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"Don't stare at me like you've seen a ghost," Alastor rasped displeasedly in his pure human voice, free of radio static, as he brushed himself off after his hasty shadow travel. At the moment, the shadows were barely obeying him and had quite literally spat him out in a rush onto the floor of one of the coziest rooms in the Neon Tower.
He had been here a couple of times before, when the TV Demon wanted to showcase all the delights of motion pictures and evolving technology. Only later did it require a major overhaul after all the damage inflicted — it had been his little nook, where he liked to shut himself away after a hard day's work, away from the neon light, in solitude with new releases. A cinephile's habit.
Vox, stunned, froze on the sofa opposite him, trying to process what heavy substance he might have taken tonight — standing before him at his full "height" was the Radio Demon himself. In his true human form and with a displeased expression, as far as his now tiny smile of thin olive lips allowed.
"Holy shit, am I dreaming?"
"That would be fantastic, if this were just another one of your depraved fantasies or my terrible nightmare," Alastor sighed heavily, shrugging his shoulders, finally resigned to his predicament. "But no, we're still in the land of the living, as much as this hellish cauldron allows."
Vox slowly rose and loosened his bowtie, which was about to choke him and deprive him of the last of his oxygen. There was about forty centimeters difference in height between them now, and even so, Alastor seemed too tiny — too narrow in the shoulders and hips, with thin wrists and neck. Only his aura pressed down just as maliciously, noticing the intense scrutinizing gaze upon him.
And if it weren't for that aura, Vox would have mistaken him for an abandoned fawn and taken pity. Only this creature would later bite off something much stronger.
"What the fuck happened to you?" The TV Demon began to circle intrusively around the tired and exhausted human, whose patience with such attention was already wearing thin. It seemed this was his worst decision, made in a chaotic rush.
"I suppose my witty jokes crossed a line, and someone didn't appreciate them," Alastor tried to ignore the towering demon and walked over to the wide screen of the television in this home theater. He was wearing the same "usual" clothes as at his death — a white shirt, a bloody vest, and glasses with a chain. His eyesight had indeed deteriorated back to a critical minus, so this wasn't just a pretty illusion.
"Who?" Vox responded with interest, standing behind his back and now examining their shared reflection.
"One short guy with a big hat." Vox snorted, recognizing the description as Lucifer himself. Alastor's eye twitched with displeasure; he straightened his vest and began examining his own hands again — so small and useless without claws.
"And why would he go so far as to return you to this living form? It would have been easier to just take and—" Alastor spun around, raised his head, and pressed his index finger to the screen, demanding silence. He was tired of explaining.
"Too many questions, Vincent."
"Too few answers for someone who barged into my home." He jerked his screen-head and took a step back, folding his arms across his chest in a waiting pose, as if to say, "Spit it all out." Alastor sighed heavily and collapsed onto the now oversized sofa for him, carefully crossing his legs and thoughtfully rubbing his chin.
"It was a necessary measure, my friend. I wouldn't want anyone to catch me in such a..." He looked around the room, trying to find the right word to describe his situation. Vox carefully knelt on one knee in front of him to be roughly at eye level.
"In such a sexy state?" The TV Demon smirked slyly, to which Alastor pushed his screen away with a confident kick of his shoe.
"In a vulnerable state, you walking advertisement for vulgarity. No one at the hotel has seen my human form, Mimzy is full of trouble, and you, in your time, studied every newspaper with my name and photo portrait." The radio host raised an eyebrow, expecting confirmation of his words, and Vox shrugged guiltily, not denying it.
"Isn't your hotel ready to accept you even like this?" Vox carefully moved to a respectful distance from the sofa and sat cross-legged, not taking his attentive gaze away. Alastor still looked very displeased but more relaxed than a few minutes ago.
"I fear it would cause too much of a stir and unwanted attention towards my person. You, of all people, should know how shaky my reputation is right now?" This was thanks to Vee's efforts and the massive promotion of all VoxTek products. Radio was slowly fading after his seven-year disappearance. Listeners had dwindled, and those who knew who the Radio Demon was — even fewer.
"And that's why you showed up here?"
"I had little choice. I had no doubt that my old pal wouldn't refuse to shelter me for a while in his miraculous Babylonian tower." There was so much pompous flattery in these words and an attempt with just the intonation of his beautiful announcer's voice that Vox shuddered, and his eyes reflexively, dramatically rolled back.
"Bullshit less, you wouldn't have set foot here even with a gun to your head. I've known you too long, Al. This is even kind of insulting." Vox demonstratively folded his arms across his chest and pouted, furrowing his brow. Alastor's smile twitched unpleasantly at the realization that his lie was so easily seen through. So, he'd have to be a bit more honest than planned.
"I used my demonic powers to get out of the hotel, anywhere." His hand instinctively reached for his curly chestnut hair to relieve the mounting tension — Vox wouldn't let go until the end, no matter how much he tried to evade. "I suppose my subconscious first presented this pathetic little room with a TV as the most hidden place in all of Hell."
Vox beamed happily and almost wagged an imaginary tail at such a statement — he read between the lines, immediately understanding what exactly Alastor was trying to hide from him.
"So, you wanted to appear in my room specifically? Did you like it here after all that time?"
"Don't twist my words to suit your desires, Vincent," Alastor grumbled displeasedly and frowned. A completely expected reaction from a proud egotist.
"Ahem... And what does such a mighty Overlord in human form need in my humble abode of cinema?" He was incredibly flattered by the mere fact that Alastor hadn't buried the memories of their friendship, kept them somewhere close to the surface, and in case of danger, thought of this place first. Not the jazz bar, not his girlfriend in Cannibal Town, but a little movie theater with a ton of discs and tapes.
Alastor, sensing that blackmail and manipulation would soon follow, assumed a more dominant pose, straightening up and spreading his legs. So as to look down on this hot-tempered, unrestrained TV Demon from above, at least a little. Vox hadn't stopped being a powerful Overlord and couldn't miss the chance to enjoy his company in such a situation.
"Refuge, until this nasty curse wears off. It's a good place with no windows, no prying eyes, and decent quiet." With a neat gesture, he took off his glasses and wiped the lenses. Vox caught every movement of his fingers. "That's exactly why this place came to mind first — as the room of a typical recluse."
Vox gritted his teeth, deciding to ignore the last part and the too-obvious insult to his "secret" hobbies.
"And how long will it last? How badly did you piss off the ruler of Hell?" At the mention of Lucifer, Alastor twitched with anger and scowled expressively. His smile became more predatory.
"I doubt it'll be more than a day. My absence will be quickly noticed otherwise, and Charlie won't leave it at that." He really didn't want anyone standing up for him and starting family dramas, so the most correct and painless solution seemed to be simply waiting it out.
For Vox, however, everything was shaping up too well. Yes, if Alastor had shown up in his usual form, they would have already had a real bloodbath in Vee's tower. But this was a completely different situation — Alastor was vulnerable, completely exposed, and fragile. A human body couldn't withstand his strong grip of metal claws; the wounds left would bleed heavily. So, he wanted to etch this living, real image of the radio host into the very depths of his hard drive — at least a couple of snapshots without radio static were already sent to storage.
"And what do I get for this? You know, it's not in my habit to hide a well-known serial killer and radio host within my own walls."
"One favor. A decent one," Alastor replied without hesitation, having already prepared in advance for the conditions of his temporary stay.
Vox paused theatrically for a second, scratching the lower edge of his display, and in a completely serious tone, said:
"How 'decent' on the scale of your unassailable virtue is 'spread your legs'?"
Alastor scorched him with such a murderous look that, had he been in his usual demonic form again, Vox would have already been missing a couple of limbs. But right now, he couldn't do a thing to him.
"Joke! Why are you so tense, buddy?" Vox rose, walking around the sofa and standing behind the radio host's back — had he had his deer ears now, they would have surely twitched. "Then, how about 'just sit there and do nothing'? Will that do?"
Alastor gave a nervous huff at such an abstract condition. Of course, more would follow, but if he personally didn't have to do anything — let the other amuse himself with his appearance to his heart's content. He gave a satisfied nod and adopted a more casual, relaxed pose on the sofa, stretching one leg out to its full length and bending the other at the knee.
A thick, tense silence hung in the air. The radio host blissfully closed his eyes, completely ignoring the TV demon looming over the sofa, who was studying him without a trace of embarrassment.
Vox had been drawn to his black-and-white photographs before, but they lacked color. They lacked this long, patient breathing. They lacked the trembling black eyelashes against olive skin. They lacked the neatly groomed hands with trimmed nails. It was hard to believe that this handsome gentleman turned out to be Louisiana's famous serial killer.
His hand reached out on its own and froze at this contradiction — his current demonic palm was larger than the other's waist. It didn't take complex mathematical calculations to arrive at the most expected conclusion: if he took Alastor by force, he would tear him apart in seconds, even with all the preparation. The human body wasn't sufficiently adapted to accommodate all of his large...
"Could you at least think more quietly?" Alastor grumbled, cracking open one eyelid and taking in the bright blue blush flooding the screen. He was far too easy to read.
"I can't, not when I'm faced with such a picture," Vox openly admitted, pulling his shirt free from his belt and carefully undoing a couple of the top buttons. "Forgive me, but you'll just have to endure a bit more of my attention."
Only the back of the sofa hid the situation that had arisen for him—his cock stood rigid, hard as a rock, from who the hell knew what moment or which particular phrase from the radio host. His pure voice was more intoxicating than any of Valentino's drugs or Velvette's love potions. It aroused him on an animal level.
He decided to get it over with quickly—he braced one hand against the back of the sofa, digging his iron claws into the upholstery, while with the other, after loosening his belt, he reached under the waistband of his boxers, gripping himself with his wide palm. The sharp, up-and-down movements were reflected in a glitch on his screen just as Alastor raised a skeptical eyebrow at him. Damn it, he couldn't do this.
In three sharp motions, he planted himself on the sofa by the other's feet, flung them over his shoulder amidst an indignant human protest—it was all simple enough. Alastor was human now, had spent his last strength getting here, which meant he couldn't fight back. He could survive a few pathetic blows to the ribs or the screen, just like the ones coming now.
"Stop this at once! You worthless piece of...!" Loud protests and attempts to push away the imposing TV demon were futile. He was superior in size and strength, yet he tried to act carefully, as far as the situation allowed—his claws dug into the fabric of the trousers on the thigh, while his other hand held him by the ankles, pressing the desired legs around his member.
The radio host's face twisted in disgust at being used so brazenly. It was entirely predictable that Vox wouldn't hold back and would pull something like this. He had been counting on his last shreds of reason, overlooking his overwhelming greed.
The TV host squeezed the other's legs tighter, held him in place on the thigh with his other hand, and thrust forward experimentally with a loud electric crackle. The friction against the rough fabric of the trousers was nothing compared to the yielding flesh. He wanted more, to be fully immersed.
The futile attempts to break free under his grip were sobering—this body could be easily broken. Yet, he wanted it to live a little longer, to hold it in his embrace, no matter how much Alastor despised his touch and such vulgar, lewd behavior. Vox began to quicken his pace, hooking the fabric at the thighs deeper and dangerously grazing the delicate skin over the protruding bone with the tips of his claws.
"Disgusting… pompous… vile television set…" Alastor hissed beneath him, trying to at least arch his lower back before collapsing weakly back down. When had Vox noticed he was exhausted from the shadow teleportation? What had given him away? Everything inside him literally clenched with rising fury and from having to watch with what fervor this demon rutted against his body, having forgotten all shame. If he were the Radio Demon right now, he wouldn't have allowed even a finger to touch him.
His smile twitched nervously from the tingling in his thigh. The demon involuntarily generated an electric current from arousal, sending small sparks through his claws. Kicking the TV bastard's torso didn't grab his attention in the slightest, and the electrical pulses intensified with each new thrust between his clenched legs.
At first, he tried to restrain himself, biting the side of his palm as the power increased and pounding the sofa with his free hand.
"Damn, Al... this is incredible," Vox groaned above him, completely lost in the stupor of his base desires. He squeezed the thigh harder, sank his claws deeper into the yielding flesh, and pressed the legs against his shoulder more firmly. His own demonic body was already sparking, burning, and electrifying every nerve.
A loud cry from a sudden, powerful electric shock pierced his speakers, and the TV demon, stunned by such a pure sound, could no longer hold back, spilling himself onto the bloody waistcoat and slightly smearing the other's glasses. The screen glitched from the excess current.
For a long minute, he came to his senses, rebooted, and tried to catch his breath. He blinked for a few seconds, then with a loud curse, he lifted the motionless body toward him, trying to assess the damage—Alastor was breathing heavily and with his usual malice, trying to worm his way out of these unwanted embraces of his worst enemy.
His hair was literally standing on end. All the remaining remnants of his demonic strength had gone into resisting that all-consuming electricity, so he got off with just a couple of burns on his legs, deep, bleeding wounds on his thigh, and ruined clothing. Along with his pride.
"Are you satisfied now?" the radio host rasped indignantly right into his speakers, finally slumping wearily in the strong embrace of those large hands. Vox looked at him guiltily and then offered his most "apologetic" smile of all possible.
"If you're alive, then quite!" Vincent babbled, smoothing down the disheveled curly hair. He didn't want to let Alastor go so soon—they still had a whole day ahead, which meant he'd have to make amends. Put on some gramophone with a jazz record, find him the finest whiskey, a pack of cigarettes, and whatever else those old-timers adored.
The fawn in his arms clicked his tongue in displeasure. Vox was still the most careless asshole he'd ever known.