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Ah-list-tur.
Vox says it again, slow, savoring the sounds in his mouth. Alastor.
The “ah” is open-mouthed, inviting the corner of the speaker’s mouth to twitch into something smile-like. The following syllables are dainty and airy, bleeding out after teeth close onto the “s” sound, canines bared.
Ah-lust-ur.
It disgusts Vox that he no longer has the same casual custody over “Al”, or the way his tongue gently traces over his soft-palate as the nickname tapers off. He looks back up in the mirror and rehearses it once again. Alastor.
His reflection glances down at him over the washbasin. The bathroom lights are shit, and the second bulb is still flickering because Vox didn’t manage to pull himself together to replace it before Al- Alastor’s sudden visit.
The visit itself was a surprise. After his confession detonated in his face at the bar, Vox has been adamant on avoiding Alastor. Alastor seemed content to do the same, permitting Vox to waste away, letting Vox lie on the floor of his apartment playing old records until his days grew languid and all bled together. When Alastor rudely showed up unannounced, it roused Vox from his masturbatory self-pity of wailing along to Elvis. The annoyance from the surprise almost overpowered his joy of seeing the other man.
Luckily, Vox was able to squash both emotions with the overwhelming sense of shame at his sorry state. He should’ve expected Alastor’s arrival, after all, there was no formal termination of their arrangement. It left a sour taste in Vox’s mouth that the arrangement had fallen from the highlight of his afterlife to be his current source of strife.
“Vox,” Alastor had said– Vox, not Vincent. “Vox,” Alastor had said. “This will be the final time I will be asking you to hold up your end of our arrangement.”
Vox had simply stared at him, front door flung open and gaping – originally in irritation. Dressed in the same sleek, red suit, Alastor peered at him, head cocked. Alastor looked the same as he remembered. His smile had the same doting cruelty as the day he shut Vox down at the bar, and his voice ever amiably chipper.
What the fuck, Vox wanted to say. How dare you show up now, Vox wanted to say.
How presumptuous, Vox wanted to grab his collar and yell, to think I would want to help you with another rut after how you treated me.
Well, Alastor’s presumption was correct, and Vox opted to defend himself confidently by mumbling huh?
Alastor had added one more grievance to Vox’s growing list by turning on his heel and promptly evaporating into the lukewarm night. There was more to the conversation, but Vox decides to spare himself the pain of recalling all of it.
Instead, he’s washing himself clean for the third time that night for Alastor.
He had been wondering whether or not their fallout would change their arrangement. Certainly, it wouldn’t change Alastor’s biology, or his pathological distaste for vulnerability. If it wasn’t for Vox stumbling onto him mid-rut in the past, the two of them could’ve gone on their dinner dates for millennia before hand-holding even happened. Not that it ever would’ve, considering the fundamental pre-requisite for their arrangement was biological necessity.
Alastor’s words, not his.
When Vox finally grows bored of scrutinizing his insecurities – the unfortunate reality of his 50lbs head, his new body that was too skinny to be toned but too broad to be shapely, his general inadequacies – he slips on a bathrobe and sits on the bathroom counter.
Ten minutes left.
Vox could describe the wait as pulling teeth, but that definition isn’t quite adequate. He toys with the idea of growing a spine and telling Alastor to piss off from where he came: this was quickly abandoned when he caught himself tearing up part way pulling on his trousers. He also considers begging Alastor to come again, and again, and again, so it wouldn’t really be the last time. After some calculus over his dignity, Vox decides that Alastor couldn’t care less about a word from his mouth.
A minute passes and he stands again. Should he meet Al in the bedroom?
That thought disturbs him. He sits back down and glances at the time again. Perhaps he should leave the door open?
Eight minutes and thirty seconds. He stands again and opens a drawer. There’s nothing in there but spare toilet rolls.
Vox decides to get into the bedroom. He opens the drawer on his bedside table. He gets out the lube. Vox self-lubricates – joys of his hell-made body beyond his human comprehension – but he didn’t want to bet on it tonight.
Five minutes left, is when he stops fighting his pride and starts preparing, ditching the bathrobe. It’s not like many of the other times Alastor came over he was dressed. Alastor liked it efficient.
He makes a half-assed effort touching himself. It is far less beautiful now that he was no longer able to convince himself that Alastor would touch him out of desire at some point in the future. Pressing a finger into himself, it seems his fears were confirmed. He was not excited for the arrangement. Still, he pushes through his mental block and thinks only of the mechanical movements of his fingers, stretching himself out.
A minute. Fifty-nine, fifty-eight…
“Alastor,” he says to himself, trying to fix the situation. He thinks about Alastor’s body, Alastor’s voice, the iron smell of him. It starts to work–
“Alastor, not Al.” he reprimands, as his mind starts heading into dangerous territory.
Thirty, twenty-nine, twenty-eight, tw–
Vox rips his digits out of himself when Alastor clears his throat, stepping out of the shadows from the bathroom.
How they get into position is a blur, with Vox deliberately blocking out the experience. Vox teetered between savoring his last taste of Alastor’s friendly presence and saving himself the pain of receiving it one last time. He manages to bulldoze through by falling into routine position as quickly as he can.
As always, Vox is on all fours. Alastor is behind him.
After a few short seconds fumbling with his opening, he is finally able to let Alastor press inside. He rocks himself back, the insufficient preparation tearing at his ring of muscle. It usually is less difficult, but also he usually is ecstatic to be in this position. The friction doesn’t send the same shivers up his spine, but rubs dully at his core until he feels raw.
Alastor isn’t interested in looking at his partner. He never really was, but Vox is. Vox always was. Vox doesn’t dare sneak the glances behind him the way he usually does. He doesn’t try to drink in the half-lidded look that always graces Alastor’s face.
Biting down on the pillow, he allows shallow breaths to escape from him. He can’t do this.
At this point, he usually is panting into the sheets, one hand holding on for life, the other touching himself. The pleasure and hope that Alastor is also pleasured shooting electricity across his synapses. Grounded by the gravity of Alastor behind him, afloat with the fantasy that this arrangement would be a constant in his afterlife.
His eyes shoot open when he feels Alastor’s hand slipping down his abdomen, threatening to provide him the external friction he needs.
In the past, the thought of this alone would be enough to send Vox to completion, hungering at the suggestion that Alastor cared for his pleasure, wanted to actively participate in their union. He lifts his head, which begged to look back at Alastor, alarmed at the possibility that Alastor might want him, that this isn’t the last time, that Alastor changed his mind since the bar.
“You’re so tight.” He thinks of Alastor’s warm mouth when he speaks. Vox arches a bit more.
“You’re choking me,” Alastor says, “You’re usually more relaxed.”
Alastor, Alastor, Alastor… He thinks. Alastor, sitting by his side in a sunny garden, chatting over tea. Alastor, nudging him with his shoulder at the bar, flush with alcohol and laughter. Alastor, the weight of his hands on Vox’s hips, then and now.
Al, painting him red with desire.
He anchors himself by staring at his bedside table. He focuses on the chipping paint. When he gets bored of it, he lets his eyes trail to his alarm. Then his books. Then the radio Alastor had given him.
He remembers it well— the first time he broke his screen, cradling the radio and catching himself by his face when he tripped, trying to protect it.
God– Vox flinches at the memory, jolting back into Alastor, who groans at the sensation. Like an act of retribution, Alastor’s hand finally finds its way to work at Vox’s pleasure. Inexperienced and fighting any sort of rhythm, Alastor palms at him. To give him credit where credit is due, Alastor had never attempted anything like this before, and Vox had never given him the chance.
Closing his eyes to search for the pleasure that Alastor was offering him, Vox finds himself able to relax a bit more. The thought that, even at this moment, Alastor was able to find some solace in him and him alone revived some of Vox’s old enthusiasm.
“Alastor–” Vox says it the way he rehearsed it.
Yes, this arrangement was between them and them alone. Alastor could’ve sought out Rosie, or Mimzy, or any of his subordinates bound to behave by their contract, but he didn’t. He’s here inside someone he apparently doesn’t even consider a friend.
“Ah,” Alastor breathes, “there we are.” Vox nods, face still buried in the pillow.
He gets it now, the value of what Alastor says. He always used to write off Alastor’s words as simply sexual etiquette, the same way he’d shift the angle of his hips to accommodate, or polish the sounds escaping him to be more pleasant. But now, Vox knows he was being greedy: itching for an “I want you”, praying for an “I love you”, writing off anything short of a crystal clear sign of attraction as insufficient. Vox gets it now.
“Al–” Vox tries again, “Alastor.”
Alastor seems to finally catch onto some form of rhythm, and the stretch eases. Vox shivers, no longer able to hide behind the pain. Vox sobs at the relief.
“See,” Alastor says, “much better now, Vox.”
“Vincent,” Vox sniffles in correction, “Vincen–”
It starts feeling good. Vox is now biting into his fist. Alastor has more delicate hands than Vox, his movements providing less friction than when Vox does it himself. Still, the fact that Alastor’s hand is between his legs does more for Vox than any practiced masturbation ever could. Once in a while, Alastor’s strokes will stumble into sync with his hands and push Vox closer to his precipice.
His movements walk the fine line between overstimulating and satisfaction – white heat, blinding and illuminating. Vox squirms, taking a peek behind him. Alastor’s face is shining with sweat, with his hair covering his eyes. His smile is pressed so thin it resembles a grimace, making him look more naked than simply undressing ever could. Vox wonders what it would be like, losing yourself to desire beyond your control, cursed by biology.
Alastor keeps going.
Vox wants to ask Al why he’s doing this all of a sudden, other than the practical aspect of it all. Surely, he would’ve stopped by now. Perhaps it’s an apology for breaking his heart at the bar. If it was, Vox accepts it, not that an apology was needed. He doesn’t think he can live without Alastor in his life anymore.
Touch me more, Vox wants to say. Move your hand. As much as his pleasure wanted monopoly over Alastor’s affection, every other inch of him also throbbed with desire– The small of his back, his waist, his nape, his navel… Alastor, Alastor, Alastor.
Actually, there’s much more Vox wanted to ask him. He wants to ask about his outburst at the bar, about his past, about what he seems to think Vox is still lacking– A groan is robbed from Vox when Alastor suddenly jerks forward, rubbing him where he is sensitive. Hitting him where it hurts.
“Vincent.” Vox swears he hears Alastor correct himself, but he didn’t see Alastor’s lips budge when he had snuck a look back.
The movements from Alastor feel less mechanical now. Vox’s body occasionally clenches and twitches, the traitorous, honest thing. His hips twitch forward involuntarily, chasing the sensation. Then back, pressing closer to Alastor, drinking in the heat from his body.
Al, Al, Al— Getting closer by the second, Vox gives up on his questions. All Vox can think about is Alastor. His smile, his ears, the taste of his lips the one time he managed to steal a kiss from Alastor mid-rut—
Alastor leans down, searching for better balance. His chest presses into Vox’s back, caging him in. He must’ve started growing tired, his movements swinging between erratic and sudden stillness.
Alastor and all his friends with all their names for him: Rosie might think of him as her pet, Mimzy is sure to cycle him through the carousel of endearing names for her male companions— But he will always be Vox’s Al.
He presses his forehead into Vox’s shoulder, his pants gentle against Vox’s nape.
With that, Vincent spills into Al’s hand.