This was unprecedented as far as he knew... what COULD come of this? Still, he wasn't about to be a sourpuss about this. Radio and video was the perfect combination... they were going to be unstoppable.
Why? Because that's what he believed. This situation was insane, but he was more curious as to how this would all go. They were under his protection thanks to the Deal, and unlike the countless souls he owned, he needed to really look into this one. He needed to do some research. Because how the fuck does anyone raise a kid? He hardly remembers how his parents were.
But the thought was gone with his remark. Vox spluttered out a laugh. "Shit, promise me a good time, will ya...?"
The grin sharpened, and his voice smoothed. "...Besides, if my genes really won out...? I put a little shark pup in you~"
Alastor's claws gripped into his coat over his middle before he could stop himself, ears flattening back - those words shouldn't have sent a jolt up his spine the way they did. What's gotten into him? He hated it - hated the way he didn't have control over those reactions.
"A shark pup would be fine... but if a clone of your square head is what I have to content with, then I'm going to break your pelvis with my bare hands so you will suffer too."
Then again, Vox sounded like he'd probably enjoy that. Alastor stood from the seat, placing his claws on either side of where Vox was seated so he could loom closer.
"For every pain I'll take my pound of flesh from you. To remind you that I am no less the predator to your prey."
Oh, he saw that. He chuckled and offered a small wiggle of eyebrows before Alastor reiterated the threat. His hands planted atop the desk as the other rose, and he really, honestly hoped the deer's senses weren't quite so keen with the way the Media Overlord's pulse quickened, heart beating around like a bird in a cage.
Vox even scooted back an inch or two as the other loomed, and helplessly his eyes flicked down to the Radio Demon's mouth before swiftly moving back up to his eyes again.
The you promise? was right there on the tip of his tongue, waiting to fly free.
But he caught that bird, squeezed it tight for being a nuisance, and rammed it back into the cage.
A metallic claw reached up, slowly hooked against Alastor's bow tie instead as he took one breath, then another. He centered himself, even if there was brighter cyan across his screen, he managed a grin.
"...So moody," he replied at a near whisper, tone husky as he gave a small tug.
"You only just started this pregnancy, but if this is how you're gonna be? You really do wear it well."
One of Alastor's clawed hands reached up and grabbed at the monitor as he was tugged - he growled darkly, pressing the claw of his thumb against the thin glass with half a mind to just punch a hole straight through.
"Don't you d̴̯̐ì̶̹s̸͖̆r̶̹͊ȅ̶̳s̵̱̀p̴̼̈́e̸̝͊c̴͓͗t̸̤̽ me-- you little w̶̻͉̒̀ͅḧ̴͖́é̶̢̡͉̟̞͎̈̌̀̔͝ļ̸̛̺̹̦̗̟̔̈̇͑̏̚͝p̵̘̰̮̮͖̫̙̗̞̒̈̓̋͑͘!"
Crack, crack, crack...
That stupid, vulgar, ANNOYING smug look on Vox's face was PISSING HIM OFF - being called moody as if his rage was any different than it'd always been, just because of his state. He wanted to shatter that face and chew into it like rock candy, tear out wires, thrash until he worked all of that rage out of him...
The growl, the grab, the pressure against the seams of his monitor... myriad colors bloomed beneath the pin point of that claw, scattering liquefied crystal while pressuring each minuscule filter.
Vox should be recoiling in fear, begging for his life, knowing full well others had been killed for far less. Instead his bravado was fading... or was it amping up...? To a shallow, heated pant of excitement as Alastor's rage grew.
"...You're beautiful..."
It was out before he could stop it, the caged bird fluttering again in his ribs, tiny claws scratching at the walls.
Alastor froze, utterly bewildered at the statement.
It couldn't be. That had to be a play - some part of Vox's sick fascination with dominating him. Since when was Vincent an honest man?
Who could look his fury in the face and call that beautiful?
With a growl, Alastor climbed onto the desk and wrapped his other hand around Vox's throat, pushing him onto his back on the desk and pinning him underneath as his hackles rose, as the shadows deepened and threatened to bite. Still-- his mind was still reeling, too at a loss for words - so he pinned down Vox's head with both hands so he could lean in and tear out his throat.
His heart could leap out of his mouth as the desk was climbed, but it was stopped with the grip against his throat. The fine material of his suit had no gripping power against the polished desk top, causing his arms to slide out to his sides as he was pressed back, his drink sliding from the push and well out of reach. But his mouth had grown hot and impossibly dry... he could have used it.
His pupils shrank as he looked up, giving a slight wobble as they tried to read him. But he was always unreadable by design, wasn't he...? But there was no taking back what he said. In fact, the gaze went from confusion to unfiltered awe. He'd seen him menace overlords this way, both small-time and those nearly reaching their apex, and always watched with that same fascination from the screen of that old CRT.
But it was his turn, it seemed. The first bite brought with it a strangled gargle, one that turned bubbling and wet with the tear. His body jerked as signals garbled between head and body, find cotton collar of both undershirt and coat pitifully soaking so little of the blood before the rest began to pool. Yet something harkened back to weeks ago, of razor teeth piercing flesh... or maybe it did; he wasn't even certain.
Whatever it was brought a hand to shakily slide across the desk as his screen cycled between error messages and color bars, long fingers brushing along the knuckles of one of those claws that had a vice grip upon the monitor before settling to cover it.
The hand. The hand, again, why does he always do that?? It'd stopped for so long, but it's just like it used to be, back in those old days. Soft touches, far too soft to come from a murderer like either of them, and yet here he was--
Alastor swallowed the bite he'd taken, cords and muscle and all. Like licking a fucking battery, the coppery blood taste was at an impossibly intense level. With a growl, the Radio Demon was tempted to take another bite, to feast, he was so fucking hungry and this meat tasted right, would feed his pup, and...!
He paused when Vox's face flickered between error messages and color bars. The briefest glimpse of his eye.
He didn't go back for another bite.
Instead, frustrated, Alastor pressed his bloodied mouth against the screen - kissing? Attempting to, fuck, what was he even doing? Why did this stupid picturetube do this to him?
The pain was too much to bear, but any sound he could make was impossible. Even now, with his damnation bidding him not find the sweet release of a final death, things were already slowly stitching back together.
With the warm, albeit clumsy touch to his screen, his scheme slammed against his own frustrations. Would he have liked that partnership, touching just like this for all of eternity and even having a kiss tinged with gore? God yes. It's all he would have wanted. But surely this was a game, a way to dangle something else over his head and laugh about it later when he so much as brought it up.
But his touch lingered. As those error codes faded to snow and the channel struggled to return to his face and keep it steady, he angled and pressed in kind.
Gullible. Idiot. Fool. Fucking dunce.
...But if this was going to be the only time this would happen... he'll take it.
Is this it, Vincent? Is this what you wanted?? Or were you playing him for a fool?
The shift of the screen, the return of Vox's mouth - Alastor was clumsy trying to figure out exactly-- exactly how to kiss. Much less kissing a flatscreen! An oversized mouth that was mercifully not talkative, not jabbing at him for whatever inane insult came to the man's head, god, he always had such clever quips when he hit his stride--
He'd never quite get over how real Vox's teeth felt. Practically cutting his own tongue on them as he licked at the open mouth, feeling stupid but too stubborn to admit he had no idea what he was doing or why. As sharp and real as they'd been when they'd chewed Alastor up in the throes of rut, and... there was that feeling again. That heat, though far less intense and for once feeling like he wasn't completely insane because of it.
There was no control in this situation. None whatsoever. He hated it, but--
With another frustrated growl, Alastor let go of Vox's screen and wrapped his arms around the other's shoulders, clinging tightly to him. Claws dug in deep, almost spiteful and angry as Alastor snarled into the bloodied shirt,
After the initial, cautious reciprocation bubbled up the curiosity. The fascination. He's... holy shit, he's not very good at this, is he...?
He'll stow that for later. For now, his tongue was a soft and glowing blue as it swept out, curled and caressed beneath the other demon's. The brush of the tip, brief and deliberate, was a wordless invitation to try that again sometime.
Once released, Vox took his first unimpeded breath, his trachea finishing its stitching. The muscle, the flesh would take a little more time. But it allowed for the small grunt of surprise from the sudden embrace, the...
...The possession, a word that made a silvery thread of electricity to dance between his diodes. The bite of claws, the tone wanted him to believe so much that this was something truly happening. Ah, but this is a game... his overly doting, and now this kiss, this claim over him...
He sees you, Alastor. So when his hands move again, settle against the other's back, he would return the embrace. Because game on.
Alastor's breath grew harsher, and he tensed, but that possessive grasp tightened. What was happening? What was happening to him? He hadn't felt this out of control of himself outside of a heat before--
The pregnancy. That must be it. It's making him weaker to-- to those touches.
...But then, why had they been so notable in the haze of heat, too?
Why had he tolerated the paradoxical feeling of them long, long before that?
"You insufferable, uncreative, clout-chasing trend-hopping bandwagoning unoriginalhack. You idiot. Icarus, a damned fool, a vulgar man...!" he growled into Vox's shirt, head spinning in anger. But there was no way he was letting go. Alastor's ears pinned back. "Stupid, oafish-- you're no shark, you're a remora..."
...Why was he remembering some stupid fish fact that stupid box head had blathered at him about??
His mouth opened in habit, ready to offer a correction to the type of fish that would stick to a bigger predator. But he blinked his surprise.
"...Huh. So you were listening."
All of his prattle about his passion, thinking for years after that he was talking to a brick wall came bubbling back.
He... remembered that? Just as he remembered Alastor's favorite songs, his favorite drink, and his favored dance moves both before and after the absinthe and whiskey hit-
Yet despite the string of insults, he too wasn't letting go. Muscle knit together, and flesh would gradually follow suit on his throat. Shit, he should bill Alastor for the dry-cleaning over the blood... he still all but burst a gasket over the bill sent to repair the damaged exterior of the hotel, after all. Fair was fair...
Forcing a laugh out of himself, Alastor let go of his death grip on Vox. He sat up, leaning back - and sat squarely on Vox's middle, pausing to laugh and run his hand through his hair. Rub a bit of the gore off of his face.
"Hah! Hahahah... talk about a mood swing," he sighed, leaning back over and tapping the half-shattered part of Vox's screen even as the cracks were slowly disappearing. "Sorry about that, old pal. Had a bout of insanity there. Nearly made you lose your head, hahahah!"
Really, he wanted to kick himself for that remark he made earlier. But it warred with the sight of Alastor straddling him like this, laughing and smearing a bit of his blood across his skin in a way that made the butterflies take off in his stomach.
All he wanted to do was put his face in his hands and scream. But he would endure, maybe do some recreational screaming during his scheduled break.
Not that he was really working right now.
"Mood swing. Right." He closed one eye a bit with the tapping- thanks, he can actually feel that in the peepers, you know-
But since he's feeling touchy, turnabout is fair play. A neon blue claw set at Alastor's abdomen, idly trailed along by an inch.
"...Gonna be a hoot of a year, huh...? Then again, you always made a hobby out of being Hell's biggest pain in the ass."
That claw... a single gentle touch to his middle had Alastor shiver, and thanks to his physical contact, Vox undoubtedly noticed.
Still, he kept his composure... Alastor stared at Vox through half lidded eyes for a while before leaning in again, gently wiping at the blood smeared on the screen.
"And then you'll have your own child to make the following years even more of a hoot. I suppose I'll have to fight my way back in once I break the chains on me."
He couldn't picture Vox, with all of his rage and hatred, simply taking him in good faith. Nor could he imagine a child accepting him, honestly... poor pet didn't deserve a parent like Alastor.
...Not that Vox was particularly superior to him, especially not with his goons around, but...
He idly wondered how long it really had been since he was able to touch him at all. Each time was a grab, a claw, even the occasional biting when they were feeling particularly frisky. That was just their thing. While he didn't mind any of those things in the long run, ones like now- the shiver it elicited- had a way of burning an after image in his senses. That claw would burn with it for some time, that shiver buzzing in his nerves through his middle just the same.
Ages ago, he would have been happy to throw himself in front of Alastor, fight his hardest with everything he had and throw as many members of his flock as he could to guard The One That Fucking Mattered from Rosie. He would have made some grand declaration days beforehand, stowed away in some smoky bar, bidding them team up to take her down and REALLY show Hell what Radio and Video were capable of.
But he'd seen how that went. It was still the knife that was buried to the hilt in his chest, occasionally twisting by millimeters whenever he saw Alastor. It even twisted now, despite his softer touch and the way he looked at the deer now. It was momentarily unreadable, pupils unsteady, mouth a thin line.
...One that quirked with a humorless smirk as he jerked a thumb toward the cabinet that still sat before the doors, a stalwart bodyguard and perhaps chaperone for their present illicit activity.
"...Yeah. I can see that." Yet his tone was mildly playful, despite the turmoil flipping over and over in his guts.
He couldn't quite shake the weird melancholy at the idea of Alastor somehow disappearing, or at least lying low elsewhere while their kid sat nestled in his claws.
There was an impending melancholy already settled in Alastor's chest, but it didn't feel useful to ponder on it - after all, he'd simply be mourning something that couldn't be helped.
So instead, he focused on what lay beneath him right now - Vox was being softer. Around his middle, certainly he OUGHT to be - that's his pup, or pups. But the gentle touches... what was this man thinking? That bout of mania and the kiss seemed to have only soured his expression.
Hmm. He won't ever make that mistake again, then.
Instead, Alastor stayed where he was seated and started straightening out the blood-soaked shirt collar and bowtie, as if nothing had happened at all.
"What do you think of Magdaline, or maybe Odette? Marcel, Dorian... hah, knew a Dorian, he was a rare stand-up gentleman. Played the horn beautifully on jazz nights."
Vox had to give a half-hearted scoff with the adjustment to the collar and bow tie. Yeah. Definitely billing for the dry-cleaning.
But the question had him shoot a confused look at first. What was he asking? Did he know anyone with those names and- oh. Confusion glitched into amusement.
"Old-fashioned names. Why am I not surprised? ...Then again, I'm Vincent, so..."
Eh, whatever. Let's indulge.
"...I like Dorian," he admitted, but quirked a brow. "Didn't peg you for an 'Odette' kinda guy. I'm more an Audrey or Lucille kinda guy. If we're going with classics, of course."
"No 'A' names," Alastor established, pulling a handkerchief out from his own inner chest pocket to dotingly dab at Vox's face as if it weren't a complete mess because of him. "If we must have a 'V' name, I will only accept Vivienne for a daughter."
Edited (changed spelling for it to be even funnier) 2025-12-05 02:26 (UTC)
He offered no fight, but there was a brief visual glitch as each eye closed in the wake of the handkerchief wiping off the screen. It'd be streaky later, but that's why he kept a whole lot of polish stowed away in the tower for just such an occasion.
Also, what kind of name is Vivienne??
"Doesn't have to be a 'V' name. People change their names all the time down here."
A beat. "...I'm surprised you never thought to change yours."
"Maybe I picked it in life! Maybe it's the name my mama gave me! What difference does it make, when the very syllables send shivers down everyone's spine? Who would dare to try and use the name Alastor against The Radio Demon?"
Vox, maybe, at the height of their violence towards one another. It seems as though that time is passing - entering a new phase of more bitter resentment and reluctant cooperation, maybe.
Gentle touches.
Speaking of touches... he was still sitting on Vox, still pinning him to the desk.
With a chuckle, Alastor picked up the knocked over bottle of tea and finally moved off of the desk, freeing Vox from being pinned down. With a snap of his fingers, green magic swirled around his bloodied companion and replaced his clothes with a new outfit. Something fun, something nice you'd find at a black and tan club. "As much as I adore seeing you coated in your own blood, my dear, you may have a much harder time being discreet."
...Was it weird to just be okay like this, in retrospect? He always liked a pretty little thing sitting on top of hi-- Can he NOT think with his dicks right now, they were having a conversation and Alastor is an asshole who is USING HIM and he needed to get his shit together-
Alastor slipped off the desk and he sat up, yelped a bit in surprise with the swirling magic, and...
Oh.
Vox's hands flew to the lapels as he looked down upon himself, sporting a gray like an approaching storm and a dark blue neck tie.
He snorted, and made a show of rolling his eyes. "...I guess I'm not billing you for my dry cleaning. This isn't gonna pull a Cinderella on me, is it? I've got a number of meetings today."
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sugaronthecream) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
divinetree2025-10-07 08:11 pm
no subject
Why? Because that's what he believed. This situation was insane, but he was more curious as to how this would all go. They were under his protection thanks to the Deal, and unlike the countless souls he owned, he needed to really look into this one. He needed to do some research. Because how the fuck does anyone raise a kid? He hardly remembers how his parents were.
But the thought was gone with his remark. Vox spluttered out a laugh. "Shit, promise me a good time, will ya...?"
The grin sharpened, and his voice smoothed. "...Besides, if my genes really won out...? I put a little shark pup in you~"
no subject
"A shark pup would be fine... but if a clone of your square head is what I have to content with, then I'm going to break your pelvis with my bare hands so you will suffer too."
Then again, Vox sounded like he'd probably enjoy that. Alastor stood from the seat, placing his claws on either side of where Vox was seated so he could loom closer.
"For every pain I'll take my pound of flesh from you. To remind you that I am no less the predator to your prey."
1/2
Vox even scooted back an inch or two as the other loomed, and helplessly his eyes flicked down to the Radio Demon's mouth before swiftly moving back up to his eyes again.
The you promise? was right there on the tip of his tongue, waiting to fly free.
2/2
A metallic claw reached up, slowly hooked against Alastor's bow tie instead as he took one breath, then another. He centered himself, even if there was brighter cyan across his screen, he managed a grin.
"...So moody," he replied at a near whisper, tone husky as he gave a small tug.
"You only just started this pregnancy, but if this is how you're gonna be? You really do wear it well."
no subject
"Don't you d̴̯̐ì̶̹s̸͖̆r̶̹͊ȅ̶̳s̵̱̀p̴̼̈́e̸̝͊c̴͓͗t̸̤̽ me-- you little w̶̻͉̒̀ͅḧ̴͖́é̶̢̡͉̟̞͎̈̌̀̔͝ļ̸̛̺̹̦̗̟̔̈̇͑̏̚͝p̵̘̰̮̮͖̫̙̗̞̒̈̓̋͑͘!"
Crack, crack, crack...
That stupid, vulgar, ANNOYING smug look on Vox's face was PISSING HIM OFF - being called moody as if his rage was any different than it'd always been, just because of his state. He wanted to shatter that face and chew into it like rock candy, tear out wires, thrash until he worked all of that rage out of him...
no subject
Vox should be recoiling in fear, begging for his life, knowing full well others had been killed for far less. Instead his bravado was fading... or was it amping up...? To a shallow, heated pant of excitement as Alastor's rage grew.
"...You're beautiful..."
It was out before he could stop it, the caged bird fluttering again in his ribs, tiny claws scratching at the walls.
no subject
It couldn't be. That had to be a play - some part of Vox's sick fascination with dominating him. Since when was Vincent an honest man?
Who could look his fury in the face and call that beautiful?
With a growl, Alastor climbed onto the desk and wrapped his other hand around Vox's throat, pushing him onto his back on the desk and pinning him underneath as his hackles rose, as the shadows deepened and threatened to bite. Still-- his mind was still reeling, too at a loss for words - so he pinned down Vox's head with both hands so he could lean in and tear out his throat.
no subject
His pupils shrank as he looked up, giving a slight wobble as they tried to read him. But he was always unreadable by design, wasn't he...? But there was no taking back what he said. In fact, the gaze went from confusion to unfiltered awe. He'd seen him menace overlords this way, both small-time and those nearly reaching their apex, and always watched with that same fascination from the screen of that old CRT.
But it was his turn, it seemed. The first bite brought with it a strangled gargle, one that turned bubbling and wet with the tear. His body jerked as signals garbled between head and body, find cotton collar of both undershirt and coat pitifully soaking so little of the blood before the rest began to pool. Yet something harkened back to weeks ago, of razor teeth piercing flesh... or maybe it did; he wasn't even certain.
Whatever it was brought a hand to shakily slide across the desk as his screen cycled between error messages and color bars, long fingers brushing along the knuckles of one of those claws that had a vice grip upon the monitor before settling to cover it.
no subject
Alastor swallowed the bite he'd taken, cords and muscle and all. Like licking a fucking battery, the coppery blood taste was at an impossibly intense level. With a growl, the Radio Demon was tempted to take another bite, to feast, he was so fucking hungry and this meat tasted right, would feed his pup, and...!
He paused when Vox's face flickered between error messages and color bars. The briefest glimpse of his eye.
He didn't go back for another bite.
Instead, frustrated, Alastor pressed his bloodied mouth against the screen - kissing? Attempting to, fuck, what was he even doing? Why did this stupid picturetube do this to him?
no subject
With the warm, albeit clumsy touch to his screen, his scheme slammed against his own frustrations. Would he have liked that partnership, touching just like this for all of eternity and even having a kiss tinged with gore? God yes. It's all he would have wanted. But surely this was a game, a way to dangle something else over his head and laugh about it later when he so much as brought it up.
But his touch lingered. As those error codes faded to snow and the channel struggled to return to his face and keep it steady, he angled and pressed in kind.
Gullible. Idiot. Fool. Fucking dunce.
...But if this was going to be the only time this would happen... he'll take it.
no subject
The shift of the screen, the return of Vox's mouth - Alastor was clumsy trying to figure out exactly-- exactly how to kiss. Much less kissing a flatscreen! An oversized mouth that was mercifully not talkative, not jabbing at him for whatever inane insult came to the man's head, god, he always had such clever quips when he hit his stride--
He'd never quite get over how real Vox's teeth felt. Practically cutting his own tongue on them as he licked at the open mouth, feeling stupid but too stubborn to admit he had no idea what he was doing or why. As sharp and real as they'd been when they'd chewed Alastor up in the throes of rut, and... there was that feeling again. That heat, though far less intense and for once feeling like he wasn't completely insane because of it.
There was no control in this situation. None whatsoever. He hated it, but--
With another frustrated growl, Alastor let go of Vox's screen and wrapped his arms around the other's shoulders, clinging tightly to him. Claws dug in deep, almost spiteful and angry as Alastor snarled into the bloodied shirt,
"M̸̝͂̑̓͆̌̒͌̌Ȉ̷̼̣̦͝N̷̨͙̰̩̤̋̓͗̓͘̚͠E̵̻͇̲̬̥̊̽̿.̷̰̭͔̼͍̙̭̍͆ͅ.̶̨̠̻͉͎͉̠̿͛̃̂̓͜.̴̨͖̣̪̓̅́̈"
no subject
He'll stow that for later. For now, his tongue was a soft and glowing blue as it swept out, curled and caressed beneath the other demon's. The brush of the tip, brief and deliberate, was a wordless invitation to try that again sometime.
Once released, Vox took his first unimpeded breath, his trachea finishing its stitching. The muscle, the flesh would take a little more time. But it allowed for the small grunt of surprise from the sudden embrace, the...
...The possession, a word that made a silvery thread of electricity to dance between his diodes. The bite of claws, the tone wanted him to believe so much that this was something truly happening. Ah, but this is a game... his overly doting, and now this kiss, this claim over him...
He sees you, Alastor. So when his hands move again, settle against the other's back, he would return the embrace. Because game on.
no subject
Alastor's breath grew harsher, and he tensed, but that possessive grasp tightened. What was happening? What was happening to him? He hadn't felt this out of control of himself outside of a heat before--
The pregnancy. That must be it. It's making him weaker to-- to those touches.
...But then, why had they been so notable in the haze of heat, too?
Why had he tolerated the paradoxical feeling of them long, long before that?"You insufferable, uncreative, clout-chasing trend-hopping bandwagoning unoriginal hack. You idiot. Icarus, a damned fool, a vulgar man...!" he growled into Vox's shirt, head spinning in anger. But there was no way he was letting go. Alastor's ears pinned back. "Stupid, oafish-- you're no shark, you're a remora..."
...Why was he remembering some stupid fish fact that stupid box head had blathered at him about??
no subject
"...Huh. So you were listening."
All of his prattle about his passion, thinking for years after that he was talking to a brick wall came bubbling back.
He... remembered that? Just as he remembered Alastor's favorite songs, his favorite drink, and his favored dance moves both before and after the absinthe and whiskey hit-
Yet despite the string of insults, he too wasn't letting go. Muscle knit together, and flesh would gradually follow suit on his throat. Shit, he should bill Alastor for the dry-cleaning over the blood... he still all but burst a gasket over the bill sent to repair the damaged exterior of the hotel, after all. Fair was fair...
1/2
Alastor growled, angry, frustrated - humiliated. He was acting like a FOOL. He had to regain control of the situation.
no subject
"Hah! Hahahah... talk about a mood swing," he sighed, leaning back over and tapping the half-shattered part of Vox's screen even as the cracks were slowly disappearing. "Sorry about that, old pal. Had a bout of insanity there. Nearly made you lose your head, hahahah!"
no subject
Really, he wanted to kick himself for that remark he made earlier. But it warred with the sight of Alastor straddling him like this, laughing and smearing a bit of his blood across his skin in a way that made the butterflies take off in his stomach.
All he wanted to do was put his face in his hands and scream. But he would endure, maybe do some recreational screaming during his scheduled break.
Not that he was really working right now.
"Mood swing. Right." He closed one eye a bit with the tapping- thanks, he can actually feel that in the peepers, you know-
But since he's feeling touchy, turnabout is fair play. A neon blue claw set at Alastor's abdomen, idly trailed along by an inch.
"...Gonna be a hoot of a year, huh...? Then again, you always made a hobby out of being Hell's biggest pain in the ass."
no subject
Still, he kept his composure... Alastor stared at Vox through half lidded eyes for a while before leaning in again, gently wiping at the blood smeared on the screen.
"And then you'll have your own child to make the following years even more of a hoot. I suppose I'll have to fight my way back in once I break the chains on me."
He couldn't picture Vox, with all of his rage and hatred, simply taking him in good faith. Nor could he imagine a child accepting him, honestly... poor pet didn't deserve a parent like Alastor.
...Not that Vox was particularly superior to him, especially not with his goons around, but...
"You can't keep me away for good~"
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Ages ago, he would have been happy to throw himself in front of Alastor, fight his hardest with everything he had and throw as many members of his flock as he could to guard The One That Fucking Mattered from Rosie. He would have made some grand declaration days beforehand, stowed away in some smoky bar, bidding them team up to take her down and REALLY show Hell what Radio and Video were capable of.
But he'd seen how that went. It was still the knife that was buried to the hilt in his chest, occasionally twisting by millimeters whenever he saw Alastor. It even twisted now, despite his softer touch and the way he looked at the deer now. It was momentarily unreadable, pupils unsteady, mouth a thin line.
...One that quirked with a humorless smirk as he jerked a thumb toward the cabinet that still sat before the doors, a stalwart bodyguard and perhaps chaperone for their present illicit activity.
"...Yeah. I can see that." Yet his tone was mildly playful, despite the turmoil flipping over and over in his guts.
He couldn't quite shake the weird melancholy at the idea of Alastor somehow disappearing, or at least lying low elsewhere while their kid sat nestled in his claws.
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So instead, he focused on what lay beneath him right now - Vox was being softer. Around his middle, certainly he OUGHT to be - that's his pup, or pups. But the gentle touches... what was this man thinking? That bout of mania and the kiss seemed to have only soured his expression.
Hmm. He won't ever make that mistake again, then.
Instead, Alastor stayed where he was seated and started straightening out the blood-soaked shirt collar and bowtie, as if nothing had happened at all.
"What do you think of Magdaline, or maybe Odette? Marcel, Dorian... hah, knew a Dorian, he was a rare stand-up gentleman. Played the horn beautifully on jazz nights."
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But the question had him shoot a confused look at first. What was he asking? Did he know anyone with those names and- oh. Confusion glitched into amusement.
"Old-fashioned names. Why am I not surprised? ...Then again, I'm Vincent, so..."
Eh, whatever. Let's indulge.
"...I like Dorian," he admitted, but quirked a brow. "Didn't peg you for an 'Odette' kinda guy. I'm more an Audrey or Lucille kinda guy. If we're going with classics, of course."
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Also, what kind of name is Vivienne??
"Doesn't have to be a 'V' name. People change their names all the time down here."
A beat. "...I'm surprised you never thought to change yours."
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Vox, maybe, at the height of their violence towards one another. It seems as though that time is passing - entering a new phase of more bitter resentment and reluctant cooperation, maybe.
Gentle touches.
Speaking of touches... he was still sitting on Vox, still pinning him to the desk.
With a chuckle, Alastor picked up the knocked over bottle of tea and finally moved off of the desk, freeing Vox from being pinned down. With a snap of his fingers, green magic swirled around his bloodied companion and replaced his clothes with a new outfit. Something fun, something nice you'd find at a black and tan club. "As much as I adore seeing you coated in your own blood, my dear, you may have a much harder time being discreet."
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Alastor slipped off the desk and he sat up, yelped a bit in surprise with the swirling magic, and...
Oh.
Vox's hands flew to the lapels as he looked down upon himself, sporting a gray like an approaching storm and a dark blue neck tie.
He snorted, and made a show of rolling his eyes. "...I guess I'm not billing you for my dry cleaning. This isn't gonna pull a Cinderella on me, is it? I've got a number of meetings today."
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