's cock just as he commanded, and no matter how it irked him, he knew any shred of control he had long since worn away. What he had now was merely an act.
His body betraying his pride one final time. His hands don't leave the ones that dig painfully into his hips; his grip tightens as a low, distorted hum vibrates in his chest, rising into a sharp, staticky gasp that slips involuntarily through his teeth. His spine arched, his smile wobbled at its edges as the shuddering wave of climax wracked his slim, furred frame.
His internal muscles clenched in a series of violent, rhythmic spasms around Vox's cock, a hot, slick rush flooding between them. Despite his elegant, subdued facade, it was a powerful, consuming release ━ one that left his thighs trembling above the other demon, his chest heaving slightly from the sheer force of will it took to weather that magnificent storm of white hot ecstasy without a scream or a violent spasm in his own movement.
For a long moment, he stayed like that, riding out the last aftershocks of Vox's twitching hips until everything came to a still and the haze in his mind had begun to clear while the throbbing, intoxicating sensation in his core dulled.
He made a show of carefully lifting himself off Vox's spent cock, a faint, slick sound accompanying the separation. Disgusting. Wet. Warm. Sticky. The kind of fifth that turns his stomach, the leaking mess between his legs, a vile offence he knows he can do nothing but ignore.
❝ Adequate enough, ❞ he murmured. The word was a deliberate understatement meant to needle, even as his body still hummed with the echoes of a shattering release. He would never, ever give Vox the satisfaction of knowing just how good it had felt in that fleeting moment when they were still joined and Vox was buried inside him deeper than he ever imagined possible.
His next clear thought is the one that moves him, sprawling himself out as he reached for the drawer at the bedside. He'd become familiar enough with Vox's room now to know where everything was. His claws wrap themselves around a packet of cigarettes, brightly coloured and certainly not his brand, but right now, it doesn't matter.
He puts one between his lips and lights it up as he lies there, half hanging over the bed. A moment passes before he half-rises, twisting himself just so he could look back at Vox, the cigarette now between his fingers, his wrist flicking back and forth in emphasis as he asks his question, one that teemed with disappointment and near offence. ❝ Why is this fucking thing fruity ? ❞
Consciousness was a flickering, painful burden. Every system he had screamed in protest. The bite on his shoulder was a raging inferno of agony, his gills wept blood, and the deep, satisfying ache in his pelvis was now just a dull, throbbing reminder of how thoroughly he'd been used.
The ecstasy had faded, leaving only the wreckage and yet through the haze of pain, a single, glorious fact shone like a beacon: Alastor was still here.
He hated him.
He loved him.
He hadn't vanished, evaporated into a smug shadow that slithered out of his grasp. He was lying next to him, complaining about a fucking cigarette. The sheer, absurd normalcy of it, after the cataclysm they'd just shared, sent a weak, glitching laugh rattling from Vox's chest. It hurt like hell, pulling at the torn flesh in his shoulder, but he couldn't stop it. "H-haha… fuck…" he gasped, the laugh turning into a pained hiss. His screen flickered, struggling to focus on Alastor's elegantly sprawled form. God, he's pretty. Elegant. Weird as hell... "They're… Val's…" he managed, his voice a staticky wreck. "Fucking… Cherry… Special formula - he loves ‘em…"
He watched Alastor take a drag, the casual, post-coital gesture doing strange, warm things to his glitching heart. The Radio Demon, the untouchable king of sinners, was smoking a fruity cigarette in his bed. His bed. After fucking him.
Val wouldn't believe this. No one would. A hand rose up, laying flat against his forehead for a moment with the absurdity of it all, the frustration, and then a fresh wave of triumphant exhaustion washed over him. He'd done it. He'd survived. And he'd won. Even if no one would believe him.
His other hand, trembling, lifted weakly from the mattress, fingers twitching as he extended the hand to Alastor as far as it would go. "A-Al…Give me one…"
It was less a request and more a statement of fact. He couldn't move to get it himself. Every ounce of strength was gone. But after what they'd just done, he felt he'd earned a goddamn cigarette. Especially if it meant sharing this bizarre, quiet moment with the demon who had just torn him apart and, in some way, put him back together again.
The pathetic, glitching sob that come from Vox was the most beautiful sound he'd ever heard. The poor, delusional, broken thing that he was — it was a symphony of ruin, and as he ever was, he was its conductor. He let the plea, the gurgling, distorted whine vibrate through his jaw, a delicious counterpoint to the metallic flood of Vox's blood. He could feel the media demon's body beginning to fail, the thrusts becoming weak, jerky spasms, his screen flickering like a dying signal.
Pathetic. He thinks the word with a fond, almost amused jingle in his mind. He should let him give out, let him fall limp and slip into a void of nothing. But where would that leave him ? Awkwardly impaled on the verge of a release that would slip away with him, anticlimactic and unfinished ?
And that sense of demented affection that strummed within him — a possessive pride in the ruin he'd wrought — the thought of him simply… Shutting down and going dark above him was unacceptable. The show wasn't over. The symphony hadn't reached its crescendo. So, with a sudden, powerful surge, Alastor moved. He tore his teeth from Vox's shoulder with a wet rip, and in the same fluid motion, he used his leverage — his legs still locked around Vox's waist — to flip their positions.
He landed on top, straddling Vox's hips, the sudden shift driving Vox's cock deeper inside him, sending a shudder up his spine that bristles his fur and distorts the smile on his gore-covered face for just a moment, the lower lid of his eye twitching as a brand new wave of revulsion shoots through him – entangled in the ever-mounting, irresistible, undeniable pleasure low in his core and the strange fuzzy feeling that fluttered through his chest.
Ah, that's right. That's where he was. His attention locks back onto the screen of the wreck below him, his crimson eyes gleaming with some unknown need, somewhere between disdain and desire. He leaned down, his breath ghosting over Vox's screen, his voice a low, purring static.
❝ Oh come now, Vinnie ❞ He cooed, one clawed hand coming to gently, mockingly tap the glass of his screen. ❝ don't tell me that's all you have. Not when you've finally got me so invested in this little duet of ours ❞ He rocked his hips down, punctuating his words with a deep, deliberate grind, something emphasised further as he moves back, sitting up now, angling the shaft inside him back hard into that one particular spot that filled him with that terrible hot, electric tingle and searing disgust all at once.
❝ You wanted me to feel ? You wanted to matter ? Well now look ! ❞ Wake up, Vox. It's not over, not quite, but it's close, it's so close, its so close he's ridding you, hips rolling in this needy, almost desperate rhythm. A furious chase of the intoxicating release he knew was coming, and as he speaks, his hands move, gripping Vox's wrists, pulling them up and placing his hands against his hips, holding them there, firm, waiting for the stupid bastard to reboot — for his grip that had come loose to return. His voice is a fuzzy, static rasp, husky and tormenting all the same. ❝ Don't you dare disappoint me, dearest -- not now ! - Not when we are so close to the finale. ❞
His world was going black— imploding under the weight of the agony sparking throughout his body, the blood draining from his mutilated gills, the ruined nerves in his shoulder in the shape of Alastor's sharp, terrible teeth. He was fading, dissolving into static and pain… Until he spoke. Alastor— the world swam back into focus through a haze of static and searing pain.
That old name, the one only Alastor ever used. It wasn't spat. It was cooed. A mocking, tender caress that sent a fresh, desperate surge of energy through his glitching circuits. Come now, Vinnie… Oh, this bastard. This magnificent bastard. No one else called him that — only ever Alastor— it was another one of those little, trivial things from almost a lifetime ago that he couldn't imagine he'd remember or why — but he did — that familiar spark of twisted disdain fired through him.
Don't disappoint me. The words were a command, a challenge, a fucking drug. The flickering of his screen stabilised, the blinding white agony in his shoulder receding just enough to be overshadowed by his annoyance and the new overwhelming sensation: Alastor, riding him. The way their positions had changed, the way Alastor sat on top of him, sinking himself deeper, gravity making sure he was impaled to the very hilt and the slow, deliberate grind of the Radio Demon's hips, the clenching, velvet heat around his cock – "Don't caa-aall me thaaaAt, you fuuUcking- freak", he spat, his voice still glitching, and yet, a blooming smirk lit up his face, a jagged slash in his screen, contradicted any of the animosity he'd felt.
Of course, he let Alastor ride him, setting the rhythm, but when Alastor's internal muscles clenched down around him with exquisite, punishing pressure, Vox couldn't help it; it was a rhythm he could follow, a purpose. His grip was weak at first, but then it tightened, turning possessive, turning cruel, claws digging into the slender bone and fur with every intention to hurt. And god, he hoped it hurt.
His hips jerked upward in a sharp, hard thrust, a brutal bid to push deeper, to feel that vice tighten even more. A warbling, distorted cackle escaped him as his digital brows furrowed with the ache that still laced his system, but the broken grin on his face remains. "S-saaftisfied yet, Al? Come on- CuUUm for me - cum on my diiick, you smarmy caaAlous prick."
The command ignites a second wind of sheer force of will. A desperate, final surge of adrenaline born from the sheer, demented need to not disappoint him. Not to disappoint himself. Not to let this one, clear victory elude him. He was going to cum, the pressure in his core was a supernova, building, burning and the knowledge that flooded him, even through the haze of pain and ecstasy, was pure, unadulterated victory.
I'm the one. I'm the one who's going to make him cum. Really cum — the first in decades. Maybe ever? It didn't matter that he was broken, bleeding, reduced glitching wreck beneath the demon he both loved and hated. In this moment, as Alastor rode him with that gore-streaked, triumphant smile, Vox felt a perverse, glorious completion.
He could feel it building – the pressure, the heat, the inevitable, cataclysmic end. He was going to cum, and he was going to cum inside Alastor. He was going to be the first – the only one – to mark the untouchable Radio Demon in this way, to feel that perfect, arrogant body convulse around him in a release he had orchestrated. It was the ultimate victory. It was everything.
His hips bucked harder, losing their last shreds of finesse, driven by pure, primal need, the white-hot coil of agony and ecstasy threatened to tear him apart from the inside out. Every grinding roll of Alastor's hips, every sharp, possessive clench around his cock, was a twist of the dial, bringing him closer to the breaking point. His vision tunnelled, until all he could see was Alastor's face above him – that flourishing, vicious grin, those crimson eyes burning with a dark, shared knowledge, the way his expression would twitch, pleasured fractures in the mask he wore.
His own thrusts became frantic, desperate, animalistic. There was no rhythm left, only the primal, driving need for release. A high-pitched, continuous whine of static screamed from his speakers, the sound of his systems overloading, his teeth gritting together as it happened with a final, violent buck that drove him impossibly deep into Alastor's perfect, unusual heat. It wasn't just a finale, it was an explosion, an electric, convulsive release, each spasm wracking his broken body with fresh waves of blinding pleasure and pain.
His grip on Alastor's hips was crushing, his claws leaving deep marks as he held on, impaling himself as deep as possible, pouring everything he had – every ounce of love, hate, obsession, and devotion – into the demon riding him. The static scream had faded into a broken, gasping growl as the last tremors shook him, his body trembling and spent.
Fuck you Alastor.
Fuck you.
🌈✨💦🦈 Fun Fact: Sharks have the ocean's most dangerous booty calls. Did you know that shark foreplay is basically a full-contact sport? In the wild world of elasmobranch erotica, romance isn't roses and candlelight: it's jaws, chaos, and consent that's… Well, implied through sheer persistence. Forget flowers and dinner. In the shark world, foreplay is fore-bite. When a shark is feeling frisky, the courtship strategy is less "sweet nothings" and more "sink teeth into flesh and hang on for the ride." There's no cuddling after — just a slow swim away, bleeding, scarred, and probably already thinking about next time.🦈💦🌈✨
For a fractured second Alastor paused — not in pleasure, not in surrender — but in awe. Vox's voice, that glitching, broken rasp begging for pain, the way he pushed the claws deeper into his gills, forcing the wound wider, the blue sparks shooting out in protest and the blood spilling over his wrist and down his arm — the hot, wrong, obscene thrill it all tickled deep inside him paired with the demented determination in Vox's eyes, even through the tears. It was grotesque. It was insane. It was… Magnificent.
For a suspended moment, Alastor simply stared, eyes wide. The sheer, unhinged devotion in Vox's glitching, pain-racked voice, the way he pushed Alastor's claws deeper into his own flesh… It wasn't just fascinating, it wasn't just amusing, it was awe-inspiring. It was a level of pure, unbridled madness that even he, the Radio Demon, had to admire. Something cold in Alastor's chest, something he'd long thought incapable of any warmth, lights up ━ not in heat, not in passion, but it was something resonant ━ something comfortable.
Maybe even fond ━ and certainly hungry. It was Alastor who spent an eternity manipulating pain, orchestrating suffering for entertainment ━ the lone maestro conducting symphonies of screams, a macabre art form he alone had perfected, and then there was Vox ━ desperate, demented, not deterred but delighted, longing for collaboration, for destruction. He hated that he found it beautiful. He hated that the sight of Vox — broken, bleeding, begging, stirred something within him deeper than any mere annoyance or paltry amusement. It stirred hunger. A hunger dark, and hot, and equally twisted in its craving just for this. This deranged, electric, inexplicable connection: this destruction dressed as desire.
This wasn't submission. This was a mutual descent into glorious, violent ruin. And Alastor, at his very core, was a creature who adored a spectacular ruin. It's what he was here for, afterall.
The brittle, enduring grin on his face warped into something else, something no longer forced but flourishing — radiant with a kind of vicious, unholy joy — a grin so dark it could eclipse the heavens that shone above and so bright it cast shadows across the room. His crimson eyes, usually cold as polished glass, now burned with a manic, fascinated light.
The pleasure coiling in his gut, the brutal, annoying perfect friction of Vox's cock hitting that spot deep inside him, the blood running down his arm, the pain in Vox's pretty digital voice, the pathetic tears pricking in the corner of his eyes, it all coalesced into a single, undeniable truth: this didn't change what he was, or anything he knew about himself, this was merely the crystallization of his ego. The last vestiges of his resistance evaporated.
He didn't speak. He had no clever retort, nor scathing dismissal. Words were much too small for this moment. Instead, he moved with a low, rumbling purr that vibrated through his chest. He surged upward, not to escape, but to claim. His free hand — the one not buried in Vox's gills — shot up, fingers clamping down on the back of his neck, pulling him down just that little bit further, forcing the offered shoulder closer.
And then he took. His teeth — rows of needle-like daggers — sank deep into the corded muscle of Vox's neck. Not a tease. Not a nip. This was no playful love bite, but a feast, it was a mauling. Flesh ripped, tendons tore and a geyser of that hot, electric blood filled his mouth, the taste both metallic, sweet, and crackling with something uniquely Vox. His eyes fluttered as another beautiful, broken, agonised scream rewarded him.
His hips rose, pushing himself up against Vox's heat, legs coming up to clamp around his waist, locking him in place, biting down harder, anchoring himself as Vox's thrusts became frantic, losing all rhythm in a frenzy of pain and pleasure.
This wasn't love — it could never be something quite so dull — but it wasn't lust either. No never that. It something he could never define — something he never wanted to: whatever this was, it was the most real thing he had ever felt — and it was all because of the glorious, deranged, glitching monster above him. The loathsome, desperate fool that still, after all these years, was the only soul living or dead that had ever come anywhere close to matching him in anything.
Who knew what he was thinking — the truth was he wasn't — he was a file corrupted by pleasure and pain and need and want, all pathetic and desperate and aching, but as Alastor's mouth clamped down, the world fractured into pure, blinding agony. His teeth weren't just biting; they were excavating, tearing through his muscle and nerve clusters like paper, flooding Vox's system with a pain so immense, so all-consuming, it felt like his very code was being shredded.
His next scream, if one could still call it that, was raw, broken thing. Not entirely of ecstasy, but more of a pathetic, glitching sob — a sound of utter, distorted ruin. His vision whited out, his screen flickered violently, then plunged into static for a moment before his pathetic expression flickered back, tears — real tears — spilling slowly down the glowing glass of his screen, cutting strange tracks through the digital light.
His vision flickered, again, static snow threatening to blot out the ecstatic, monstrous face of the demon devouring him. Destroying him, always fucking destroying him — whether with words, or physical force — But Alastor was here. Not detached. Engaged. Biting. Needing. His hips had risen, his legs had locked around Vox's waist, pulling him impossibly deeper. Alastor was grinding on him, riding the cock buried in his slit with desperate, shameful need. He was feeling.
His hips bucked, a violent, uncontrollable spasm. Not from pleasure — though a sick, twisted echo of it still pulsed throughout the wreckage of him — this was more from the sheer sensory overload. His thrusts, once powerful and deliberate, became shallow, jerky spasms. He was fucking Alastor on instinct alone, his body desperately trying to finish what his mind was beginning to fail to process, trying to match the rhythm Alastor was forcing upon him, even as his systems screamed to shut down, to retreat from the fire consuming him.
Don't pass out. Don't you dare pass out. Not now. Not when he's finally here. He loved him. God, he loved him. He loved him once so much he would've done anything for him, and he hated him now— he hated him so much it hurt, the pain searing through his every circuit, emotions a tangled, glitching mess, short-circuiting his logic.
Because the pain, as overwhelming as it was, was also the proof. Proof that he mattered. Proof that he could touch the untouchable— reach the unreachable— Alastor might never love him — Vox knew that, but he also knew whatever dark, twisted thing Alastor could feel — hunger, fascination, amusement, sensation — he had it. He felt it and he felt that for HIM.
And so, through the blinding pain, a shred of triumph managed to surface. He did this. He made him feel this. It was a horrifying, beautiful realisation that this was probably the closest to love he would ever get from Alastor: a violent, cannibalistic communion that was literally tearing him apart.
"A-Al…" He choked out, the name a distorted, wet gurgle. A hand, the one not clenched at his side, freed itself from Alastor's wrist and fell down to find his hip, not to guide, but to grip, to anchor himself to the source of his annihilation. "F-f-fuck. P-Please…" It wasn't a plea for him to stop. It was a plea for more. A plea for acknowledgment. A final, desperate bid for the Radio Demon to see the ruin he was causing and, maybe, just maybe, find it somehow worthy. Of something of — of anything.
I mentioned I thought Id probably only ship with Ire's Alastor because I wasn't sure anyone else could handle Vox and like 4 people up and unfollowed me as if they would ever drop a thousand word reply of Alastor getting fucking railed by Vox perfectly in character lmfao.
Holding himself together under Vox's obscene touch has become a conscious effort, an act he has to strain just to remember the lines for. His ears lowered, not quite pushed down but hovering at the back of his head in irritation, a betrayal: the physical tell that the smile he wore tight on his face was nothing more than a mask.
Vox's touch — the slow, sensual, careful caress between his legs makes his stomach flutter in a way it never had before. A static fuzz rises from him as Vox speaks, his digital voice low and honeyed in a way that felt wrong in its rightness. He wasn't going to get hard for him; he wasn't going to give him anything to fucking play with. He imagines that's what Vox was trying to do — coax his body into presenting itself, but in this attempt at spite, Alastor failed to realize he'd given Vox an insight into his unusual anatomy that, he, in his chaste ignorance, had overlooked entirely.
God damn it, Vox, you incessant lecherous fucking —
It's not a thought he gets to finish before a choked hiss tears from between his sharp teeth. Something raw and almost human in its shock as one of Vox's offending fingers enters him. He winced, claws digging into the bedding, his spine arching not in invitation, but in instinctive, panicked recoil.
His claws shredded the sheets beneath him. The sensation was… Indescribable. It wasn't the bland, forgettable release he recalled from his human life; this was a violation so complete it very nearly rewired his nerves, the sharp electric zing shooting through his core — not quite pleasure, not yet — but the promise of it, terrifying and undeniable.
His jaw locked his smile on his face, brows furrowed slightly as his eyes pinned to the ceiling — some pathetic, feeble attempt at denying Vox any further pleasure in watching the cracks form in the mask he wore as he fucked him with his fingers, the perverted fucking gall. Fuck him! Fuck this —
And then he moves, withdrawing momentarily. The sudden vacancy he'd almost, in the most horrendous way, grown used to causes his eyes to snap back to the other demon, watching as he shed his own clothes, his dark, toned body decorated with bright, luminous blue highlights. He was some demonic, fascinating fusion between man, machine and shark — a thought that curled Alastor's lip above his teeth as it occurred to him the sight wasn't necessarily one of revolution but quite the opposite.
No, Vox wasn't bad to look at, as far as bodies went. Especially down here, where the infernal realm twisted their flesh in any grotesque and absurd way it desired, rendering unnatural, bestial parodies of their souls.
His exasperation doesn't stop there, eyes moving further, down to the pulsating member between his legs. Here they almost rolled as, for a moment, a thought passed through him: he wanted to imagine it was too big for a neurotic freak like Vox — as if he really needed the ego. It was truly an insult to injury to find his form, in some way, pleasing.
And then it happens. A sound ripped from Alastor's throat — not a scream, not a moan, but a raw, static-laced growl of pure, brutal sensation as Vox buried himself inside his slit to the hilt. It tore through the carefully maintained illusion of control, a jagged gash in the armour he wore. His back arched violently off the mattress, every muscle in his slender frame locking in shock.
His internal anatomy, still concealed, responded to the intrusion with a shocking, traitorous clench. The ridges of Vox's cock ground down against a spot deep inside him that sent a jolt of pure, undiluted pleasure straight to his core, so intense it bordered on pain — delicious, mind numbing pain.
The invasion was immense, wrong, and yet… The ridges along Vox's cock, the thick natural heat, the way the length pressed against something deep and internal —
He hated it. He loathed the feeling of being so entirely enjoyed ! So utterly filled by this glitching, deluded fool ! He hated the way his body betrayed him, the involuntary clench of muscles around the invading shaft, the slick heat that had gathered at his entrance now serving to ease — no — to WELCOME the penetration. He hated the tenderness in Vox's touch, the nuzzling, the whispered promises as though this truly was some broken act of love —
But most of all, he hated the pleasure. Because it was pleasure. Not a shallow, forgettable release, but a deep, resonant thrum that started low in his stomach and pulsed outward. Vox's cock, thick and ridged, was grinding against a spot inside him that ignited white-hot sparks behind his eyes — a nexus of sensation that felt both alien and right at the same time.
He tried to cling to his composure, to the safety of his hatred. He forced his grin to hold, though it was a ghastly, strained thing, all teeth and static. ❝ F-Fuck… ❞ The word escaped as another hiss — he couldn't stop it — and he instantly hated himself for it. Worse yet, his hips, of their own accord, gave the tiniest, most shameful rock forward, seeking more of that devastating pressure. No, no, no.
❝ You're… Oh, you're insufferable, Vox ! ❞ He managed, his voice raw, scratching and fuzzing with outraged static. ❝ You're — you're fuck-ing pathetic — you're not even inside the right hole, you prized fool !! ❞ His voice slips into a tremble of absurd amusement, a twittering, broken laughter as it now occurred to him that by his complete reluctance to unsheathe himself, he'd incidentally given Vox a better, wetter, more responsive hole to fuck.
Some sick, demonic frottage and penetration all at once. What a grand, foolish miscalculation he'd made, and now the true cold fury inside him had begun to dissolve as it warred with the terrible warm pleasure of it all.
No. No he's not going to just... Just lay here and enjoy it —
His hand travelled Vox's side, finding his pretty neon gills and, with a deliberate spiteful cruelty, he shoved his clawed fingers inside, his intention to cause pain entirely clear. He felt the tickle of Vox's electric blood gushing over his buried digits — this just another wicked attempt at defiance — but the shiver that wracked his frame toward the previous rhythm of Vox's hips was another traitorous confession his body made in its unmaking, leaving him to contend with the horrifying realization that indeed some deep, primal part of him he had no real control over was enjoying this degradation — maybe more now than ever before.
God, he feels and sees it all: the violent arch of Alastor's spine, the desperate, shredding claws in the sheets, the raw, staticky growl of pure, unfiltered sensation. But most of all, he felt the clench━ that first, involuntary, traitorous squeeze around his cock that was a confession more honest than any word Alastor, the devious, contrary bastard, that he was could ever spit.
The insults come like music: Insufferable. Pathetic. Fool. Each hissed word, crackling with outraged static was just another layer of the symphony of Alastor's undoing. Vox's hips moved, a slow, deep, punishing rhythm that drove his ridged length against that perfect, hidden spot with unerring accuracy. "Wrong hole?" he purred, his voice a low rumble of pure triumph. He leaned forward, bracing himself over Alastor, his screen blazing with ecstatic victory, his words punctuated with grinding thrusts, a wide grin of sheer enthusiasm. "Theres no such thing as wrong hole, Al Nuh-uh, this is as right as rain, and its mine-"
Not that he couldn't fuck his other hole, too, if he wanted━ honestly, that was the original plan, but, well, as fortunate would have it, Alastor happened to have one which prepared itself━ He's sure it's not a pussy, no, it was way too tight━ way too perfect ━ but whatever it was, whatever he was pounding into, it was doing it for him and god, no matter how much Alastor wanted to deny it all, it was doing it for him too.
And then the sudden choked, glitching cry tears from his throat as Alastor's clawed hand shoots up and buries itself in his gill. For just a moment his eyes squeezed shut, his body trembling in agony. It should have stopped him━ he should have pulled out━ but he didn't. No! The pain was just another sensation, another point of connection. It was Alastor, and somewhere in his broken mind, this too, he loved.
Because he's sure━ he's sure Alastor loves it. The pain ━ inflicting it, that is. That's how he gets off, right? He could work with that. His thrusts hitched for that moment, then deepened, harder, more deliberate. The agony flared bright and synced perfectly with the vice-like clench of Alastor's internal passage around his cock ━ sending a new wave of pure, unholy ecstasy crashing through him. Pain. Resistance. Fight. This was the real Alastor. Not that polished dandy gentleman bullshit — but the cruel, feral, sadistic monster beneath him, finally engaged, finally reacting.
He knew what Alastor was. He always knew. A cannibalistic, soul-destroying ghoul — a vision in red. And he was never afraid of him — no he admired him, he admired him so much it hurt — because somewhere, somewhere inside him he believed they were the same, even after Alastor rejected him, tore him down, practically spat in his fucking face he knew. He knew there something there, something he couldn't yet understand but he would, he would one day because he'd never been anything if not ambitious.
He reached up, one clawed hand gripping Alastor's wrist where his fingers lay buried in his gill, and pushed deeper, forcing the fingers further into the wound. Blue sparks and hot red blood pulsed between them, his screen flickering violently, tears pricking in the corner of his eyes. The pain was white hot fire, but he leaned down, his screen pressing close to Alastor's face, their breath mingling in the charged air. His voice dropped into something salacious, distorted and utterly sick with his delusional devotion.
"Thaa--aaaats it. You like that, right? You like making shit hu-uuurrt, don't yo-oou - You wanna hu-uurt-- M-eee?" he goaded, his voice some glitching, twisted, panting needy rasp. "Go on, ke--eeeep it up, hurt me, biiiii-ttte me! You know you want to! Sink those beautiful, shaAAAaa-arp teeth inNNn to me-" He angled his shoulder, presenting the corded muscle of his neck in depraved desperation. "Come on, ba---aaby, bite me! BITE ME"
Deranged, demented, delighted — this was never about just fucking Alastor. No, he was offering himself on the altar of Alastor's sadism, his love a twisted prayer. Every insult, every claw mark, every potential bite was just another verse in the violent, beautiful love song he was forcing Alastor to sing with him — and the crescendo was coming — he could feel it, like the electricity racing through his circuits and the mind numbing pain drumming in the back of his head.
A jolt, sharp and electric, shot through Alastor's system the moment Vox's knuckle ghosted into that concealed seam in his lap. It wasn't pain, it wasn't pleasure, not quite, but it was… A sensation. A sensation that could approach it, with the proper administration. It widens his eyes ever so slightly and lowers his ears a touch, because god, god as he looks up at Vox, his screen dim with that twisted devotion he wore so well, he could almost believe every word he said.
And that was terrifying. That was something that he felt deeper than any revolution or disgust ━ that was an actual dread, a fear of something ━ something within him changing, becoming further away from everything he thought he understood.
Indeed, that specific, focused pressure bypassed his conscious disdain and went straight to a primal part of his internal being that he had long since lost any interest in knowing. His breath hitched, a tiny, staticky gasp he barely managed to stifle. His carefully constructed wall of nonchalance cracked, just for a fraction of a second.
Then came the words. Not the crude demands of before, but that low, warm murmur. This is about yours. Alastor's sharp, fixed grin remained, but it felt brittle as it wabbled at its edges. A cold dread, something entirely new, began to coil in his stomach, right alongside that unwelcome spark of sensation.
Vox wasn't just fumbling in the dark. He was reading him, reading from a book only he knew, and speaking a language Alastor had never bothered to learn ━ a language of devotion, a carnal, psychical, wanton need that had lain dormant, broken inside him for as long as he'd ever existed.
His mind, usually a whirlwind of schemes and schematics, scrambled. What if he could ? What if, amidst all the theatrics and violence, Vox possessed some key to a lock Alastor himself didn't know he had ? What if he wasn't broken ━ what if he had just never been operated the right way ? What if Vox managed to make him feel what he'd come to imagine was merely a fantasy ?
The forgettable encounters from his human life were boring, blank spaces of disinterest. No answers, no understanding, nothing of any substance that he could ever look back on with any proud or even inconvenient revelation about himself.
But this… This felt different. The pressure of Vox's knuckle, the terrifying sincerity in his distorted voice ━ it suggested a possibility he'd never entertained: that sex could be more than a bland transaction or a dull, momentary release. That it could be… Memorable. He clings to his hauteur ━ the safety of his disgust. A dismissive wave comes, but his hand felt heavy. ❝ Oh, don't be absurd. You're merely fulfilling the terms of our agreement. That is all this is, Vox. Nothing more. ❞ He spoke, his voice a little tighter than intended, the static crackling with a new, uneasy frequency.
They're words that ring hollow, even to his own ears. Drowned out beside the volume of Vox's unsettling conviction and the undeniable, probing pressure between his legs. Legs he wanted to snap closed as he felt the first real stirrings of a strange panic he couldn't remember if he'd ever truly known before.
Here he was, the predator, realising he might be the one in the trap, and the most terrifying part was the faint, traitorous flicker of curiosity, wondering what it would be like to be caught. Would he like it ? Would it change him on some fundamental level he'd never dreamed possible ?
Vox saw it. The tiny hitch in Alastor's breath. The way his ears lowered just a fraction. The brittle wobble in that infamous, razor-sharp grin. He heard the hollowness in the dismissal, a desperate echo drowned out by the thundering of Alastor's own accelerating pulse ━ the evident lie in Alastor's voice. He saw the flicker of panic in his eyes and felt the minute tremor that ran through the slender body beneath him. It was all the confirmation he needed. The agreement, the transaction ━ it was a shield, and it was cracking. The predator was showing fear. Not of pain. Not of defeat. But of feeling.
And it was the most beautiful fucking thing Vox had ever witnessed.
That flicker of curiosity, that fear of liking it ━ this was his victory, maybe the only victory he'd ever have, but he'd take it, greedy, obsessive, possessive, he'd take it, he'd take anything he could get, and then he'd demand more because he could never have enough ━ not of Alastor ━ never of Alastor.
But for now ━ for now it satisfied. Oh, did it satisfy. "Shhh," he murmured, the sound a soft, staticky hum. His other hand moved to cradle the side of Alastor's face, his thumb stroking his cheek with a tenderness that was utterly at odds with the situation. "Just let go, Al. Stop thinking." His hand, the one tracing Alastor's hidden seam, applied a fraction more pressure — not pushing in, not yet, but claiming, making the soft, tender skin around it tighten.
He didn't wait for a rebuttal. The knuckle that had been pressing insistently against Alastor's entrance began to move in a slow, deliberate circle with just enough pressure to make the hidden flesh beneath yield — to suggest the give that was there, waiting. At the same time, he leaned down, his screen glowing with that soft, devoted light, and pressed his face against the fur of Alastor's neck as much as the shape of his screen would allow. He didn't kiss; he nuzzled, a strangely intimate gesture, inhaling the scent of moss and something rustic and uniquely, essentially Alastor.
"It's not just an agreement," he whispered, his voice a low, intimate vibration. "It's a revelation. And I'm going to show you." His circling knuckle pressed deeper, and he moved another to join it, meticulously careful, sliding up and down, teasing at the tight muscle that was beginning to soften under his attention. He could feel the tension in Alastor's thighs, the way his body was caught between pushing him away and arching into the touch.
The knuckle that had begun the probing slid deeper, applying firm, insistent pressure directly against Alastor's unusual and yet familiar opening. He didn't force entry; he insisted on it, using the natural give of the hidden passage and the slickness already gathering there from nerves and that traitorous spark of anticipation.
Then the second knuckle, working them slowly, relentlessly inside, stretching the tight, internal heat. "That's it," he murmured, his voice a dark, coaxing purr. "Let it happen. Let me in. You don't have to understand it. Just feel it."
With painstaking slowness, he began to work a single, slicked finger inside. The resistance was immediate, Alastor’s body clenching in instinctive rejection. But Vox was relentless in his gentleness. He didn’t force, and by the time he added a second it was with a wet, hot ease that broke a devious grin across his screen. The movement was a slow, deep piston, scissoring slightly to open him up. Every twitch of Alastor's body was fuel to Vox's fire. He watched the struggle on Alastor's face — the war between revulsion and that terrifying, dawning pleasure — as if it were the most captivating broadcast he'd ever produced.
And it was. He learned something about Alastor's anatomy; the seam in his crotch had depth — it became slick and hot. He expected a cock, but if that's not what Alastor wanted to offer him, this was just as good — if not better.
Then he withdrew his hand, leaving Alastor exposed and lightly trembling. He sits back just enough to peel his own coat and shirt off, his serpentine cords making quick work of his upper ensemble before he moves to unfasten his own trousers, his screen glowing with fierce, focused triumph. His cock sprang free, dark like the rest of his body and not entirely human as was the case with the rest of him. It's thick, ridged on its underside with a tip that shines an almost bioluminescent blue, glistening with pre-cum— eager to be plugged in.
He positioned himself at the slick, gaping entrance his fingers had prepared. One hand gripped Alastor's hip, holding him firm, while the other guided him. "Remember the preacher, Al?" Vox whispered, his voice thick with emotion and lust. "This is my sermon. My proof. And you, my beautiful, arrogant radio demon… you’re going to receive it." And with one deliberate thrust, he sheathed himself completely inside— a erotic, crude victory, but a victory just the same.
[ shakes whipped cream bottle, doodles heart shapes over his nipples ]
After all these years, there was nothing Valentino could possibly do that could surprise him. The wide-eyed, mouth slightly agape expression on his digital face isn't surprise nor is it anger ━ it's not even second-hand embarrassment… There could be a little bit of arousal somewhere, but mostly it's just… Well. It's an average moment with Valentino, that's what it is.
He holds the tray, a plate of french toast on display, decorated with a few berries and ━ of course ━ there should be whipped cream as well, but now it's on Val's tits ━ not that it bothered him, but still. "The whole ass meal? Yeah, sure, when I'm not worried about you wasting away into nothing maybe." A chuckle follows, somewhere between nervous and just that little bit amused by the moth sinner's antics. He holds up the tray a fraction higher in persistent offering.
"C'mon, babe, you can't live off cigarettes and beverages. Try a piece. Just one, do it for me. I promise its good." He's not begging, by the way. This is not begging. This is... Negotiating. Yeah.
Oh, Vox. There was no one in hell nor any other realm in all existence that could ever be quite so amusing as you...
Alastor watches the transformation with a type of focused, analytical curiosity. The frenzied, glitching fool had vanished, replaced by this… This rapt disciple. The way Vox's screen flushed cyan, the way he stilled and obeyed, his entire being focused on Alastor's every move – it was fascinating... Pathetic perhaps, but indeed fascinating all the same and even, he'd dare say, delightful in its broken way. It was one of Vox's many little perks on display, the way he could shift gears, rewire himself with a couple little turns of an unseen dial. Malleable, exciting. After all, no one wanted a toy that could only do the one thing, did they ?
The insults that should have sparked a war had instead inspired devotion. It was a power dynamic Alastor understood intimately, even if the motivation behind it remained a complete mystery to him. An engaging, endearing mystery. In Vox's arms, in the obsessive coils of his sparking cords, no sense of boredom could ever touch him, and that had always been a certainty.
The only one he ever truly cared for.
He didn’t flinch when Vox’s hands settled on his hips. His lip rose slightly at its edge, his fur bristled unseen, a silver of that lingering disgust from earlier flaring through him, but he didn’t pull away. His fury had simmered down into a cool, imperious stillness — the kind of tension that could be likened to a predator who hadn't decided whether to eat the insect buzzing near its face or simply to ignore it.
But... The gentle touch on his hips was a stark contrast to the earlier molesting. The whispered questions, the awe in Vox's digital voice – it was all so… Earnest.... So amusingly earnest – and it was moments like these that Alastor found himself pondering, a fraction of a second, something so profoundly queer...
Did Vox... Love him... ? Truly love him ? Not in lust... Not in utility, not even entirely in entitled possession.... But... Love... Real. Demented. But real. Is that what this was ? This, this... Energy, the insane — almost incomprehensible force that he felt but never quite touched ? It wasn't that he'd never been loved before or that he really cared either way, it wasn't that it was something he craved in turn or anything as sentimental and pathetic as that... But he still struggled to define it, and in that too lay some strange, repulsive, contradictory excitement...
His crimson eyes, sharp as knives and with more intention to cut than any blade, dropped slowly from Vox’s glowing screen to where their bodies pressed close together, feeling Vox's need, the vile, throbbing lump in his pants as his palms kneaded the curve of his ass. That bristle of the fur on his back increases by an unseen decibel as he holds his composure, something becoming a conscious effort as some sick feeling rises inside of him demanding he sever the offending touch.
Though it soon passes, and a flicker of something — certainly not pleasure and not exactly just discomfort, but recognition takes its place. Vox wasn’t entirely stupid. He’d learned enough restraint. For now. For the intents and purposes of this transaction — this fantasy anyhow.
When the media demon leaned in, breath ghosting against the thin fur of his neck, Alastor's ears twitched. That low, wanton whisper: "Or do I just have to get something inside you and let that tight little ass of yours do all the work?" sent a jolt — not of arousal, but of that same wicked amusement through him. Crass. Disgusting.... Funny. A dry, static-laced chuckle seeps through his pointed teeth, dark and knowing as he tilted his head.
❝ Mmm, always so… Earnest in your depravity. And yet...❞ His hands for the moment, come to rest on Vox's shoulders, his embrace for this second returned as Alastor leaned in, so close, so warm, so tempting, so much that even an inch more would lock their lips — or, however the hell Vox's screen face worked. He brought a single claw up to trace the glowing, flushed edge of Vox’s screen instead, light, almost affectionate if not so mocking. ❝ After all these decades and all your grand remodels … You still blush like a preacher boy ~ ❞
He pulls back with a more maniacal cackle, letting the observation hang in the air; smile growing wide and cruel, a pointed reminder of who is truly in control of this little tableau and surely a little incentive for Vox, though in what way he'd apply it remains to be seen. In a graceful motion, Alastor sprawled himself back on the bed, leisurely, kingly, projecting the truth that even in this fantasy, he owned Vox's every move.
A glint of challenge sparkles in the crimson depths of his eyes. ❝ If you’re as adept as I know you think you are, I’m sure you’ll deduce the mechanics yourself. ❞ An elegant, sweeping gesture across his reclining form is given as he taunts emphasis, his spine arching just slightly, in a way that makes the skin along his abdomen tighten that little bit, his thighs parting the barest fraction — an invitation, or a trap, it's impossible to tell. ❝ Consider it a test of that famed Voxtek innovation of yours. ❞
A puzzle ━ a challenge. However Vox wanted to look at it, Alastor wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of a manual. Oh no. Let him fumble. Let him experiment. Alastor would observe his efforts with dispassionate detachment, and the moment Vox fulfilled his end of the bargain, he would be gone. But for now, watching the mighty Media Demon rendered into a blushing, eager acolyte by the mere sight of his bare skin was…
Humorous, despite the revulsion, despite the transaction, despite the sheer banality of sex as a concept — Alastor felt something even though he implied not just the questions but this entire fantasy was beneath him.
It wasn't lewd desire. Of course, it was never that. But morbid interest. A flicker of fascination at the sheer absurdity of Vox’s devotion. He might have been a fool. He might have been completely deluded. But he was committed. And commitment, even in madness — oh, especially in madness — was entertaining.
The words don't just land; they practically exploded inside him. His screen, already glowing, bloomed into a deeper, more luminous cyan. It wasn't just an observation; it was a key turning in a lock he'd thought rusted shut, a ghost from a life he'd tried to overwrite with all the neon and noise. Alastor always knew just where to dig, and Vox always pretended like he wasn't always handing him the map.
For a moment, he stills, and in that pause, a memory flashed: stained glass, the weight of an ornate wooden pulpit and a sea of faces, waiting upon his every word ━ followed by a man with too much ambition, preaching a gospel of prosperity to a camera, with fervent, almost naive belief that everything he said was somehow true.
Alastor remembered. He remembered the man Vox was before the screens, the mechanical evolutions, before the entertainment empire. He remembered the trembling, fervent soul in the cheap suit, broadcasting desperate faith into the uncaring void, still trying somehow to convince himself of the lies he'd lived his entire life. Even among the damned, upon the final judgement, he tried to hold firm, to still believe, to convince himself and everyone else.
He'd been so… Earnest back then. So fucking sincere. And Alastor… Alastor listened. He remembered the mocking, the jeering, the way they'd roll their eyes at him and turn their backs, knowing deep down inside he couldn't even fault them, and then he remembered Alastor, standing there with a smile on his face. Not teasing, not mocking, just listening, watching. His criticism was fair and even when it came. Not entirely reassuring but... Comforting. Redirecting.
That old shame, that raw, exposed feeling, it should have been agony. But mixed with the memory was the ghost of Alastor's attention, his razor-sharp amusement, his godly confidence, that had felt, to that young preacher, newly damned to the infernal pit of hell, like the only real recognition he'd ever received. It was all still there. That lost soul, desperate for approval, was still the core of the underworld tycoon he'd become.
And Alastor knew it. He'd always known it.
The mocking claw tracing his screen didn't feel like an insult. A life time of complication, and early vulnerability made it It felt like a caress ━ recognition. Rose colored glasses, the manic cackle that followed wasn't seen as a dismissal, but as an invitation, a calling, and Vox accepted it with every fibre of his being. As Alastor sprawled back, a king offering his body as a riddle, Vox's determination solidified into something pure, something terrifying in its sincerity. That memory, which should have been a source of shame instead flooded him with a warmth that short-circuited any aggression he'd felt. The spiteful hunger vanished, replaced by a profound, aching tenderness. He never wanted to take from Alastor. No. He wanted to give.
"Heh... Didn't think you'd remember that..." But he did. He remembered it. That affection in his voice had to be real. Why remember anything if it wasn't? If he didn't care, why did he bother answering him every time? It wasn't a one-way street; every time he spoke, Alastor answered, sometimes only ever to tell him to shut up, but it was an answer all the same.
His gaze sweeps over the elegant, challenging form laid out before him with something akin to awe as he manoeuvres himself between Alastor's legs and speaks, his voice a low, warm murmur: "But y'know, Al, this isn't about my innovation." That clawed hand moved down carefully, a knuckle tracing over and pushing against the nearly hidden seam between Alastor's legs with the utmost care. The faint give tells him what he needs to know. "This is about yours."
His screen doesn't glow with lust, but with a love so twisted and absolute that it was practically indistinguishable from devotion. "And I'm going to learn you. Every secret. Every silent prayer your body holds, and then I’m going to answer them."
Violence? Spite? Any trace of it fell away, as the truth, as it always did, took centre stage; Vincent, the preacher, kneeling before the only deity who had ever truly acknowledged his existence, the only one who had ever answered him when he called, ready to prove that his love was not a flaw, but the most powerful upgrade he'd ever installed. "Not as a test. But as an offering. My offering. To you."
I'm really boring about ships. So far I really only ship Radiostatic and Staticmoth but I feel like Ire's the only Alastor I can ship with because I would be afraid to unleash Vox on anyone else's Alastor. Ire's Alastor CAN handle him. And then some.
Oh, this was going to take far more patience than he thought he could possibly muster, wasn't it ? His ears stayed pinned to his skull; the half-grin, half-grimace he wore as he glowered at Vox remained fixed on his face. He watched the other demon's every move; his fury both the hot, simmering rage of a caged beast and the cold, precise exasperation of a gentleman enduring the fumbling of an inept manservant at the same time. The audacity of it. The graceless desperation. Like some overeager, glitching fool trying to dismantle a clock with a spoon !
The indignity of being manhandled was one thing ━ the sheer incompetence of it was another layer of insult entirely. Vox's clawed mits scrabbled uselessly at his trousers, his power cords snagging on his waistcoat and tie in a tangle of desperate, graceless groping. The final straw came when one of Vox's cables attempted to worm its way under his collar.
A low, jagged static hiss ripped from between his clenched teeth, followed by a swift movement ━ a precise flick of his razor-sharp nails severed the offending cord, and he began to bat Vox's grasping hands away with violent, dismissive swipes. ❝ Oh, for heaven's sake, Vox ❞ Each syllable is snapped, clipped, scathing and drenched in no small way with his disdain, his eyes rolling as he continues: ❝ Must you paw at me like some drooling, bumbling thing ? I agreed to have sex, not to be molested by your clumsy, overeager tentacles ! Good grief man, you're worse than an intellectually stunted CHILD wrenching at well-secured wrapping paper - ❞
A punctuating shove is given, along with the sharp little command to ❝ Now get ❞ as he pulled himself upright on the mattress, the same irritated motion putting a few precious inches of space between himself and the fumbling media demon. The soul before him was lucky this was a dream, or else Alastor would have evaporated himself into a particularly disgusted shadow and left by now.
The thought was honestly still tempting.…
But he can't do that. Because this is not reality, and certainly no where he has any real control. So instead, the radio demon shifts up onto his knees, his ever-present grin having morphed into a tight, furious slash across his face. His withered gaze keeps Vox pinned where he kneels, and slowly, ever so deliberately, Alastor drops his coat from his shoulders, peeling it down his arms and allowing it to fall to his side. His waistcoat follows, his slender, clawed fingers carefully but quickly making short work of the buttons as it's pushed back off his shoulders, just as his coat was before it.
On display were the problematic straps of elastic that had impeded Vox on his frenzied, horny hurry to remove his pants. Suspenders, secured over his shoulders and fastened to his waistband. Despite his fury, a wicked, teasing glint entered his eyes as he slipped a clawed thumb beneath the elastic and, with the same taunting care he'd shed his coat and waistcoat, his thumb traces it for a moment in an up and down motion, pulling the elastic from around his shoulder ever so slightly.
❝ You're familiar with the humble suspenders, no ? - Wonderful little accessory. Keeps everything in place. ❞ And with that, he slips those too from his shoulders, his hands then moving to pull his tie from his neck. The buttons of his shirt follow, his movements remaining steady, deliberate and taunting. His eyes never leave Vox, something almost like haughty amusement shimmering somewhere between his annoyance if you looked hard enough.
And then the grand finale. The trousers Vox had struggled with so desperately moments earlier.
His thumbs hook under the waistband at his sides, and a motion glides them around to the clasp, in the front. His fingers fold down as he begins to unlatch the button holding them above his hips. He doesn't allow them to fall immediately. No, he only allows them to slide down his thighs in a slow, teasing descent, eventually pooling around his knees and leaving him bare, his thin frame wrapped with chestnut and hazel fur, the skin of perhaps a deer and the strange, lithe proportions of something humanoid underneath.
A small exhale follows, his head tilting slightly as his eyes narrow. There's no shame, no real embarrassment to be found within him for his current predicament — just a cold, condescending resignation. ❝ There. That wasn't so complicated, was it ? ❞ His arms rise slightly in a subtle gesture. ❝ Now, at least try to comport yourself with some semblance of dignity from here on out, wont you ? If you're going to fuck me, I would rather you didn't do it like some debased, malfunctioning neanderthal. ❞
He should have been angry. Should have fought him. Kept him pinned, grabbed his wrists and tied them above his head. Stopped him from resisting, but he didn't. Not that he really knew why or that the intention to do any of that hadn't been there. Alastor's command : "Now get!" cracked through his head like a whip through the air.
It wasn't the order that stopped him. It was the look in Alastor's eyes. It was the atmosphere around him. That withering, soul-rending disdain. A feeling he'd made physical.
Sure, for a heartbeat, the fury in Vox circuits flared. Who does he think he is, dismissing me like a fucking servant? But then Alastor moved. And somewhere between that thought and the next, Vox forgot how to breathe.
Though he knew it should have ignited his temper, instead, it sends a jolt of something else entirely through his circuits, some twisted thrill as all at once his thoughts shift entirely. This was the Alastor he knew. Not a passive participant, but a force of nature, even in his weird, sexy submission. The insults, "intellectually stunted child, debased, malfunctioning neanderthal" they should have stung, they should have infuriated him, but instead they only made his cock throb harder.
It's not even that he wanted to be degraded by him, put in his place by those sharp claws and his even sharper tongue — well, maybe a little, but not entirely! It was that it was Alastor. So, so Alastor. Everything he loved and admired about him. Power— wild and untamed, but so graceful and refined all at once.
So Vox listened. He obeyed. He stopped his fumbling assault and settled back on his heels, his screen dimming slightly, the glow of arousal giving way to a rapt, almost hypnotic stillness as he focused with devoted interest. The slow, deliberate shedding of the coat, the careful unbuttoning of the waistcoat — it was already too much — the precision felt obscene. Vox's optics widened. Fuuck. Fuuuuuuuck, he was stripping— this was a performance, a ritual and Vox was the sole, privileged audience! The colours on his screen change, a bright cyan glow misting across his digital features. He was flushed, blushing like a schoolboy finding a dirty magazine for the first time!
And then… The suspenders. It hits him. That's why the pants wouldn't come off. He'd been so frantic, so consumed by the heat of the moment: the sight of Alastor pinned beneath him, that he hadn't thought. He'd just grabbed. But now, watching Alastor's clawed thumb trace the elastic strap, pulling it slowly from his shoulder with infuriating, teasing care… Vox felt a fresh wave of arousal crash through him, hot and dizzying. He'd forgotten Alastor was old school. Proper old school— not something performed for a sense of aesthetic; it was real, part of his essence, that elegance, the refinement and despite all his innovations, Vox was a soul from a bygone era himself, one closer to Alastor, and that meant that no matter how forward-thinking he was, how revolutionary, he would always appreciate Alastor for what he truly was. .......A beautiful antique......... A treasure time couldn't touch.
When Alastor's thumbs hooked into his waistband and those damned trousers finally began their slow descent, Vox's breath hitched in a glitchy gasp. He leaned forward, optics zooming in, drinking in the sight he'd fantasised about for decades. The slender frame, the sharp hip bones, the beige and cedar fur that covered his lower abdomen and thighs… It was perfect. More perfect than he'd imagined, and Vox stared, transfixed.
As he processed as his gaze dropped lower, searching for the final prize: the cock he'd always envisioned and soon his screen flickered in confusion. There was nothing there. No external shaft, no balls. Just a furred patch between Alastor's thighs, with only the slightest hint of a seam suggesting anything lay beneath.
A low, intrigued rumble vibrated in his chest. Hell's transformations were weird as fuck, he had the head to prove it. Anatomy in the afterlife was fluid, mutable, a reflection of personality and identity; a person's junk was no exception to this, and honestly, he'd seen it all – but this? This was Alastor's. His curiosity instantly overpowered any surprise; his aggressive intent had momentarily stilled, replaced by something… heavier. Hungrier. More focused.
His own arousal was a relentless throb, straining against his pants, but his mind was racing. He hadn't just wanted to take — no, the fantasy had always been deeper than that. He'd wanted to unravel Alastor. To make him feel. To prove that beneath the mask, beneath the teeth and the theatrics, there was something real that could respond to him.
And now… He needed to know how. He moved forward, closing the distance between them so he could kneel as one with his weird and wonderful Radio Demon. His clawed hands hover; he doesn't grasp and grope like before — when the connection comes, it's gentle, careful — hands placed against Alastor's hips. He tilted his head, a digital brow raising just slightly as he studied Alastor's lower body, a smirk tugging at the mouth on his screen.
"Well, well… Look at you. All of you..." He purred, his voice a staticky whisper filled with awe and devouring interest. "Hell really loves its revisions, doesn't it? Changes the wiring, hides the switches." His hands then move, ever so slightly, caressing, sensual, devoted. His voice dropped to a conspiratorial, seductive whisper as he leaned in close, breath ghosting against the other demon's neck.
"How's it work, Al? Is it inside? Do I need to find it?" His gaze dropped again, the fluorescent flush of his face having given way to a softer glow that lingered on his screen. "Do you need fingers? Tongue? Or..." his grip becomes a touch more possessive now, hands sliding down the curve of Alastor's ass, gripping and pulling him against his chest with claiming affection as he continues. "Do I just have to get something inside you and let that tight little ass of yours do all the work?"
He wasn't just asking. He was mapping the territory he'd come to think of as his. The deal was still a transaction, but Vox was already rewriting the terms in his mind. Afterall this wasn't just about fucking Alastor. It was about discovering him, about making him scream in a way that had nothing to do with pain or theatre, and Alastor's cold, condescending glare? The haughty command he'd given to comport himself with dignity?
Vox loved it; his resolve was set. He was a man ever more eager to learn every secret inch of Alastor's body and use it all against him.
SYSTEM NOTICE:
VOXTEK™ CONTENT FILTER FAILURE
ERROR 404: “Safe for Work” not found.
Adjust your expectations and prepare for high-voltage degeneracy. Voxtek™ is not responsible for: moral outrage, delicate sensibilities, hurt feelings, or clutched pearls. CW: CNC. Smut. DDDNE. This is a roleplay of a dream: we regret to inform you that no prudish demon not-deer (@transinstor + @heleerie) were actually fucked during the making of this thread.
The media demon's screen lights up in a wave of smug triumph. No hesitation. His clawed hand shot out, gripping Alastor's offered hand in a crushing, electric clasp. The deal was sealed and a manic, glitching laugh escaped him.
He'd make the Radio Demon sing for him, make him forget his own name, make him beg for more. Alastor's flamboyant performance, his theatricality – Vox had always interpreted it as a sign. Sure, once he thought he wore it with pride, a coy invitation he was too afraid to meet the right way, but now he knew it was... More complicated than that. A hidden desire screaming to be unlocked! And he was the only one with the key.
Not that he couldn't see the revulsion in Alastor's eyes, the rigid set of his jaw, his sharp teeth glinting under his lips in warning. It all only fuelled his conviction. Let him pretend. Let him seethe. Vox had waited too long, fantasised too vividly to believe this would end with a simple, cold transaction.
"Explicit terms. Good. I like things clear," Vox purred, his voice dropping to a staticky, intimate hum. He released Alastor's hand and loomed over him. "The agreed-upon act… Is me fucking you. My cock in your ass. Until I cum. That's the conclusion. You've got yourself a deal." He leaned down, his screen inches from Alastor's face, the manic glow casting hellish shadows across the other demon's sharp features. "And don't worry, sweetheart. I'll be verbatim. You'll get your pin. But first...You're going to lose the pants" The word was a promise and a threat all in one.
His touch comes swift and possessive. He goes for Alastor's ankles first, grappling them and yoking his shoes from his hooves, which he tosses haphazardly over his shoulders. His motions are manic and frenzied, as he manoeuvres Alastor around like some kind of pissed off doll ━ or fucked up taxidermized animal ━ whatever fit better. He claws at the radio demons' trousers, impatient, his other hand gripping his thigh, pinning it against his side for the moment. He was finally here. After decades of wanting, of watching, of seething, Alastor was beneath him, bound by a deal of his own making!
And he's stalled...
By Alastor's stupid pants. He tugs, he twists, he pulls, digital brows furrowing in annoyance, a curse or two under his breath as he haphazardly attempts to shove his hand's up Alastor's waistcoat in confusion. Why the fuck won't they come off?! The power cords he commands swiftly move to aid him, grasping at Alastor's coat and tie, hastily trying to pull the outfit he wears apart. The scene has rapidly become less and less possessive, seductive act and devolved more into a child trying to unwrap a particularly problematic present on Christmas morning, all grace and skill evading him, the annoyance briefly becoming evident on his face.
God damn it, Alastor, what the fuck are you even wearing?
The struggle of loving the idea of Alastor sucking your dick VS loving your dick and never daring to put it near Alastor's mouth, cause you're delusional but you're not that delusional.