Chapter Text
The Extermination clock ticks down, and Vox sits, taut as a pulled string, on the edge of his seat. He watches the angels rain from the heavens, armed with their wickedly sharp blades, descending upon the waiting crowd of Sinners. The ensuing fight is fierce and bloody.
When Alastor draws Adam’s attention, Vox’s heart thuds in his chest like the galloping of cloven hooves on the ground. He can’t pry his eyes away from the screen as Adam blasts Alastor’s electric field away. He leaps to his feet when the first man’s bladed guitar carves a bloody line across Alastor’s chest, throwing him back.
The scream that tears from Vox’s throat nearly matches Alastor’s in volume, except Vox must admit that his is a lot more broken and ragged than the deer’s, whose voice is swamped with pain instead. Vox’s signal goes crazy, the lights flickering, and he doesn’t know how the city is still lit up with the blast of emotion. He can feel two sets of confused eyes on him—he can’t even make himself care.
Alastor melts into shadows, still bleeding heavily and obviously barely hanging onto consciousness. Vox’s eyes are glued to the screen.
“Babe, what’s the matter with you?” Velvette asks.
“You’re happy he got his ass beat, aren’t you?” Valentino continues.
Vox doesn’t answer. He’s shaking, vents working overtime to combat his stress.
He can’t be dead. He can’t be, Vox tells himself numbly. He just stares at the screen, even as the drones have moved away from the bloody spot where Alastor has vanished from. The battle continues despite his absence. Vox slumps back into his seat, cold and silent.
“Vee?” The question comes again from Velvette. She’s scooted closer to him, attention no longer on her phone.
Vox can’t speak. He knows he can’t go out there and look for Alastor because fuck, there’s an Exterminator army slaughtering their way through a mass of cannibals. The Hotel is in real danger of falling. And for all Vox’s faults with Charlie Morningstar’s goals, he doesn’t want to die by an angel’s blade.
“You’re being a real weirdo right now,” Velvette mutters. There’s concern behind her words.
“C’mon, shouldn’t you be happy? Alastor got totally fucked; I thought you’d like that, babe,” Valentino says in an attempt to lift his spirits.
Vox’s mouth opens and closes as he searches for an answer, an explanation of some sort without fully admitting he’s been seeing Alastor on the side. He doesn’t know if the other Vees will understand.
“I-I . . . I gotta go,” Vox finally manages to sputter out, and he pushes himself shakily to his feet before surging into the nearest light fixture. He finds himself in his dark penthouse, alone. He goes directly to the bar and pulls out a bottle of scotch. He drinks it straight and summons the footage of the battle with his free hand.
The Hotel has been destroyed. If Alastor made it out of Adam’s grasp alive, there would be no way he’d have survived if he’d been inside the building.
Vox falls onto his couch and watches the rest of the battle silently.
𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒
Vox returns to the tower. No one saw him leave, no one sees him now. He’s searched the wreckage of the Hazbin Hotel, pried into Alastor’s fallen radio tower. Rust-colored stains coat the floor and desk, evidence that Alastor must have been there, but no body in sight.
A sign he’s alive? Vox wonders. Alastor would surely want to die quietly in his own space, and the radio tower would be the most obvious choice. The princess also hasn’t made any sort of official announcement, and she and her friends have been sorting through the rubble since the battle ended.
Vox sits at his desk and sags in his chair. He wishes Alastor would come to him for help, even if he knows the deer’s ego would never allow him to do such a thing. He’s far too prideful, too sure of himself, to even think about asking for assistance—especially if he was a few minutes from death.
Vox resigns himself to scouring every inch of surveillance he has in the city.
𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒
Alastor reappears not long after the new hotel is built. Vox nearly cries with relief when he spots the telltale interference, the screen he’s watching flickering just slightly with the deer’s static as he appears at a window. He’s not there more than a second, just passing by with a glance outside, but the story is told. Alastor is alive.
Vox leans back in his chair, looking up at the ceiling. He thanks whoever is out there that Alastor hasn’t succumbed to his wounds. He fights the urge to run to the hotel and confirm in person that Alastor is alive, but Vox knows that’s a hilarious notion. He’s sure the deer wants his privacy and hasn’t told anyone at the hotel that they’re seeing each other in any capacity.
Vox sighs; he’s waited before. He can wait a little longer.
𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒
Vox finds himself standing outside the Hazbin Hotel the next night. Fuck, he’s really bad at waiting, isn’t he? He should zap away, but the urge to see Alastor is clawing at him. He pushes the doors open and lets himself in.
“Hello, and welcome to the—”
Charlie Morningstar stops mid-sentence. Her eyes pop wide open in shock, and she clasps her hands together.
“V-Vox! Um, I, er—what brings you to the Hazbin Hotel?” the princess asks, forcing her smile back to normal. She’s obviously thrown for a loop at his presence.
“Hello, Miss Morningstar, Her Highness, Hell’s Belle,” Vox starts, laying on the charm thick, “I’m just here because, well.”
Vox pauses. Fuck, he hasn’t really thought about what he is going to say. He’s been too preoccupied thinking about seeing Alastor. Charlie watches him expectantly for a long moment before her eyes light up.
“Ooh, no way! You’re here to be redeemed, aren’t you? You saw the battle, and you want to help us!” Charlie exclaims excitedly, taking his hesitation for something else entirely. “You won’t regret it, Mr. Vox! Come on!” And with that, she snags him by the elbow and makes him forget that he’s taller and bigger than her with the way she hauls him forward.
“There is our front desk! And the bar’s over here. And here’s Husk, our bartender!” Charlie continues.
“Whoa, Princess, what the fuck is—”
“You know Vox, right? He’s gonna stay here!” Charlie interrupts Husk’s protest. And Vox, well, he’s still a little stunned.
“He’s the Media Overlord! What the fuck do you mean, ‘he’s staying’?” Husk snaps. “He’s one of the fucking Vees! He can’t stay here! What about Angel?”
Charlie levels a firm look at the cat. “Now, Husk, that’s no way to start off with a guest.”
Husk’s narrowed eyes flick to Vox. “What are you playing at?”
Vox finally manages to compose himself. He tugs his arm away from Charlie and straightens up, pulling at his lapels.
“Excuse me, Princess, I do appreciate your,” Vox drawls, “generous offer, but I believe you misunderstand me. I’m only here to talk with Alastor.” He chuckles, smoothing out his coat. “That’s all.”
Charlie deflates slightly but perks up again quickly. “Oh, well, sorry, I get a little carried away, ha!” she says sheepishly. “I wasn’t aware you and Alastor were, um, on speaking terms?”
Vox clears his throat. “Alastor and I go way back. Isn’t that right, Husker?” He glances purposefully at the cat, who scowls.
“Don’t call me that,” Husk snaps. “You and Alastor have a history, sure, but so do a lot of people. Who cares?”
Vox’s grin tightens. He wants to tell these fucking people all about how he’s bent Alastor over lately, how they’d been so close until the man vanished—
“History is history. I don’t have to explain anything to anyone about it, and I definitely don’t need to tell you if it’s positive or not,” Vox retorts.
“If Alastor gave a shit, he’d be down here already, wouldn’t he?” Husk lashes his tail.
Vox is actually taken off guard by the comment because fuck, the cat is right.
“He might be busy, Husk! No need to be so grumpy,” Charlie interjects, hoping to avoid any further conflict. She turns to Vox again. “I’ll go up and get him.”
Vox is about to smugly thank her, but a voice interrupts him.
“That won’t be necessary, Charlie. I’m right here,” Alastor says. He’s manifested just a few feet away, his hands fixing his lapels with a little flourish. “Vox, to what do I owe the . . . pleasure?” The words are spoken as if he’s spitting them out.
Vox scoffs internally. So that’s how we’re playing this, huh?
“Well, babe, you stopped seeing me, so I decided to stop by instead,” Vox replies with a lecherous grin stretched across his screen, eyes half lidded. He knows he’s playing dirty, but sometimes it can be quite frustrating with how much of a brat Alastor makes of himself.
A sharp spurt of feedback is the response to Vox’s taunt. Alastor’s ears twitch backwards, eyes widening before becoming slits again.
“Vox, if you think for a second—”
“Alastor, I’d suggest we talk privately, away from prying eyes and ears,” Vox moves on, not letting the deer get a word in, and lets a touch of his dominant persona bleed into his voice.
That seems to do the trick. Alastor pauses, anger slipping away, and his gaze flits between Charlie, Husk, and Vox.
“I suppose that’s fair. My room, then?” Alastor asks calmly, but with just an edge of sharpness.
“Works for me,” Vox says. “Let’s go.”
“No fighting,” Charlie orders as the two overlords turn to the stairs.
Vox scoffs, “Please, Princess Morningstar! We wouldn’t dream of it. This is just some business Alastor and I need to take care of. Nothing to worry about, trust me.” He flashes her his signature grin right before Alastor’s shadows swallow them both.
Alastor steps away from him once they are both corporeal again.
“Not very polite, threatening me like that in front of others, you know,” Alastor says, mildly annoyed. He turns around to face the tv. “The pet names aren’t appropriate, either.”
“Well, I thought the attitude wasn’t very polite,” Vox retorts. “I just had to give you what you gave me.”
“You cannot just show up here.” Alastor’s words are curt.
“Oh, so you can show up whenever and wherever you please, but I can’t check in on you after I thought I watched you die?”
Alastor freezes.
“I looked for you. I thought Adam killed you, Al. And so when I saw you were alive, I had to see you,” Vox says. He’s begun pacing the room. “I thought I fucking lost you, again! And that, and that was—”
Vox stops. He looks over at Alastor, whose eyes are wide and smile subdued.
“It was terrifying, Alastor. And this time? This time, it was almost permanent. Before, when you left, I . . .”
“Vox,” Alastor says softly. “Stop. Don’t make this a big deal, please. I’m fine. I was . . . barely hurt, really.”
Vox laughs loudly. “‘Barely hurt’? Barely? Alastor, I saw Adam nearly split you in two! I heard your ribs crack, saw the blood spurting.” His facial expression glitches. “The scream you let out, it was real, Al. I’ve never heard you make a sound like that. All your deer sounds, your static, your cacophony of little radio signals that I’ve heard even in some of your toughest battles with other sinners, they got nothing on the way you reacted to getting axed by that fucking angel.” Vox moves closer, crossing into Alastor’s personal space, quaking with anger. “So don’t you dare try and tell me that you got away with just a scratch.”
Alastor falls quiet. Vox presses on, “And I went to your radio tower after it was all over. I saw the blood and the mess. That was the only way I knew you could be alive because like Hell you’d die anywhere but in that fucking room.”
“You’re quite worked up about this,” is all Alastor manages to say after a long moment of silence.
“You’re damn right I am. Because you’re the only fucking person I’ve ever really cared about, and, I, I mean—” Vox cuts himself off. He swears, turning away and grabbing the sides of his head. “Fuck! Fuck fuck fucking fuck, Alastor!”
“My, do you kiss your mother with that mouth?” the deer jabs lightly, though it’s clear in his voice that he’s shaken.
Vox swivels back to look right at him. “I don’t wanna kiss anyone but you. It’s always been you, Alastor. Don’t you get it? Why else would I be here right now?” He knows he’s playing with fire, but he feels almost manic. “I’d do fucking anything for you; I’ll give you everything. So don’t make me feel like a fucking psycho for wanting to see you when you practically return from the grave.” Vox’s eye is swirling with the intensity of his emotion that’s now spilling out with every word. His voice is shaky, but the underlying tone is sure as can be.
Alastor stares with wide eyes. He’s barely smiling; if Vox didn’t know better, he’d say the deer looks terrified.
Vox then begins to laugh, and he realizes that a tear is running down his screen. “Fuck, I didn’t mean to come here and spill my guts,” he admits, voice cracking. His shoulders shake with a small sob.
Alastor says nothing.
“Now you must really think I’m a fucking pscyho,” Vox says, still trembling with emotion. He wipes another tear from his screen with the back of his hand.
“Maybe,” Alastor finally admits, and Vox laughs despite himself. “But as am I, so who am I to judge?” The two of them just stare at each other for a moment.
“You’re so stupid, Al,” Vox croaks, and he cracks a relieved smile. Alastor chuckles and closes the distance between them.
“I think you’ve got me beat there, mon requin,” the deer says as he allows Vox to wrap his arms around him.
“Brat.”
“Perhaps, but you like that, don’t you?”
“You’re damn right.” Vox pulls Alastor into a tight embrace, only to be stopped with hands planted on his chest.
“Nngh, perhaps a bit . . . less secure, hmm?” Alastor chokes out. There’s a bead of sweat on his forehead, his smile wobbly.
“Fuck, sorry. Right,” Vox says and hurriedly slides his hands to Alastor’s shoulders. “How is that, by the way?”
Alastor hesitates, glancing away. “. . . A bit sore.”
Vox raises a brow. “That’s all? Really?”
“I can heal on my own.” Alastor’s tone takes on an edge, and he takes a step back. Vox scoffs and grabs his wrist before he can get too far.
“Let me see, Alastor,” Vox orders. The deer flounders for just a moment before scowling.
“I insist it’s unnecessary,” Alastor growls as he attempts to tug his arm out of Vox’s grip.
“I’m not asking. Show me.” Vox levels a stern look at the deer.
“Vox—”
The tv abruptly spins Alastor around by the arm and spanks him over his clothes, landing a few muffled swats. Alastor sputters, squirming, and stomps his foot.
“Vox!” Alastor exclaims, a blush growing on his face.
“Stop being such a brat. Take your coat off,” Vox demands.
Alastor sniffs. “As you wish.” Vox allows him to take back his arm, and he begins unbuttoning his coat and delicately stripping it away from his body. The movements are precise but stilted. It’s obvious to anyone who’s watching that it’s a stiff and unpleasant experience.
“Here, sit,” Vox says, and he leads Alastor over to the velvet chaise in his room. He takes his coat and hangs it on a nearby chair.
“Such a gentleman . . . sometimes,” Alastor grouses, fingers fiddling at his neck as he deliberates on taking his bow tie off.
“When I’m needed,” Vox replies easily. He moves in and unbuttons Alastor’s dress shirt as he undoes his tie, earning a low grumble. “Don’t complain. I need to see what we’re working with here.”
“I do believe it’s me who’s ‘working with it.’”
Vox shushes him and splays Alastor’s shirt open. There’s a layer of bandages haphazardly wrapped around his chest, and Vox slices through them with a metal claw.
“I just changed those, you know,” Alastor protests.
“You call that changing them? You did a terrible job,” Vox retorts. He sloughs the shredded bandages and is met with the sight of the nasty wound stretched across the Radio Demon’s sternum. “Holy shit.”
“More like holy blade,” Alastor quips glumly. He feels vulnerable with the injury exposed to the air. It’s long and deep, stretching from nipple to nipple, the stitches in which Alastor has sewed himself up with barely doing anything. The inside is dark and bloody, dried and fresh.
“Your stitches are too far apart. I thought you’d know how to do this,” Vox says critically. Alastor bares his teeth, nostrils flaring. He fights the urge to shove the tv away and hide his wound again.
“It’s a lot harder when it’s your own skin.”
“Don’t get so offended. It just. Looks bad,” Vox fully admits. He lets out a small sigh, framing the deer’s chest with his large hands. The edges of the gash are clean, at the very least—the holy blade made a very precise wound. But the entire injury is inflamed, and the points where Alastor’s sloppy handiwork are tugging are beginning to tear. He runs a finger across the fraying edge and earns a twitch.
“I’m gonna clean and stitch you up again, okay?” Vox says. He glances up, making eye contact. Alastor shifts nervously.
“I’m not thrilled with the idea of that,” the deer confesses. He knows he must look pathetic, with the gaping wound and his dress shirt falling off his bony shoulders.
“Well, it’s not gonna heal looking like this.” Vox gestures to Alastor’s chest, and his eyes follow the movement downwards.
“I suppose not,” Alastor grumbles unhappily. “Do as you must.” He sits up as straight as he can, pushing his chest towards the other demon.
“Alright, but take your shirt off first.” When that’s done, Vox says, “brace yourself,” and hooks a claw and carefully slices through the sutures barely holding Alastor’s skin together. They come apart with small ‘pops!’ and the deer jolts, a ragged gasp escaping his throat. Vox murmurs an apology as he draws the threads from his skin, fresh blood beading at the punctures.
“First-aid kit still under the sink?” Vox asks, standing. Alastor nods, trembling minutely, shoulders sagging. Vox fetches the kit from the adjoining bathroom and returns. He makes quick work of threading a needle and cleaning Alastor’s now sluggishly bleeding wound. There’s a hiss as the rubbing alcohol does its job, followed by Vox’s returning gentle shushing.
“Gonna start stitching now, so just hang tight, yeah? I’ll try and make it fast,” the tv says.
“Just do it,” Alastor growls, his ears pinned against his head in discomfort. He clenches his fists and steels himself. Vox slides the needle into his skin at the edge of the wound and begins painstakingly suturing it shut. Alastor tries his best to sit still even as the needle pricks his sensitive nerves again and again. Vox is setting the stitches much closer together than his own, and while it’s guaranteed to be better overall, the sheer number of pokes causes the deer to shake with the effort of maintaining his composure. All the while, Vox is murmuring soft things to soothe his frayed ego. The hand not holding the needle rubs at Alastor’s collarbone briefly as a steadying gesture.
Vox does his best to move quickly yet carefully. He hears the static laced squeaks and the barely repressed bugles that are shuddering out of Alastor’s speakers. There are a few voodoo symbols flickering about his head as his antlers threaten to branch. Vox continues to make gentle noises and words of encouragement to the deer as if he were truly attempting to ease a spooked woodland creature.
“And, done,” Vox finally says as he bites through the thread on his final stitch. Alastor’s whole body goes slack, the tension severing just as if he were being held together with that thread entirely, and he lets out a strangled yet relieved exhale.
“Ah, good boy,” Vox coos, setting his hand on the back of Alastor’s neck to rub a circle into his skin. “I know that sucked.”
“Vox,” Alastor gasps, torn between offended and embarrassed, “don’t say that-!”
Vox grins. “Just let me bandage you up now, okay? That’s all.”
Alastor stays silent, his face turning red, as Vox removes his hand and pulls a roll from the first-aid kit. He cleans up the remaining blood from the stitches, admiring his clean handiwork in the line of sutures before wrapping Alastor’s torso in fresh bandages.
“All done,” Vox sighs. “You did so well, Alastor.”
The deer twitches. “You don’t need to say that.”
“But I think you wanna hear it, don’t you?”
Alastor’s mouth opens and closes.
“Or would you rather me call you naughty? A brat?” Vox continues. “Because that’s true. And coming, you must know.”
“W-what?”
“I think we both know that I’m not leaving without punishing you, Alastor.”
Alastor fidgets, ears flicking. “I thought maybe—” He cuts himself off, glancing away.
“What was that? You thought what?” Vox presses, leaning forward.
“. . . Thought maybe you would, but then you did this, and. Well,” Alastor says. “I’m not in . . . the best condition.” He touches his bandaged chest lightly.
“Right. I know. But I think if we’re careful not to pull your stitches, you’ll be fine.”
“Wasn’t getting nearly killed by Adam enough of a punishment?” Alastor flutters his eyelashes at the other demon, giving him a charming smile.
Vox smirks. “At least you admit that much. But there are consequences for other things, Alastor. You vanished again instead of just, I don’t know, coming to me for help.”
“I couldn’t—”
“Why not? What would have been so bad about asking me for help?”
Alastor whines, frustrated. “Vox, it’s not that simple!”
“I think it is that simple,” Vox retorts, smile gone. “Your ego couldn’t possibly handle having to ask for help. Not from me, not the princess, not anyone. So instead, you fucked off to wherever and bled half to death before popping back in like nothing happened.” He waves his arms around to portray the act of Alastor disappearing into smoke.
“That’s not true.”
“So the princess knows that you got your ass beat and you’re wearing that bloody sash, huh?”
Alastor just stares at him.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought. She would have healed you. Or at least sewn you up better than that, if nothing else,” Vox scoffs. His words are sharp and to the point. “You sit here and lie to me, over and over. You always have.”
“Vox, I don’t,” Alastor sputters, “I don’t lie nearly that much. Yes, okay, I am a master at evading the truth, but . . .”
“What?”
Alastor sighs, averting his eyes. “I wanted to go to you. I just . . . couldn’t. Be it my own ego or something else I can’t explain, I just couldn’t.”
Vox watches him for a long moment.
“Alright. Alright! Fine. Truth be told, I was more worried about you dying, not necessarily who or where you ran to,” Vox concedes, putting his hands up. “Selfishly, I want you. All to myself, and no one else. Rely on me.”
Alastor shakes his head. “I can’t do that, Vox. It’s just not possible.”
“I know. But I still want,” the tv admits, taking Alastor’s hands in his. He curls his hands up, pressing their palms together and slotting their fingers between each other’s. “Just keep me in mind, okay?”
“You haven’t left.”
Their eyes meet, and Vox leans down, while Alastor sits up. Glass meets lips, and they exchange a feather light kiss, just brushing together.
“Are you still going to-?” Alastor asks hesitantly after they separate. It’s an almost shy question, and it makes Vox smile.
“Give you a spanking? Yes, Alastor,” the tv replies easily. “We both know you deserve one.”
Alastor squirms, glancing down. “I don’t suppose I could convince you to wait?”
Vox raises an eyebrow. “If this is a genuine concern, of course, I wouldn’t push it.”
“Oh.” Alastor falls quiet. “Er, and if I, well . . .” He’s unsure of how to approach this.
Vox gets an idea of what’s going on. “Alright, I can see I’ve been lax with you.” He catches Alastor’s eyes. “I know that we’ve done this a couple times, so this is on me. But usually when people are partaking in BDSM—”
“Huh?”
“—Bondage, dominance, submission, control,” Vox answers without a pause, “things like we’ve been doing. It’s a popular series of sexual practices.
“Anyway, with this whole thing, all parties typically have what is called a ‘safe word.’ I’ve been remiss, however, and I apologize for that,” Vox says.
Alastor shakes his head. “I . . . don’t know what any of this means. I never listen to Angel Dust when he talks about his . . . work,” he admits. “I find it rather grotesque.”
“A safe word is a word that people use to describe how they feel in BDSM. Usually, it means stop.”
“And a simple ‘stop’ wouldn’t suffice?”
Vox barks out a laugh. “Oh, really, Al? How many times have you squirmed over my knee and begged me to stop when you didn’t mean it?”
Alastor’s cheeks burn with the accusation, and he growls in embarrassment, dropping his head.
“Alright, fine. Don’t tease me,” the deer hisses, scratching a claw along the soft material of the chaise to distract himself.
“Calm down, Bambi,” Vox admonishes lightly, “but that’s exactly what I mean. So to make things simple, a lot of folks use the traffic light system.”
“Which is?”
“Green for keep going, yellow for slow down or change it up, red for stop immediately.”
Alastor furrows his brow. “But if we’ve already done this before without issue, why do we need it now?”
Vox refrains from rolling his eyes at the very much pouting Radio Demon.
“Because I can’t read your mind, Al. And I don’t want to overstep a boundary.”
“You’ve seemed to have a good read on me before.”
“I can read you well, for the most part. But instances like this, I admit I’m not certain how far I can push you without feeling like I’m forcing you.” Vox slides a hand over Alastor’s thigh. “Like, you’re hurt, and just because I want to spank you, it doesn’t mean you’re in the right headspace for one. Are you physically and mentally okay with being in that position?”
Alastor hesitates. “You’re asking if my injury will make it hard to do?”
“Yes, and I don’t want to aggravate it, even if I think it’ll be fine. It’s your body, your decision. You’ve been tiptoeing around the idea of a spanking so far, so I’m checking in.”
Alastor doesn’t respond. He presses his shoes into the carpet. Vox watches for a moment.
“So, if I asked, ‘color?’ what would you say?” Vox questions carefully. Alastor fawns, then ultimately shrugs helplessly. Vox shifts closer and wraps an arm around his shoulders, then leans in to whisper in his ear. “I know you don’t want to be in control, Al, but I want consent before I bend you over my knee.”
Alastor swears he’s on fire with how embarrassing this is. He really wishes Vox would just read his mind already instead of making him say this aloud. Instead of making him decide. Finally, he mumbles his answer.
“What was that?” Vox asks, not quite hearing the first time.
“Nngh, damn you, Vox—green!” Alastor spits out with a scowl.
Vox can’t help but laugh. “Alright, grumpy! Someone really needs a spanking today. Stand up.” He removes his arm from the other demon and allows him to get to his feet.
“I don’t need anything,” Alastor growls in defiance.
Vox looks him up and down, unimpressed. “Uh huh. Go grab some pillows from the bed.”
“Why?”
“Because I said so,” Vox replies sharply. “And because I may be strict, but I’m not cruel. We’re gonna prop you up so your stitches don’t tear. Now do as I say.”
Alastor sniffs and does exactly that, turning and fetching his softest pillows. Vox takes them and stacks them atop each other, then motions for Alastor to come closer.
“These are coming down,” the tv says. He hooks Alastor’s belt loops with his fingers and tugs him closer. He unbuttons his pants and pulls them down. “Step out.”
Alastor does so, removing his shoes at the same time, and expects the same treatment with his underwear, but Vox simply takes his arm and bends him forward to drop over his lap.
“Since you’re already hurt, I’ll give you the right to underwear—for now,” Vox explains. “How’s it feel?”
Alastor, torso supported by pillows, shifts and adjusts them to his liking. With most of the pressure abated by the feathery down, he finds his chest doesn’t hurt too badly.
“I’m alright,” the deer replies. Vox can’t help but feel he’s got great thing going; his view is nearly perfect. Alastor is draped over his lap, legs out behind him on the chaise, ankles crossed. He looks cute with his pillows underneath him and his arms wrapped around one, and his tail is flickering where it rests at the bottom of his spine.
“You’re adorable, really,” Vox says, grinning. “It’s almost too bad that I have to tan your hide.”
“Stop,” Alastor whines, burying his face in the pillow. His ears grow hot.
“Very well, little one.”
Alastor hates the way his ears prick up at the term. Vox begins the spanking, landing firm swats on his clothed skin. They still sting through the thin barrier of his underwear, but not enough to have him wriggling. The muted sound of spanking is the only thing that he can hear.
And Alastor desperately hopes it’s something that only they can hear, no one else. The last thing he needs is someone knocking at his door. He’d die of embarrassment if Charlie were to be concerned about his wellbeing.
Vox is apparently thinking the exact same thing.
“It’d be a shock if any residents were to walk in on this, wouldn’t it?” the tv asks with a laugh. “The Radio Demon, mostly naked and completely stripped of control, bent over my knee for a spanking. A sight to behold!” He chuckles devilishly at the thought.
“You enjoy this too much,” Alastor pouts from the muffled depths of his pillow. The mere idea of an accidental voyeur makes his face burn with humiliation.
“I think I enjoy it just the right amount.” Vox’s hand doesn’t stop striking him. “Besides, you’ve got your little magic tricks to make it hard to get in here, don’t you?”
Alastor grunts a response into the pillow. Vox is correct in his assumption; he does have magical wards to keep unwanted visitors guessing where his room is, but there are certain ways to circumvent them. And Princess Morningstar has a habit of bypassing them completely—somehow. Alastor still isn’t sure how exactly, but she always seems to be able to sniff him out. Especially if she deems him in need of ‘emotional support.’
“I bet your little entourage would love to see you like this,” Vox continues despite his spankee’s internal conflict. “I’m pretty sure Niffty would be into it. She’d probably sit right on top of your back to get the best view.”
The thought makes Alastor gape. He twists his head to leer at Vox incredulously. The tv grins his best shark grin right back at him.
“And Husk, well, he’d be satisfied at seeing you get your just desserts, wouldn’t he?” Vox says. “You treat him like a little slave, I know that much. Maybe he’d want a turn blistering your butt.”
“Vox, you—”
“I’d let him.” Vox doesn’t let the deer get another word in. “Wouldn’t that just be a righteous thing? Servant spanking his master.” Vox lets out a dark, satisfied laugh. “Just the right amount of humiliation to knock your ego down a few pegs.”
“No,” Alastor groans, face back in the pillow he’s clutching. He squirms over Vox’s lap, whole body on fire just imagining the scenario. He fights the feeling and decides to get a shot in. “I think your own ego is too big to allow anyone else to do this.”
Vox just laughs. “You’re probably right. This ass is mine.” He stops briefly, squeezing Alastor’s warming backside through his underwear. “But I can still paint a picture just to make you squirm.”
“Bastard,” Alastor huffs.
“And on that note, I think it’s time to up the ante.” Vox reaches behind his back and pulls the hairbrush he stowed in his waistband from its place. He flips it around and runs it through Alastor’s hair. The action causes the deer to flinch, his eyes widening.
“Wh-when did you grab that?” Alastor sputters. His head swivels to look at the other demon.
“When I got the first-aid kit from the bathroom,” Vox replies. He eyes the brush he’s twirling in his hand, pretending to scrutinize it. “Saw it sitting on your counter, and I decided it would be useful for later. This infraction is definitely cause for a more severe punishment than just a hand spanking.”
“But that’s my hairbrush.” Alastor pretends to not be distraught over the fact he has a very fine ebony hairbrush that could most certainly make him wail if it’s used for what Vox wants.
“Yup.” Vox pops the ‘p’ decisively. He runs the smooth backside of the brush over Alastor’s bottom. “There’s a real irony there. Which, I don’t know about you, really scratches an itch for me.”
“Vox,” Alastor says, voice low in warning—for Vox or for himself, he’s unsure.
“You deserve a sound spanking, Alastor, and you’re gonna get one,” Vox tells him sternly.
“B-but—ow!” Alastor’s protest is cut off by the first firm smack of the wood against his ass. It stings, even over his underwear, and he wriggles in defiance.
“Enough of that; we’re just getting started.” Vox holds his waist tightly against himself. The brush lands with muffled cracks. Alastor whines.
“I’m sure you felt the back of your mom’s hairbrush as a child,” Vox says, “this shouldn’t be so foreign to you.”
Alastor hisses into the pillows. He hates that Vox is right in his guess. Yes, as a wayward youth, Alastor’s mother had administered a handful of spankings. Never exceedingly long, but always hard enough to leave him crying into her skirts afterward. Her preferred method of whooping his butt was, in fact, her large wooden hairbrush.
“Didn’t think you’d feel it again, huh?” Vox asks with a hint of amusement.
“Sh-shut up!” Alastor snaps. “Don’t bring my mother into this!”
“Sheesh, sensitive. I wouldn’t put up an attitude, Alastor. You’re already in trouble.”
Alastor bares his teeth to no one. He’s glad his face is obscured by his pillow, lest Vox see his expression. But apparently his change in movement is enough to betray his feelings because the spanking pauses. Vox slips his thumbs into Alastor’s waistband and swiftly tugs his underwear down his thighs.
Alastor bucks, unprepared for the coolness on his now exposed backside and the prospect of the hairbrush landing on skin. His ass is already turned a moderate shade of red.
“Wait, Vox,” Alastor pleads, nearly reaching back a hand. He doesn’t because of his injury, but he desperately wishes to.
“I told you that those would come down at some point,” Vox says. He wastes no time in picking the brush back up. “This is what naughty boys get.”
Alastor doesn’t get a chance to be embarrassed by that before the brush cracks down on his bare bottom. He cries out, the sharp sting sending a punch of nausea into his stomach. The next smack lands a second after, on the other cheek, and the deer clutches tighter onto his pillow.
The sound of spanking is so much louder now that the brush is landing on bare skin. Alastor gasps and writhes, the pain quickly going from where the wood is contacting his backside to an all over sting. There’s not an inch of skin that Vox leaves untouched.
“Don’t squirm too much, or you’ll tear your stitches,” Vox admonishes. He focuses the brush on the outside curves of Alastor’s backside.
“Then d-don’t spank me so hard!” the Radio Demon snaps. He’s sweating, and his eyes are watering. He’s intimately aware of how desperate his voice sounds.
“This is no less than what you deserve for scaring me like that.” Vox’s voice has lost its tinge of amusement or teasing. It’s strict and straightforward.
“I-it wasn’t that bad,” Alastor says through the burn. He gasps and tries to escape the brush where it lands repeatedly at the top of his thighs.
“You’re fucking full of it,” Vox snaps back. He spanks the upper portion of Alastor’s backside, intent on scorching every inch. “You decide to take on Adam, the First fucking Man, all by yourself, get cocky, then get your ass nearly split in half in the process! Then you disappear for two fucking weeks, leaving me to wonder if you’ve truly kicked the fucking bucket this time.”
Alastor can’t even speak, all his efforts going into gritting his teeth so he won’t cry out.
“And the attitude I get once I come and see you? Fuck me for being worried, I guess! It wouldn’t have killed you to stop in and tell me you were still alive before I showed up here.”
“I-I’m sorry,” Alastor finally spits out, tears beginning to escape his eyes. He breathes hard, a tremor going through his body.
“Good, I’m glad. Because I’m sick of your constant disregard for how long we’ve been friends.”
Alastor sobs, his smile breaking as he buries his face in the pillow.
“Just let me know you’re okay, Al! I need you to be okay,” Vox says, voice thick with emotion. The hand he has on Alastor’s hip is grounding for both of them, the weight of it securing the deer enough for him to not care that he’s crying wretchedly.
“I’m sorry,” Alastor repeats through his tears. “I just, I n-needed to protect the Hotel-!”
“I know. But you could have been smarter about it.” Vox doesn’t hold back on tearing up Alastor’s backside. “I know you’re a clever little brat. A selfish, conniving brat, but a smart one all the same.”
If Alastor were in any mood to smile and scoff at Vox’s words, he would have done so, but in his current state, he simply takes a shuddering breath.
“Just do me the favor of giving up this façade that you don’t give a shit about anyone else,” the tv pleads. “I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t care.”
Alastor nods mindlessly. His ass is on fire— maybe literally, he can’t see it. Vox is so strong, fuck, why’s he so strong? He doesn’t look that physically imposing with his jacket on, but he’s got an arm like a professional pitcher.
“I’m gonna be here to keep you in line, you get that? I’ll keep your ass red 24/7 if I need to, just to make you understand that I want you, Alastor,” Vox says, “I love you, stupid fucking ego and all.”
Alastor gasps, another wave of tears rushing down his face as the words hit him even harder than the hairbrush is.
“No,” Alastor can’t help but beg.
“Yes. Yes, Alastor, I said it. I fucking love you; let’s not pretend it wasn’t obvious.” Vox lets himself laugh weakly at his expense. “I’ve already shown you my cards, what’s left but to give you the whole pot?”
“You can’t,” Alastor pleads again through tears.
“Why not?” The spanking pauses.
“Because, b-because I don’t know how to love, how to be loved! I don’t . . . I just don’t know if I can.” Alastor’s voice is shaky and broken, his smile gone.
“Fuck, Alastor,” Vox sputters, “it’s okay. It’s okay.”
The deer continues weeping into his pillow.
“It’ll be alright. Come here,” Vox murmurs, setting the brush aside and carefully peeling Alastor away from the now damp pillow he’s still holding. He folds the deer into his lap, cradling his head on his shoulder, keeping his very sore bottom perched over his spread thighs. Alastor sniffles, his eyes squeezed shut. He’s trembling, arms crossed tightly against his chest in a self hug.
“Shh, it’s okay. It’s over now. You did such a good job,” Vox soothes. He rubs Alastor’s back with one hand, the other arm under his knees and holding his outside thigh to keep him close.
Alastor hiccups as he fights his emotions, tears still sliding down his face. He leans into Vox, curled like a cat to fit into his lap. He needs to calm down; this kind of breakdown is unbecoming of someone of his status.
Vox kisses the top of his head. It’s more of a sound than anything because he doesn’t have a real mouth, but Alastor recognizes the action. He takes a shuddering breath in and out, and his tears begin to peter off. He unfolds his arms and instead clings to Vox’s lapels, laying his forehead against his collarbone.
“There you go, just let it out,” Vox murmurs, squishing the other demon against himself. Alastor isn’t usually so docile, so he’s taking advantage of it while he can. They remain like that for a long while, neither of them talking or moving. There’s only the sound of Alastor’s sniffles and shaky breathing as he finds himself again.
“You alright?” Vox asks softly after it seems the storm has passed. Alastor nods, prying himself from the other demon’s chest. His stitches pull slightly from the change in position, but he ignores it. He can’t meet Vox’s eyes just yet, so he just settles back into his lap and rests his head on his shoulder.
“We should get you cleaned up,” the tv says. He can see Alastor’s face is splotchy with dried tears, his nose crusty from it running.
Alastor figures Vox is talking about his face, but there’s also the issue of the slickness between his legs. But the tv makes no move to reach down, for which Alastor is glad. He’s not in the mood despite his body’s reaction.
“Bathroom?” Vox suggests. Alastor nods. There’s static buzzing quietly in the background; he doesn’t feel like talking just quite yet.
Vox helps him stand, and they move to the bathroom. He takes a washcloth and wipes his face, then inquires about a possible bath.
Alastor doesn’t want one, so he shakes his head. Vox accepts and rinses the rag before gently nudging the deer to bend over the counter. Oh, so he did notice, Alastor realizes with some shame as the tv slips the cloth between his legs.
“There ya go, all clean. C’mon, let’s go lay down.” Vox directs Alastor back into the bedroom. He herds him toward the bed, grabbing the pillows from the chaise on the way over. It’s not until then that Vox notices the large puddle on one of them, and from that point, a wet splotch on the front of his jacket. He tosses the pillow to the side for now, and after getting Alastor into bed, rids himself of his overcoat and rolls up his sleeves.
Vox slips under the sheets and shimmies right next to the other demon. Who, he realizes belatedly, is still stark naked except for the bandages around his torso. Despite him having done that, Vox hasn’t thought much of it, even when he’s been staring at Alastor’s bare bottom for the past few minutes.
“Want me to rub your butt?” Vox asks quietly. Alastor’s back is to him. Instead of answering, the deer just presses his spine and the curve of his body into Vox’s front. He just wants to be held. That, Vox can do. He turns his head to lay flat on the pillow, the rest of his body turned to the side to spoon Alastor. His bottom, bruised and sore, is a source of heat against Vox’s hips. But there’s nothing sexual in his intentions as he wraps an arm under Alastor’s and places his hand on his chest.
“You okay? You’re awful quiet.”
Alastor exhales, building up the energy to speak. When he does, it’s grainy and through his hastily repaired staff, which is leaning against the bedside table.
“I’m feeling . . . small,” Alastor admits. His voice is tinny and far away.
“Small?” Vox asks, “how so?”
“I’m not sure. I don’t understand it . . . maybe I just feel pathetic.”
“You’re not pathetic.”
“I know,” Alastor huffs, “but I feel like it.”
Vox can’t help but smile at the response; that’s more of the Alastor he’s used to. Even if his voice is coming from behind, making him feel like he’s talking to a ghost.
“It’s okay to feel small,” the tv says. He runs his hand from Alastor’s chest down his side, up and over the sharp angle of his hip.
“I’m the Radio Demon—I’m not supposed to feel small.” Alastor takes Vox’s hand and tucks it against his stomach, holding it there.
“Why do you feel small? Because you got in trouble?”
A sniff is his only answer.
“I did give you a very hard spanking. I’d understand if you felt that way because of it.”
Alastor pouts, a sound that buzzes with interference as it passes through his microphone.
“Let’s just relax for a while. You’ll feel better,” Vox says, nestling Alastor tighter against him.
“You might be right,” Alastor admits lightly. There’s a moment of silence. And then: “You meant what you said?”
Vox, who had just shut his eyes, perks up. “Hmm?”
“Did you mean it?” Alastor’s voice sounds a bit clearer than it just did.
Vox knows exactly what he’s referring to.
“Absolutely,” the tv replies easily. “I’ve never meant anything more.”
“Hmm. That might be a mistake, mon requin.”
Vox laughs. “It probably is. But you’re the one who’s going to make it one.”
Alastor sighs in defeat. “It probably is,” he parrots. He turns his head 180° to look at Vox. His ever-present smile is back on his face.
“You’ll be the death of both of us,” Alastor gripes halfheartedly. His voice is once again coming from his own mouth.
“Let it be, then,” Vox responds, eyes half lidded, “I’m not going anywhere.”
Vox can feel Alastor’s smirk tugging at his lips when he kisses his screen.
“Good.”
The lights in the room go out.