Chapter Text
The claws on Alastor’s thighs tighten as he rocks forward again.
It’s been a long night, starting with drinks and dancing and ending in the desk chair of Vox’s bizarre bedroom-office. The room is mercifully dark, the only light emanating from the LED strips around the desk, the Voxtek logo emblazoned on the wall, and the faint glow of Vox’s screen. Alastor hisses as blue metal shreds through the underside of his trousers and into his skin, not so much from the physical pain, but from the conversation he knows he’ll have to have with his tailor later. He really should avoid dressing up when they go out.
The claws grasp clumsily and pull him closer, prompting a gasp into Vox’s shoulder. He can feel blood beading along the slices before oozing down the fingertips still lodged in his shank. The hands move him backwards, forwards, backwards, forwards, dragging him over Vox’s lap and up and down where he’s slumped over his chest. Each shift brings a little more pain as nails scrape against the insides of his legs; with the sharpness of Vox’s claws, every movement cuts him open a little deeper. He’s not sure if Vox knows this. Maybe he doesn’t, and the aches Alastor feels in his legs for days after their sessions are an unintended consequence of his eagerness. Maybe he does, and is imagining the little winces Alastor will let out every time he sits right now.
Alastor barely stifles a moan into the shoulder pad he’s shoved his face into. With their heights as similar as they are, he’s taken to hiding his face over a shoulder or in the crook of Vox’s neck when they do this. He knows Vox would prefer to see his expression (Alastor has suffered through numerous litanies of begging on the subject), but has since accepted that he was getting more than he deserves with their current arrangement anyway.
Vox is whimpering, and his hips are growing unsteady. He pulls Alastor faster, rutting into the space between his spread thighs. Alastor can feel breath on the back of his neck, can hear the intermittent sound of fans whirring by his left ear. He tries to grind forward himself, but the iron grip Vox has on him just results in another spurt of blood into his already matted fur. He whines, shaking with the need to get some friction against his cunt. It’s been weeping into the fabric encasing it since the two of them got back and the not-quite-there stimulation is driving him crazy.
With a final desperate shove, Vox moves his hands from Alastor’s thighs to grasp at his back, pulling the deer into his chest as he stutters an approximation of Alastor’s name and comes. With his freedom of movement finally unrestricted, Alastor ruts viciously against Vox’s dick, trying to get some form of pressure against himself in the few seconds he knows he has left. He can hear Vox sputtering and feels the hands move from his back to his chest, getting ready to push him away.
He just needs a little longer, he’s so close, he's-
"Al- Alastor, are- are you alright?"
He’s pried from Vox’s chest, and a wave of anguish rolls over him. Vox moves his hands down to his waist, whether to pull him closer or off Alastor doesn’t know, but it doesn’t matter because the physical contact is too much now anyway. Shoving the grasping hands away, Alastor shakily pulls himself off Vox’s lap, his legs quaking under him. He knows his face is red, his breathing ragged, he hears his heartbeat in his head and wants desperately for it to shut up. He doesn’t think he’s felt this exposed in a long time.
Vox watches panicked as he stands; Alastor sees his mouth open and close several times in his periphery. His hands try to chase Alastor’s retreating form, but he obviously thinks better of it and returns them to his sides. He’s cycling through words and phrases rapidly, and looks to Alastor as if for guidance, to tell him what he can say to make whatever this is better. Alastor doesn’t meet his eyes, if only because doing so would mean admitting he doesn’t know either.
He catches Vox’s eyes look down to his crotch as usual. He fights the childish urge to cover himself or cross his legs, he’s grown to hate this part of their encounters. They only linger momentarily before raising back to his face.
Finally, Vox finally settles on a shaky: “Was that too much?” and Alastor barely restrains a bark of laughter. He keeps eyes to the floor, and hopes his hair shields his face enough to not let Vox see the expression of nigh-madness he’s sure is plastered all over it. After a moment of silence, Vox begins reaching for more words; Alastor can hear his fans whirr as his processors go into overdrive. The cuteness of it distracts him for a second and allows him to catch his breath. His poor, silly television.
Slowly, he looks up at Vox’s eyes. They’re focussed intently on his face, the diamonds of them wider and taking up more of his screen than usual. They’re obscured by the occasional glitches that Vox always experiences after orgasm, lines of grey static that cut across the bright cyan and red of his display. It’s the one thing that’s remained despite his many head upgrades, and Alastor softens at it, if only a little. It’s alright. He’s still in control here.
"Of course not, my dear fellow! Goodness, you’d imagine by now you’d know that I’m not one to tolerate unwanted contact! Why, I’d have simply left had you truly upset me!"
Vox flinches a little. It’s obvious he doesn’t believe Alastor, and equally obvious he understands the implicit threat in his words.
"I- I know that. But you’ve been different these past few meetings- not in a bad way, of course, but I’m just wondering if I could-"
Vox’s words are coming a mile a minute, and Alastor can feel his left eye twitching. He steps between Vox’s still open legs, and leans down so Vox can feel the heat of his breath.
"I’ve been fine, my sweet." The man beneath him shivers a little. "Just a little…out of sorts. I’m sure you knew how busy it could be organising an entire operation, and with all the new clientèle we’re dealing with, why, it’s enough to sweep the most experienced hotelier off their feet!"
Vox’s eyes flick away, his breathing grows heavier, and Alastor can see that the jab landed. Good. If reminding Vox of his current subordinate position in his own company is what it takes to get him to drop this, well, he’s never been one to avoid playing dirty.
Alastor stands to his full height again, looking down his nose at Vox. A little of that sensation in his crotch comes back at seeing the man look so defeated. It’s not exactly a rare sight, Alastor has the upper hand in most of their interactions, but he is always enthused to see the not-quite-there tears brimming at the edge of his old friend’s eyes.
"Now, I’ll be taking a moment to freshen up before returning home! I wouldn’t be surprised if my clothes are in complete disarray with all the grabbing and pulling you’ve been doing!"
They’re not, Vox has kept his hands localised to Alastor’s legs tonight, but Vox’s head hangs even lower if that’s possible, and his fists clench at his sides as his breath shakes. Alastor licks his lips. The sensation grows stronger.
He pivots on his heel and walks the ten or so meters to the ensuite bathroom. God knows why Vox needs so much empty space in his room, but it works to his advantage now as he slowly strides to the door. He knows Vox is listening to the sharp taps of his shoes as he walks, desperately wishing anything he could say could make Alastor turn back to him. He knows it couldn’t.
The second the bathroom door closes, Alastor’s hands reach to his pants. He’s careful not to make too much noise as he unbuckles his belt, stripping it off and laying it gently on the toilet lid. He unhooks his trousers, pulls their fly down, then unzips the back zip that fastens over his tail, shimmying them down to his knees. He knows this is pathetic, that he’s doing a ridiculous thing, but he doesn’t care at the minute. He needs this.
He shoves down his underwear, with the little fabric bulge he’d made years ago fastened to it with a couple of safety pins. He does switch them out fairly often, but this one is his favourite, small enough to not be noticeable, while being made of a red brushed cotton that’s smooth against his fur and cunt. It’s not professional by any means, but it gets the job done.
With his clothes as removed as he needs them to be, he plunges a claw into himself. While he is overly enthusiastic at the moment, he’s also not an idiot, and keeps the sharp edge of it away from his walls. He pushes it in slowly, then pulls it out, then in again a little deeper. While there’s plenty of dried slick in the fur surrounding his hole (god, he’ll have to clean that later), the current stimulation leads of new waves of it, coating his finger and the knuckles pressed to his labia. It’s always been the primary way he tells when he’s aroused, he seems to produce a truly unnecessary amount of the stuff.
He can feel his breath getting sharper, and presses his other hand against his mouth in case Vox is listening for him instead of moping in his chair like he should be. Alastor hasn’t heard any footsteps, so he assumes his boy is still at his desk, head in his hands and tearing up at his own inadequacy.
Another wave of slick runs down his hand at the thought. He moves his thumb to his dick, pressing on it for a few seconds before pulling away. He’s always been overly sensitive there, presumably from the outsized amount of nerve endings stored in the thing. It’s peeking just slightly from its hood, making it far easier to access given the claws Alastor’s working with. He had considered getting caps for them, but decided against it on that basis that he isn’t a degenerate and planning to have sex would make him one. If the feeling simply comes over him, he can’t really be blamed.
He brings his thumb back, keeping it feather-light, rubbing up and down in time with the finger thrusting into his cunt. He hisses into his hand and takes the thumb away, before the internal stimulation isn’t enough anymore and he brings it back. This pattern continues, over and over, the amount of time he can handle touch on his dick growing shorter and shorter until even brushing against it sends his knees wobbling. He curls his finger, feels the cut it makes into his insides, and comes.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
He retracts his finger from his cunt, mindlessly bringing it to his mouth to suckle at the slight tinge of blood he can see along the lighter red of his nail. He knows he’s licking at some of his spend too, which he usually finds disgusting but doesn’t particularly mind at the moment.
His shaking legs give out, and he sinks to the floor.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
Breathe in.
The problem is thus.
Alastor and Vox have been, for some reason unknown to the both of them, having sex for the past few months. It always begins and ends the same way: they grind against each other, whether in each other’s laps or with one of them bent over the nearest surface, then Vox comes and they go on their merry way. This arrangement, in spite of the several obvious reasons why it shouldn’t, works. Both of them are generally happy by the end, and they each get what they want: Vox the chance to come within twenty feet of his object of obsession, and Alastor the ability to look at his old friend and see the desperation in his eyes as he ruts to completion.
This is how their unspoken agreement works, and how Alastor would describe it to another person if he was tortured into doing such a thing.
However, as of late, it has been. Not working.
In the beginning, Vox was pathetically focussed on Alastor and his sexual enjoyment of their activities, to the point that Alastor would frequently up and leave, uncomfortable with the attention. While Vox would always come in a time Alastor is sure would be embarrassing for any other person, as soon as his brain was back online, he began to pester Alastor as to how he could bring him to the orgasm he was so sure he desired. While the enthusiasm was endearing, the constant asking and grabbing took a toll on him. On one increasingly regrettable night, Alastor thought of the perfect excuse.
"My dear, I’m sure you’ve noticed this, but I’m not actually as…interested as you are! If only you had taken your eyes off my face for a moment you would see that I’m soft as the day I was born!"
He understands this is perhaps not the best way to convey to Vox that he is not to be touched, but it is a way that works. He has been reticent to inform Vox of his anatomy, not out of any fear of rejection, he’s fairly certain the man used to be a woman himself, but more out of a desire for privacy. Vox knows more than enough about him given his constant stalking and filming; he can keep this to himself.
The excuse has held up for the entirety of their arrangement, a fact Alastor considers with pride seeing as it was thought up in the heat of the moment. It constantly ensures that Vox never has any untoward ideas about his ability to touch Alastor, provided the dick-shaped fabric in his pants never spontaneously becomes erect.
The only problem is.
Alastor.
Might actually want to get off.
This was unthinkable when he started indulging in this insane flight of fancy, of course it was! Besides the occasional itchy feeling in his undergarments, the man has never felt arousal, and certainly not with his sworn enemy! He’d imagined this biweekly escapade might be enough for Vox to finally ease up on the constant surveillance, and the opportunity to degrade him for his pitiful obsession is one Alastor will never pass up. But the past few meetings have left him…wanting.
In a similar way he wants blood. A scratching under his skin that moves to his teeth, howling at him to bite, to take, to fuck.
It’s embarrassing. At least when one is eating someone alive there isn’t any doubt as to who is in control, the same cannot be said when one is frantically bucking against some moron with a dick too big for the rest of his body. Alastor has always hated being weak, vulnerable, womanly, and having Vox know he has this power over Alastor cannot be anything but catastrophic. Add that to the fact that if Vox were to find out a lack of erection does not mean a lack of arousal for Alastor, he would be sure to push further about touching him, about bringing his filthy hands against his sex. The thought makes Alastor nauseous. He should probably go back out the door right now and tell Vox this arrangement is over, that he has unfortunately grown bored of his pawing and whimpering, and that-
"Al, are you-" Silence. A slight shuffle. "Are you okay in there?"
It seems Vox has overcome his paralysing insecurity and is now in front of the bathroom door. His voice is pitying. Cloying. Disgusting.
"Of course, my dear fellow, I shall be out momentarily!"
He pulls up his pants, refastens his belt (taking care not to jolt the buckle), and shoves his hands under the fancy motion-activated taps Vox insists on having in every bathroom in his godforsaken penthouse, hissing at the sudden stream of freezing cold water. He scrubs at his hands with the flowery soap Vox keeps next to the sink. He hears another shuffle behind the door, and quickly dries them against the red towel he knows is reserved solely for his use. He doesn’t think about the fact he has a designated towel in Vox’s ensuite.
He slips under the door and rematerializes, grinning as Vox startles and takes a step back. It’s alright. He’s still in control here.
"I do thank you for a lovely evening, Vox, but I’m afraid I must be going!" He mimes pulling a pocket watch from the inside of his jacket, smile growing wider as Vox sighs and shakes his head. He still looks upset, but even his darling television knows better than to try to start a discussion now.
"Al, I just-"
Ah. Maybe not.
"Listen, my dear," Alastor says, stepping into Vox’s space. The man is hunched over, his screen hanging low over his chest. It’s an obvious trick, to make himself small and pitiable, and he really should know by now that Alastor is never going to fall for it. He brings his fingers to curl over the sleek plastic of Vox’s chin, before lifting his screen to meet his eyes.
"We’ve both had a wonderful night, but it really is time for me to be going back! You know I have my duties to attend to, and I’m sure you have yours, hmm?" He lilts his voice just so, as if he was talking to a small child. A flicker of pleading dismay crosses Vox’s face before fading to an indignant anger, and Alastor knows he’s won.
"Fine!"
Vox grabs at Alastor’s wrist, pulling it from his screen with a dramatic flick of his arm. He turns away and begins to stalk back to his desk. A small child indeed.
"But don’t come crawling to me when you’re inevitably bored with whatever chores the princess has you doing! Just because I make time in my busy schedule for you on occasion doesn’t mean I’ll always be around for your entertainment!"
Alastor rolls his eyes. He has no idea what Vox thinks he’s getting out of this inane posturing when both of them know Alastor has him more or less at his beck and call. Besides his soul, there isn’t much Vox wouldn’t give him, a fact that has been proven time and again, most recently with the small massacre and pathetic suicide attempt he enacted after Alastor freed himself. Even besides that, his calendar is far less full now he’s spending most of his time in his office rather than at public events. Alastor supposes he wants to keep just this shred of his pride, after everything else has fallen apart around him. Whether it’s simply the exhaustion, or a sliver of mercy, Alastor lets him have it.
"Yes, yes," he waves his hand. "Well then, I will be seeing you in another two weeks! Do remember it’s my choice of venue this time, I hope you’ve readied your stomach for the café!"
An overexaggerated groan sounds out behind Alastor, and he chuckles as he steps back into the shadows.