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Alastor fiddles with the rim of his glass, eyes traveling around the bar in a bored manner. The other patrons know to keep their distance. Especially with the harsh hissing of static slowly growing and drowning out the music from the rusty old jukebox.
Usually Alastor would pride himself on doing a better job keeping his emotions hidden but it's more difficult when it feels like he's been stood up. The irrational sting of betrayal, of his time being wasted, is souring any control he exercises. That and the fact that he's already three drinks deep.
Vincent is late. Significantly tardy. Annoyingly absent.
And without a single word of warning.
It's unlike the picture box to cancel their little get-togethers. He's practically salivating every time Alastor extends another invitation. Vincent wouldn't miss their meetings for the world.
Which means something is wrong. Which means something is holding up the television demon. Something seemingly more important than Alastor. And nothing is more important than Alastor, not to Vincent.
Could he be out shmoozing with another overlord? Alastor wasn't blind, he'd seen how cozy Vincent was getting with the blue flaming skull from three districts over. They had been tittering like children at the last meeting.
A hot stab of illogical jealousy floats up his throat. Alastor takes a large swig of his drink to chase it away. He's more powerful than that antler stealing knock off. Vincent knows that too. He wouldn't waste his time on someone so weak, so forgettable.
No. Vincent needs entertainment just as badly as Alastor does. They're bonded in that way. Different than all the rest. Dare he say special.
Alastor's claws clench tight around the glass in his hand. He can feel the cup threatening to give under the pressure of his irritation. He always seems to circle back to this fumbling of feelings when he ponders Vincent's life outside of his influence. Green is not his color.
And what, really, does he have to worry about? Vincent won't get bored of him. Alastor will make sure of it. And as long as Vincent remains interesting then Alastor can justify playing with him as long as he pleases.
There's no mushy feelings about keeping the television sinner by his side. It's all for pure amusement.
A more dangerous thought lingers in the back of Alastor's mind. Could it be that Vincent has bitten off more than he could chew and has been left to bleed out somewhere?
He's just upset at the idea that Vincent could be too weak to live and keep challenging him. It feels wrong that it's possible for Vincent to simply disappear, drop off Alastor's radar, because of some unworthy scum taking what doesn't belong to them.
If Vincent really is out there, lying in filth and slowly perishing, alone and in pain, it leads Alastor to think Vincent might have been bluffing about his claim of being the Radio Demon's biggest fan.
Wouldn't a true fan be tripping over themselves for a moment of his time? Overcoming such desolate obstacles to meet with him despite potentially fatal wounds? Not obnoxiously standing him up like a ill fated blind date.
Before he can tumble too far into his own thoughts a familiar frequency starts to sync with his own. About damn time.
The gentle undertone swims and brushes against his own signal. He's able to relax his grip on his drink, ignoring the faint cracks in the otherwise pristine glass.
Alastor sits up, downing the remains of his whisky and gesturing for a new one. His attention splits between the bartender and the door as he subtly awaits his companion. A fresh drink is delivered hastily. He rolls a few well deserved insults to call his tardy company around in his mouth. For some reason they taste like ash on his tongue. Concern lingers unbidden and unwanted.
He's just bored. That's all. It's not like he cares about Vincent. The picture box is just an excellent source of entertainment. Nothing more.
The front door crashes open, wood splintering slightly where it smashes into the wall. Several patrons look up from their tables. The bartender makes an annoyed grumble from behind the bar. The Radio Demon is a little too stunned to immediately call out his companion for such a disruptive entrance.
It's not like the TV Demon to make a scene right off the bat. Especially not at their spot. It's startlingly out of character.
Vincent stumbles in. His screen is fuzzy, faint snow tints at the edges despite how very blue his face is. His eyes are slightly out of focus. His mouth hangs open with near silent shaky exhales. His antennas are crumpled oddly, twitching intermittently like a squashed but not yet dead bug. Vincent tilts his casing at a slight downward angle. It's as if his neck has finally grown tired of holding his boxy head up.
He's missing his usual sweater vest. His dress shirt is inappropriately untucked, tail ends slapping against his thighs as he wobbly walks. His bow tie is crooked, limp petals sagging against his throat. One pant leg is artfully tucked into Vincent's dress shoe and the other catches and drags under his heel. It seems he's wearing two different shoes, a dark brown oxford and a black loafer clashing.
In short, Vincent looks an absolute mess.
Alastor straightens, ready to gleefully rip into the television sinner for his tardiness and his horribly sloppy dress, when Vincent's scent crashes over him.
The jukebox skips—a horrible screeching scratch of static exploding from it's aged speakers—causing several patrons to wince and hastily turn their eyes away.
Rut.
Vincent is in rut.
It's obvious by how overwhelmingly strong his scent is. Burnt wires perforates the bar like a physical smog. The electric undercurrent of a brewing storm, wet and heavy, is suffocating.
Alastor's muscles tighten in preparation. Instinct wails at him to attack, to defend his territory, to tear such a threat to bite sized bloody pieces.
But this is Vincent. His drinking buddy. The pal he can complain to without worry of gossip. The partner always there to offer ideas for programs when Alastor's brain twists itself in knots over perfection and perception.
Vincent might be a bit of a knot head but he's not going to threaten their unique bond over petty alpha hormones. Alastor won't let him.
"Vincent," He starts, cutting himself off when the TV Demon slumps into the stool beside him. The other man's knees thunk solidly into the underside of the bar and his seat wobbles threateningly. Though Vincent doesn't seem cognizant enough to even notice. "You look…terrible, to be frank. What going on, my dear?"
Hazy half lidded eyes slide over Alastor. Vincent blinks out of sync. His left antenna sparks erratically. "I don't really…" His mouth forms the words seconds after he's said them, "feel so good."
"I'll say," Alastor mutters under his breath. Vincent smells even saltier up close. For some reason it makes Alastor's mouth water. He slides his glass of whiskey toward the television sinner. "Nothing a spirited drink can't fix!"
Vincent stares down at the amber liquid, making no move to accept Alastor's selfless gift. His signal is fraying at the edges, unbound and tickling against Alastor's senses as it loosely grapples for purchase.
"Vincent," Alastor says slowly and clearly. He taps the bar top by the drink and watches the television sinner sluggishly glance down at it. "Drink. Tell me what's wrong."
It's a familiar setup. Alastor pokes until Vincent breaks and spills his guts. Except this time Vincent is holding himself back, is keeping his obvious problem under sheer wraps.
A blue quivering clawed hand grabs the rye. The amber liquid sloshes around dangerously as Vincent lifts it to his screen. He takes a hearty swallow, the noise audible between them. Alastor open his mouth to give cheesy sarcastic praise but stops when Vincent just keeps swallowing large mouthfuls until the drink is gone.
The glass thunks back on the bar top. Their usual method of tackling problems doesn't seem effective here. Vincent blinks, eyes bleary and screen fuzzing in and out. His claws absentmindedly tap an erratic rhythm against the glass.
"Mm." He hums, antennas bobbing when he directs his wavering attention to the alpha sitting next to him. " 's good. Thanks, Al."
His words come out unnaturally slurred. There's no way a single glass of whiskey effected him so. Alastor bristle a bit at the realization that Vincent isn't going to be suitable company for the foreseeable future. As long as he doesn't start humping the furniture or chase off other patrons Alastor supposes it's fine.
"So," The Radio Demon drawls, settling in to ignore the problem until Vincent breaks, propping his chin up with his palm and elbow on the bar top. Vincent's screen flickers on and off as he struggles to adjust where his gaze lands. Alastor reaches out with his free hand and gives his bow tie a playful yank. "What've you been up to, pal?"
Vincent sways in his seat, practically about to tumble into Alastor's lap. He blinks out of sync. "Um." The fans in his head whir as his brain plays catch up. It's amusing how slow Vincent's usually whip-crack mind is running. "Busy…Busyee…Er. Work."
Alastor's grin sharpens. He gestures for the bartender to bring more drinks. Two brimming glasses of rye get set in front of them. Vincent doesn't seem to even notice the refill resting beside his arm.
It's a bit cruel to keep playing along but it's Vincent's punishment for not being honest and being late. "I see. And how did work go?"
Vincent slow blinks at him, seemingly not understanding the question. Alastor huffs a laugh and sips at his drink. He nods towards the TV Demon's glass. "Are you going to drink that? It's my turn to pay the tap this time. Go ahead."
He wonders how alcohol effects the delicate inner workings of rut. Is this helping? Or making things worse? Either way it's quite an enteratining show. Vincent does as he's told and downs yet another glass without hesitation.
The glass slips from his fingers and shatters on the ground between them. Alastor glances down and is pleased to see that his picture box managed to chug out the whole thing before clumsily dropping it.
Before he has a chance to tease his companion a drunk sinner makes the mistake of bumping into Vincent as they holler at the bartender for more beer.
Vincent—slouched over with his screen almost pressed to the bar after downing his third glass of whiskey—snaps to attention like a rubber band. The snarl that tears out of him is deep and primal. His scent roars up like a tidal wave. It crashes around the bar and swiftly drowns out anyone else's smell.
It's dangerous. It's mouth wateringly delicious.
Alastor shivers and watches with a small amount of pride as the drunk sinner takes one look at a practically feral Vincent and fucks off without another word. The brine in the air doesn't retreat, looming overhead like a suffocating fog. A few patrons glance nervously their way.
Vincent keeps growling, low and pleasantly tinted with static, even as the imagined threat is successfully dealt with. He glances around the bar, red eyes shining with aggression, teeth threateningly bare, as he stakes his claim on this territory. Alastor uses the opportunity to set his drink in front of the television sinner.
It's cute seeing Vincent flex his muscles and throw his weight around a bit. It's not often the television sinner resorts to such alpha like displays. He likes to use his words. And good old fashioned violence if that doesn't work. But Vincent isn't one to nash his teeth and scent mark those around him.
The off-putting feeling lingers even as Alastor clears his throat and draws Vincent's aggressive attention. He doesn't flinch under the intense glare, "Are you going to finish your drink, Vincent?"
The TV Demon's mouth slowly closes and he looks almost confusedly down at the drink in front of him. "Mine?" His voice crackles through his speakers, deeper and more distorted than usual.
Alastor shivers again. He wonders if this new side of Vincent is almost too entertaining and unpredictable to play with. "Yes, dear. Your drink." He gestures and waits as Vincent struggles to grab it. Once the rye is successfully swallowed and the empty glass thrown onto the bar top Alastor continues, voice soft and encouraging, "Perhaps we should get you home."
"Home," Vincent hums in agreement, low and rumbly, almost a purr if Alastor felt so inclined to call it that. He slips off his stool and almost trips backwards.
Alastor jumps off his own seat to grab and support the wobbly TV Demon. It's startling how warm Vincent is under his hands. Rut has to be messing with his internal systems. He's never felt this hot before any of the other times they'd been out drinking. Alastor gracefully guides the other alpha toward the door.
"Home, Al." Vincent drunkenly repeats. His head flops to the side and his screen half blinds Alastor as he stares helplessly at the other alpha. He flashes his fangs at anyone with the gall to look at them as they exit.
Once they're outside Vincent's tasty smell dims slightly. It's incredible that it doesn't get completely washed away by Hell's overwhelming stench. Alastor subtly leans closer to get a better whiff. Sea salt helps remind him why he's put himself in this situation in the first place.
Vincent will be so fun to tease after all this.
Alastor can't help but play with his silly little picture box. "Yes, home, Vincent. And which way would that be?"
"Uh," The sound is chopped off as Vincent whips his head side to side. Sparks pop of his antennas. "Home?" He gestures to the left. Alastor doesn't confirm or deny, too amused with Vincent's confusion.
The TV Demon slants unsteadily to the side, almost tripping over his own feet, and salt sprays distressingly into the air around them. Alastor hastily yanks Vincent back to his side, fond and irritated in equal measure.
"I gotta—gotta have a drink with Al first," Vincent whines pitifully into Alastor's shoulder, childishly stretching his vowels. He continues to sway unhelpfully as the Radio Demon forces him to walk in the correct direction. "I promised!"
It's foolish how those two words warm Alastor's chest. Stupid picture box, wondering out into the world in such a heavy rut haze just to meet up with Alastor, unknowingly putting himself in danger just so he wouldn't miss a second of time with the ferocious Radio Demon.
It seems he truly is Alastor's number one fan.
The only reason he tugs Vincent closer is because he's a little unsteady on his feet as well and could use the albeit wobbly support. That's the only reason.
"Perhaps a nightcap, old pal."
Vincent hums, seemingly content with the compromise. A pleasant soft static pulses through their shared signal as he calms down. He leans heavily into Alastor as they walk but thankfully he doesn't try striking out on his own again.
It would be easier to simply teleport them both back to Vincent's shoe box apartment but Alastor quite likes the suit he has on and doesn't want it ruined by vomit. Vincent still hasn't adjusted to shadow travel despite Alastor's best intentions and adding alcohol to the mix is a recipe for disaster.
So the two of them stumble and trip their away to Vincent's apartment. Alastor keeps his arm around the television sinner. The warmth from Vincent's overheating systems grows familiar, almost comforting, as he keeps Vincent on course and from smashing his fragile screen into the ground.
When they get to Vincent's apartment Alastor has to drag the other alpha to the correct door. Vincent fumbles the keys and they flop onto the ground with a disruptive clank. Vincent takes a few seconds to realize what happened. His head bangs against the door when he looks down at the keys. His signal shrieks as he bends down to grab them, antennas scrapping unsettlingly against the door.
The semi drunk state has quickly worn through the Radio Demon's tolerance.
"Oh, for the—" Alastor unlocks the front door with a tentacle and shoves Vincent in. He has another tentacle retrieve the fallen keys and drops them into his special void. He'll return them after he's made a copy. If Vincent even remembers to ask for them back that is.
It seems while the other man is intoxicated and rut fueled he remembers his promise to drink with the Radio Demon because he stumbles immedaitely over to his sorry excuse for a kitchen. The loud thumps and thuds of cabinets doors getting opened echo through the dingy apartment.
One drink, Alastor tells himself. He'll have one drink then be on his way. Surely that will be enough to satisfy Vincent. Hopefully it will keep the other alpha in his apartment as well. Alastor dreads to think what could happen if Vincent wondered around like this.
He doesn't want anyone else to see this side of Vincent. It should be all Alastor's. All for Alastor. It's him who Vincent came to despite it all.
A clumsy blue clawed hands holds a half poured whiskey right under Alastor's nose. Vincent's screen pulses an enamored white. "Sazerac," Vincent claims, proud of himself for providing Alastor with his favorite drink.
Just by looking at it, it's obviously not mixed right, lacking the absinthe and lemon peel Alastor usually prefers. It's still a sickeningly sweet gesture. Even rut hazed Vincent is trying to provide the best for Alastor.
Vincent's signal buzzes happily when Alastor takes the drink. It's nowhere near as strong as it should be, probably because it's been mixed incorrectly but the Radio Demon drinks it regardless.
It's the finest drink he's had in a while.
With his chest constricting with emotion and his nose having gotten it fill of Vincent's addicted sea salt scent, Alastor decides it's time for him to go. Before things spiral even further out of his control. Vincent is home safe. That's all he needs to make sure of.
"I think it's time I departed, pal." Alastor moves to stand by the front door. Vincent instinctively shoots to his feet, antennas buzzing as he struggles to follow after the Radio Demon. His scent takes on a somber, almost sad tinge.
Alastor presses his tongue to his teeth and inhales as deeply as he can without being obvious.
"You…" Vincent stalls out, electric betraying his thought process as it sluggishly flows between his antennas. Using his brain right now must be very hard for the poor fellow. "You could stay." His scent laps at Alastor's senses, a gentle searching probe, not quite desperate but not exactly subtle either. "Please stay."
It's almost cute how soft and tentative Vincent's voice is. How he's bordering on shy with his silly request. Alastor finds himself wanting to stay. If only to see how this plays out, how far Vincent will descend into rut fulfilled fever.
Alastor has never gotten the opportunity to observe another sinner's rut up close and personal. The thrill of discovery encourages him to linger as long as possible. An alpha like Vincent would be invigorating to fight if it came down to it.
"I suppose I could stick around a little longer. If you make it worth my while, of course!"
Alastor steps a bit closer, releasing his own scent to test the waters. Exhilaration pumps through his veins as Vincent physically staggers back.
But instead of the aggressive snap of an alpha who's territory and space is being threatened—invaded—Vincent's scent gets shockingly sweeter. It drips with dampness, pleased and aroused. The completely backwards reaction to Alastor, a much stronger and more dangerous alpha, is as confusing as it is appealing.
There is no panic, no bared teeth, or growled warnings.
Vincent's antennas curl into an awkward curve as he stumbles further back, looking drunk and overwhelmed. His eyes are hooded with desire but his signal flares with hesitation. At least some part in his rut scrambled brain he knows not to try and force his lewd fantasies onto Alastor.
It is a bit of a defensive posture, Vincent's body tilted away from the Radio Demon, though it feels more cautionary rather than out of fear. Alastor hums and flicks his eyes over the entirety of Vincent's slightly trembling form. How amusing that he's able to wring such a reaction all by letting his scent out a little stronger.
Vincent is on the back foot, hands hanging limply by his sides. His screen is leaking static again. He still looks horribly disheveled. The most prominent observation Alastor makes however is the very obvious boner tenting the from of the television sinner's pants.
Alastor is a little taken aback by the physical reaction to their closeness. He knows the other alpha has a soft spot for him but he didn't think something as simple as his scent drifting over Vincent would be enough to stir such a response.
He's not sure where to go from here. He's not ready to give up his research mission. He doesn't want to be deterred just because he's uncertain on how to handle such a situation.
"What of your…problem there, chum?" Alastor clears his throat, ignoring the shaking of his hand as he dips his cane toward the obvious boner tenting the other alpha's pants.
It's such a shame Vincent is so out of it. Alastor would have liked to tease him a bit more about his inappropriate and frankly embarrassing reaction. Nothing tastes sweeter than Vincent's humiliated bumbling. But with the rut haze infecting his mind, the TV Demon just glances down and makes a surprised noise. Like he'd forgotten about his issue entirely.
"I'll…" Vincent blinks, eyelids out of sync, brain obviously struggling to handle the situation unfolding before him. He sluggishly lifts his head, "…take care of it. Yeah." He nods once and his antennas bobble adorably in front of his hazy screen. "'cuse me."
The Radio Demon steps to the side as Vincent stumbles toward him. He hooks a left and smacks right into the doorframe of the bathroom. Alastor fights down a laugh, especially when what is probably meant to be a fearsome alpha growl rings out from Vincent's tinny speakers. The man flexes his chest threateningly at the wood before slinking into the bathroom. The door shuts with a soft click.
It takes every fiber of Alastor's self control to not place his ear against the door. He doesn't need to sink so low as to listen to the television sinner masturbate to sate his curiosity.
Invading someone's privacy like that is deplorable. Even if Vincent is doing such an ungodly deed knowing full well he's left Alastor to his own devices.
Alastor, unlike other semi-present company, isn't a pervert.
So instead of standing by the door like a creep, he opens it and steps inside. For educational purposes. He's never seen another alpha's knot before. He's just in pursuit of knowledge. No one can fault a gentleman for seeking answers.
A little curiosity never hurt anybody.
If worse comes to worse, he'll blame it on the alcohol.
Vincent doesn't even seem to notice him. His belt is undone and the flap of his pants is unzipped and hanging loose. His claws rest on the sink, a lovely contrast of blue and stark white. In the mirror his hypnotic eye swirls an intoxicating pink. Alastor quickly forces his eyes away before he can get trapped in the spinning. Drool leaks out of the corner of Vincent's mouth, red and foamy.
Overall it's not as impressive as Alastor had hoped. In fact, Vincent looks quite pitiful. Before Alastor can speak up and voice his displeasure, the TV Demon starts mumbling commands.
"You're not horny," Vincent's voice is deep and rough, stern and oddly authoritarian. Alastor has never heard him like this. His ears perk and turn to better hear the television sinner as he talks to himself. "You're not in rut. You are not a pathetic slave to your useless body."
Glitches distort his speech and that's when Alastor realizes Vincent is using his alpha voice—paired with his steadily growing hypnosis—to control himself.
A shiver wracks the Radio Demon's body. Alastor's strange fascination twists into shocked awe. The unabashed display of power has him wondering if maybe he's underestimated his picture box. Alastor inches closer, dangerously curious, his mouth starting to water as Vincent's briny scent floods the bathroom.
"You need to be more like Alastor," Vox commands. His expression shifts from mindless lemming to stubbornly determined. "Be a good alpha like Alastor. Be a perfect alpha like Alastor."
The words ring around the small room, deafening with their finality, unfairly raw in their firm resolution. Like Vincent really believes them, that he's made this promise to himself before, evidently lives by it.
Where the lingering pull of curiosity sat now burns into a radiant inferno of lust. So sudden and off putting Alastor physically stumbles away from it. His pants are suddenly too tight and restrictive. He doesn't dare glance down. The odd sensation of getting hard is shockingly hot, at least this time around. All from Vincent's hypnosis, from his stern words.
Alastor's never fallen under an another alpha's command. Technically he still hasn't, considering he's going so directly against the not horny order. It's not just the intoxicating pull of Vincent's alpha voice that's stirring lust so forcefully within his body.
No, it's that Vincent thinks he is a good alpha. Someone to be admired, to work to be more like, to be looked to as a perfect specimen of their secondary gender.
Alastor has never thought of himself as good or bad in terms of being an alpha. It's just something he has to deal with. A hellish curse placed on him as means of punishment. He's never felt the need to worry one way or another.
But this—this makes him want to continue being a good alpha. To be someone the TV Demon envies and clings onto. To keep Vincent's eyes and devotion pinned solely on him. To provide where he's capable. To prove himself deserving of such high praise.
"Vincent," Alastor reaches out—nerves no longer shaking in trepidation—to gently grasp the other man's shoulder. He tugs Vincent's attention away from the mirror. The spinning of his hypnotic eye is a bit stomach turning but Vincent blinks it off the second he realizes who he's looking at. "Do you really mean all of that? What you said about me?"
"Alastor?" Though his voice is groggy it seems the mind washing worked to some degree. Vincent is still hard but as his eyes focus it's clear his internal systems are up and running again. "What? What's going on?"
Vincent glances to the Radio Demon's claws on his shoulder and swallows audibly. Alastor can feel his pulse quicken under his fingers. Vincent's eyes dart between Alastor, the mirror, and the blocked doorway behind the deer sinner.
Emotions flicker easily traceable across his slowly brightening screen. Confusion. Dread. The smallest sliver of hope. Embarrassment. "Wh—What are you doing in my apartment?"
Alastor reluctantly removes his hand. Disappointment at being snuffed more praise sours his pleasure a little. So he pettily lashes out.
He says, as if speaking to a particularly dumb child, "You're in rut, my dear."
Vincent jerks back as if struck, humiliation and shame forcing his gaze away from the other man. His salty smell sours into something humid and rotting. Alastor's smile strains but he can't stop now.
"You walked all the way to our bar and made quite the scene with your…stench. I was simply escorting you home, lest some foul entity take advantage of you."
"Oh…" Vincent's screen dims into a sad gray. "Um. Th—Thank you? Or I mean!" He hastily covers his erection with a trembling hand. "I'm sorry. For uh. Dragging you into this."
Alastor resists the urge to bite when Vincent looks up at him with misty earnest puppy like eyes. "I know you're…above all this. I'm sorry if I made you uncomfortable."
"Nonsense!" Alastor says, probably a bit too loudly if Vincent's sudden flinch is any indicator. But he's not ready to let this go. Not when Vincent has given him something so beautifully unknown. He needs to test it's limits. He needs to see just what exactly the other alpha sees in him. "It's not like I could leave you out in the cold. Wouldn't be very honorable of me, would it?"
The subtle probe does has Vincent's humiliation shimmering down into confusion. He glances around the bathroom again. He finally relaxes when Alastor shifts away from the door. "Uh. N—No, I guess not?"
It's not the praise Alastor wants to hear so he keeps going, "In fact, it wouldn't be very kind of me to leave you in this bind by yourself either!" He twirls his cane extravagantly. His stomach flutters when Vincent smiles slightly at the silly display. "So, what do you say, pal? It looks like you could use a hand."
Vincent blinks at him, processing the very humorous pun, before his fans whir to the highest setting. He flails adorably backward in shock, eyes wide and screen flaring blindingly blue. The quiet clatter of his pants shifting pulls Alastor closer.
"Wh—What?!" Vincent yelps, seeming to completely forget that his fly is down as he removes his hand cover his still hard cock to hold both up in a useless sign of surrender. "What the hell are you saying, Alastor?"
Alastor prides himself on appearing unflappable so he doubles down, forcing a nonchalant and deadpan attitude to cover his growing excitement and unfamiliar hunger. "I'm proposing I assist in…taking care of you while you're in rut, my dear."
"Take…care of me…?" Vincent fiddles with his own claws, screen dimming back into something manageable. He looks at the Radio Demon through digital eyelashes, trying pathetically not to get his hopes up, "You mean—?"
Alastor waves his cane around dismissively, pushing down his nerves. "Yes, yes. In a sexual context. Do keep up, Vincent."
Salt whips around the bathroom, conflicted but so heavy with desire Alastor already knows he's won. Vincent struggles to keep himself under control. The failing attempt at keeping his eagerness at bay is almost charming. Alastor is tempted to eat him right up.
"You should get something out of this too!" Vincent says, voice squeaking a bit too loud in his exuberance. He winces at the volume before adjusting appropriately. "I—I mean, it's not fair to you if I'm the only one…'getting taken care of'."
It's almost cute how his picture box is trying to avoid certain words. Alastor is perfectly content to say them aloud, "Unfortunately I'm not one for sexual interests, my dear."
"Oh," Vincent blinks at him, obviously surprised. He glances not-so-discretely at the tent in Alastor's pants. "Hm. Okay…" He sounds more confused than anything.
Alastor is not going to fess up to the fact that only Vincent's accidental flex of power and honeyed sweet words have caused this kind of reaction.
"But I don't—I don't want to be a—a burden." Vincent screen dims uncertainly. "I want to be able to satisfy you too. Whatever that means for you."
Oh, his stupid overenthusiastic picture box. He has no idea the potential of control he's just handed Alastor. If Alastor were in a meaner, crueler, mood he might just take advantage, convince the other man to cut off his own limbs, to eat pieces of himself, to hand over all his soul deals, follow through on whatever demented thought that came to mind.
But it's not entirely Vincent's fault he's thinking with the wrong head. Rut takes a lot out of a sinner. Alastor can be generous when he wants to be.
Right now, with his cock uncomfortably hard and leaking desire, he figures he can settle on something more mutually beneficial.
"How about this, old pal. During ruts, I'll tend to your sexual needs and you'll tend to mine? An even exchange."
Vincent perks up a bit at that. Uncertainty still lingers in his voice, "What about…What if it gets to be too much? Alpha's in rut are—are insatiable." He looks away from Alastor, obviously ashamed to fall into that category right now. "I don't want to hurt you."
It's not as if Vincent is strong enough to do such a thing anyway. But that is a good point. What if Alastor gets overwhelmed—being so unused to sexual intimacy—that he needs out but the deal forces his hand?
He'd been treating this as an experiment rather than an actual deal. He's not sure how to feel at Vincent being the one to look out for Alastor's best interests. That's not how deal making is supposed to go. It's supposed to be underhanded and filled to the brim with loopholes and sinister word play. This feels unfairly intimate, almost disgustingly kind.
For a split second he wonders if all deals could be the same, if his fate didn't have to be sealed by his arrogance and foolish pride. How different his afterlife could have been if he'd made such a deal then.
"Fair point!" Alastor chirps, shoving those distressing thoughts away. "Though I doubt you have the power to harm me, having a protective clause isn't a bad idea. How's this? Both parties must consent to sexual intercourse before any physical activities can start. Consent can be withdrawn at any point during contact."
Vincent nods along. "Yes, yes. That's good." His screen is starting to go hazy again, snow creeping in at the corners. It's interesting to watch. Alastor is curious if it's because his hypnosis is wearing off or if all this sex talk is stirring up his rut brain.
"Hm. Another thing," Alastor draws out, playfully tapping his own chin and is delighted when Vincent shivers, obviously struggling to stay present. "A non-disclosure agreement. Neither of us are to speak about this deal to others. Anything that happens because of this deal stays firmly between us."
Hell doesn't need to hear about the sordid details of their coupling. Alastor doesn't want other demons getting to wrong idea. There is no way to seduce the Radio Demon. There are no sexual innuendos or unashamed flirts that ever will work on him.
Vincent glances up at that, screen flickering a few times before his expression bleeds through. There's a confusing amount of hurt in the depths of his blown pupils but it gets overtaken by desire so quickly Alastor might have imagined it. "Okay. It stays between us."
"Well then, it looks like we have a deal!" Alastor thrusts his hand out, giddily awaiting the deal binding combination of their power. He's never had a chance to feel Vincent's soul strength like this before. Witnessing a soul deal and making one are two very different things.
The TV Demon's hand is clammy and surprisingly cold when it makes contact with Alastor's. Vincent's palm is bigger than his as well. The curl of blue claws completely engulfs Alastor's hand. He shivers at the size difference and wraps his fingers around as much of Vincent's hand as possible.
Blue electricity crackles to life and circles their joined hands. Green sparks quickly join in. It delicious to sample a bit of Vincent's raw power. It's been awhile since Alastor's made a deal with someone near his own level. It only reinforces his need to follow through, to prove he is the alpha Vincent sees him as.
He's ready to live up to those grandiose expectations and be the good alpha he now believes himself to be. To satisfy and be satisfied. Maybe for the first time in his life. How curious.
It's adorable how Vincent hesitantly uses their clasped hands—fingers sliding and shyly intertwining—to lead Alastor back into his dark and messy bedroom. The harsh flush from his screen projects a perfect square that illuminates their path.
The bed is covered in rumpled clothes and haphazardly arranged blankets and pillows. It could almost pass as a nest if Alastor cocked his head and squinted. He opens his mouth to question the oddity of an alpha having such a thing but Vincent lets go of his hand to tear at his still unfastened pants and that is significantly more important than some asinine blankets.
Alastor turns to drink in the full show Vincent is unknowingly displaying. His dress pants hiss as they fall down his legs. He almost tumbles to the ground trying to kick them off, leg lifting off the floor and flailing desperately one after the other until he's freed of the material.
Vincent pants from the frantic exertion and when he looks up at Alastor he flushes so strongly that his expression gets lost in the amount of snow flooding his screen.
Salt permeates through the room, a strong rolling wave, and practically drips down the walls. There's a hint of embarrassment within the tidal wave of lust. Like Vincent is ashamed he can't even control his scent. Alastor licks his lips and starts to unbuckle his belt.
The metallic clinks bring Vincent's face back into focus. His eyes are huge and his gaze burns with intensity. Alastor has seen hunger before, has known it himself primally. The way Vincent is looking at him—it's with the same soul warping ravenousness the Radio Demon struggles with every day.
He's the cause of Vincent's hunger, his overwhelming soul swallowing desire, and Alastor has never felt such pride in his own capabilities than in this moment.
He is a good alpha. Look at how easily he's affected the TV Demon. He finds himself eager to assist, to further prove his worth, to satisfy the other man and make good on his end of their deal. Vincent is going to see the true extent of how amazing of an alpha Alastor can be.
Vincent watches, expression familiarly starved, as Alastor takes his sweet time disrobing.
Alastor strips down to his underwear, taking the time to fold all his clothes as he goes. There's a perfect spot on the nightstand to put them. He wonders idly if he's going to get to see Vincent's cock. Or better yet, his knot.
But Alastor can't help the nerves that strike through him at being completely nude and vulnerable in front of another powerful alpha. Maybe some other time he can push for more than this. For now he's content to continue their experiment.
"Lay down on the bed for me, Vincent."
The speed which the other alpha complies helps ease some of Alastor's lingering uncertainty. It's obvious how much Vincent wants this. His eyes are already blown with lust, expectant and excited. The bulge in his underwear isn't as intimidating when he's on his back waiting for the Radio Demon's next command.
Alastor slowly crawls over the prone television sinner. He catches increasingly strong waves of Vincent's delighted scent. His body heat also curls comfortingly around Alastor. The deer sinner carefully situates himself over Vincent, lining up their bodies with what he hopes is roughly the correct placement.
Their hips bump and Vincent gasps, hips rocking and almost dislodging Alastor from his perch. He experimently repeats the gesture and is pleased to get a similar reaction. This must be what the he's heard other's refer to as grinding.
Vincent pants, fans in his head whirring into overdrive, and sneaks his large hands onto Alastor's hips. It stokes the flames of lust licking at the Radio Demon's insides. He helps Alastor lift his hips to match Vincent's slowly building rhythm.
Oh. Alastor hums, not all the impressed as they get going. Grinding is just kind of mashing their crotches together. Easy enough.
He plants his hands on either side of Vincent's overly warm head and rolls his hips down. Vincent makes a wonderfully high pitched keen and his body stutters to match Alastor's frankly leisurely pace.
They struggle to align directly, half brushes and bumps stirring frustration from both of them. Vincent's claws start to bite into Alastor's bony hips. He gets fed up with their half meetings and ruts forcefully into Vincent's cock.
The pressure is heavenly. Vincent's needy whine even more so. Alastor grinds back and forth slowly—sinfully drawing the pressure out—before rocking cruelly into Vincent's aching crotch.
Vincent gasps and grips Alastor tighter. "Oh, Alastor. Mm! A—Again. Like that."
Alastor smirks and thrusts vigorously against the other alpha. The ever shifting pressure on his own throbbing dick is surprisingly pleasant. It does little to relieve the twinges of desire spasming through his body but he can't help but chase it.
Vincent clings so needily to him. His expressive eyes are half lidded and hazy with rut. Alastor is tempted to lick his screen if only to get a better glimpse at his lust clouded gaze.
They keep moving against each other, two forces rubbing and fighting for control. Alastor dominates, controling their pace and stregth of their connection. Vincent pants and takes what Alastor gives him.
It's only a matter of time before Vincent arches his back, screen fuzzing over as a screech of static floods their shared frequency. Alastor stutters to a stop, taken off guard by how wet Vincent suddenly is in the front of his boxers. The fabric sticks to Alastor's as he pulls away.
Vincent groans and shudders through his orgasm. Alastor watches hungrily, utterly captivated by the sight of the other alpha giving into his pleasure because of Alastor's actions.
His pants are uncomfortably tight and damp. Pre-come has soaked through the front of his underwear, an unfair mix of his own unfamiliar fluids and Vincent's spend. Alastor has never felt such aching burning sensation in his loins before. He's never felt the need to seek this kind of relief. Something about the TV Demon brings it out in him.
Alastor gives his picture box a few breathless moments to collect himself before he humps the warm body beneth him.
"What about me, dear?" He reaches out and plays with one edge of Vincent's crumpled bow tie. His cock aches with unfamiliar need. "I haven't quite got there yet."
Vincent looks stupidly down at Alastor's still tented underwear. His eyes dilate and focus on the increasingly growing wet spot. It's a little flattering how out of it the television sinner looks thanks to Alastor's actions.
Despite having come moments ago it seems Vincent's rut brain is still in control because he breathes a confused and inarticulate, "Huh?"
"You'll remember that our deal specifically stipulates that both parties must reach completion." Alastor drops the bow tie to tiptoe his fingers down Vincent's heaving chest. He curiously slips his claw between the gaps of Vincent's buttons. The skin under the dress shirt is surprisingly cool despite the other alpha's rut fever.
The light touch seems to ground Vincent the slightest. He sounds more present as he answers, completely ignoring the irritated bite behind Alastor's words, "I…remember."
"Yes, well. As you can see, I'm not finished." He rolls his hips against Vincent, relishing the stuttered whine that follows as their cocks align.
Vincent squirms in overstimulation, almost bucking Alastor off. He shoves the TV Demon back onto the bed—pinning him under his hand—and accidentally pops a few buttons off the other man's shirt.
"You need to uphold your end of the deal, darling."
"I—I can…! I will!" Vincent whines, still trying to get away from Alastor's insistent press on his groin. "Just—Let me—Alastor."
The plea of his name comes out pained. That's the only reason he lets up, shifting his pelvis back, despite his dick throbbing with desperation for any kind of friction.
While he enjoys Vincent's usual whimpers and cries, the thought of causing the other alpha genuine pain right now when he's at his most vulnerable and relying on Alastor for protection, for care, feels wrong, stomach lurchingly cruel.
Immediately Vincent sits up, wiggling like a useless worm until he finds whatever position he's satisfied with. His legs slide up. His fat thighs squeeze together in a mouthwatering display and act as an unnecessary barrier between them.
If the TV Demon doesn't want to take responsibility Alastor won't force him to. Sure, he'll be annoyed for the next century but he's a gentleman. There's no way in Heaven or Hell that he'd force a partner to submit to his whims.
Just as he's about to voice his disappointment and resign himself to jerking off in Vincent's shabby bathroom, the other alpha speaks.
His eyes are still hazy and wide as he stares at Alastor coyishly. He offers, voice soft and tenderly shy, "Here. You can…use me."
Alastor doesn't know what he means but that hardly matters. White hot lust slithers though his already overheated limbs. Instinctively he scoots closer, mouth watering with possibilities.
Use Vincent. Yes, that feels right. That's how they're supposed to work. Vincent provides entertainment and Alastor provides his attention. It's a pretty even trade if you ask the deer sinner.
He sets his hands on Vincent's propped up knees. He's still not sure exactly how he's supposed to use the other man but the sight of his thick thighs, all that dark skin deliciously exposed just for him, calls to Alastor.
With a tentative nudge Alastor plasters his aching dick on the seam where Vincent's thighs meet. The harsh whistle of hot air escaping hisses out of Vincent's head vents. His face is blindingly bright. The blue glow illuminates them both, painting them in soft light and dancing shadows, ever-shifting colors fluctuating across their bodies like the setting sun through stained glass.
Alastor moves slowly at first, testing the waters. He's surprised to find how soft and plush Vincent's flesh is around him. The squeezing pressure is just right. The almost too rough friction of his underwear against Vincent's surprisingly cool skin feels heavenly on Alastor's throbbing cock.
He chases his own pleasure in those thick thighs. His pace quickly turns erratic and frenzied. The delicious squeeze, sometimes pulsing in time with his haried heart, is unlike anything he's ever experienced before.
Alastor can't help but glance up at Vincent's face, desperate for this to feel good for the other alpha as well, to be the one to make Vincent feel this way too.
Vincent has one of his hands covering his mouth and the other curled in the sheets. His screen flickers and flares with each thrust, completely overwhelmed by Alastor's every movement. Quiet aroused static ticks between them.
Alastor's hips stutter and jump when a particularly loud moan slips between Vincent's teeth and fingers. More. Alastor wants to hear more. He's deserves to, after taking such good care of the television sinner. He won't stand for the other man hiding from him any longer.
He wants to hear the other alpha fall apart because of him.
A tentacle whips out of Alastor's back and wraps around Vincent's wrist. It pins the limb to the bed and Alastor relishes in the surprised—turned on judging by Vincent's briny scent—gasp that rattles out of the TV Demon.
"A—Al! Nng—" Without the barrier of his palm Vincent makes intoxicatingly delicious noises with every thrust. Cut off moans and breathy grunts. Like Alastor really is fucking him.
It's not enough to just hear Vincent's moans and whimpers. Alastor wants—no, needs—to see him.
He throws Vincent's legs over his shoulder with a possessive growl. It opens even more space for Alastor to claw his way closer, to rut further into tight seam of the other alpha's thighs.
Vincent looks up at him, shinning eyes full of affection, of trust and lust, and another emotion to heavy to name. Alastor is left breathless at the sight of it. He clings even harder, trying to hold this precious moment as tightly as he can.
His hips move frantically. He vaguely aware of thrusting into Vincent's hardening cock but everything narrows down to Vincent's glowing erotic face, his limp pliant body, the moans and whimpers meant for Alastor's ears only.
Alastor has never felt more powerful, never felt so in control, so—respected, depended upon. It feels good. It worms it's way under his skin, leaking into his blood stream and settling a craving he knows will become his downfall should he let it.
It's hard to reject it when Vincent makes such pretty noises under him—because of him. His signal rises higher and higher until it's almost out of range. Vincent throws his head back and wails, thighs clenching around Alastor as if he'd ever leave his spot between them.
Warm wetness seeps against Alastor's cock head and the realization that Vincent just came again drives Alastor wild. His hips rabbit desperately between the other alpha's thighs.
Wobbly distorted static erupts out of Vincent's speakers. His screen flickers to black and his body goes unexpectedly limp. Alastor can't stop, doesn't want to, and figures the deal will stop him the second Vincent doesn't want him so close.
He still hasn't come yet. He just wants to come. He's done his job. Vincent has be satisfied to the point of crashing. Alastor is just that good of an alpha.
Next time they'll have to do this without clothes. Alastor wants to feel Vincent's soft flesh accepting and molding around his cock. Would it be this tight inside of Vincent?
The unconventional thought of having Vincent pinned underneath him, teary eyed and desperate, crying out for Alastor's knot, is enough to push the Radio Demon over the edge.
He growls and continues rutting against Vincent's plush thighs, riding the cresting wave of blinding desire until it tampers out enough for him to pull back and catch his breath. His underwear is soaked through and beginning to grow uncomfortable in it's stickiness.
Vincent's fans click back to life and the quiet whir of them settles Alastor into a relaxed state. He feels oddly content for having done something so out of his wheel house.
They'd just done…some kind of sex.
He came. Vincent came, twice it appears. That means it must have been satisfactory, right?
Alastor glances over to Vincent to gauge his reaction. His head is leaned all the way back, awkwardly propping up his torso and stubbing his neck with it's fat backing. His screen is flickering in and out of blinding brightness and pure black. Little sparks jump from his antennas. They vaguely form shapes—a few almost appear to be hearts—before scattering uselessly around the headboard.
Vincent's scent lies over the room like fading perfume, sweet and gentle, tickling devilishly against Alastor's nose. A strange distorted groan rattles from between Vincent's teeth, skipping and jumping as his consciousness fluctuates.
But most importantly there is a very noticeable wet spot on the front of his briefs.
Yes, Alastor decides—preening with the feeling of a job well done—that wasn't so bad. Not even his tacky underwear is enough to snuff out this soft buzz of joy.
Maybe he'd make use of this deal again in the future. There are so many fun noises left to coax out of Vincent after all.