𝙼𝙴𝙳𝙸𝙰 𝙶𝙾𝙳

[voxonair]

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.

▌||| 𝚁𝚄𝙻𝙴𝚂 • 𝙱𝙸𝙾𝙶𝚁𝙰𝙿𝙷𝚈 • 𝙼𝙴𝙼𝙴𝚂 |||▐

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▌||| 𝙽𝙾𝚆 𝚃𝙷𝙰𝚃𝚂 𝙶𝙾𝙾𝙳 𝚃𝙴𝙻𝙴𝚅𝙸𝚂𝙸𝙾𝙽 |||▐

CAST & CREW : @transinistor

[transinistorarchive2]

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 ? ❞

[voxonair]

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.

[transinistorarchive2]

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. ❞

[voxonair]

𝚂𝚈𝚂𝚃𝙴𝙼 𝙵𝙰𝙸𝙻𝚄𝚁𝙴 𝙸𝙼𝙼𝙸𝙽𝙴𝙽𝚃.

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.🦈💦🌈✨

[transinistorarchive2]

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.

[voxonair]

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.

[rillyrillo]

brighter 📸✨📺

[voxonair]

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.

[transinistorarchive2]

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.

[voxonair]

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.

[transinistorarchive2]

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 ?

[voxonair]

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.

[voxonair]

I DON'T NEED A SNACK; I'M A WHOLE ASS MEAL

[ 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.

[no0dlecatk]

I made a thing

[transinistorarchive2]

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.

[voxonair]

"Preacher boy". God damn it.

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."

[voxonair]

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.

[venom-ofgod]

not mine .

[voxonair]

@transinistor

[transinistorarchive2]

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. ❞

[voxonair]

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.

[voxonair]

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?

[voxonair]

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.

[nomifae]

Vincent….Vince….Vin…..Vinnie~💚

I just like to imagine Alastor giving him a nickname based on his name Vincent 🩵

[transinistorarchive2]

@voxonair , @voxvincens , @voxtek-frenzy, @televeyesing @rradiio & every other Vox unfortunate enough to experience my Alastor.