Shiba

Vox drinking himself silly has been becoming a more and more common occurrence lately.

For the past few weeks, it’s been nearly every night. Something about ‘celebrating’ or some other nonsense. It’s become a party Alastor has grown tired of attending, but he doesn’t have a choice in the matter, for the moment.

At least whenever Vox got drunk enough, he’s more willing to untie Alastor instead of leaving him bound to the rolling chair. Not that Alastor particularly minds the chair, but being held in a singular position does tend to get uncomfortable after a few weeks.

These ‘celebrations’ of his always follow the same routine. Vox drags Alastor up to his private room, drinks far too many glasses of alcohol while Alastor watches, and then drunkenly rambles on about something Alastor can’t bring himself to care about until Vox falls asleep in the bed.

Vox is several glasses deep once again. The man has been drunkenly yammering on about something or another, Alastor hasn’t really been listening, simply enjoying the freedom of moving around freely until Vox sobers up.

At least watching him nearly trip every time he attempts to walk is amusing.

“Y’sure you don’t want a glass, Al? I can order up something special. Whatever ya want!” Vox leans against the desk in his room, wobbling slightly on his feet. He has that dopey drunken grin on his face, eyes hazy and fuzzy at the corners.

He’s been in a fucking great mood for weeks, everything is going according to plan. Capturing Alastor is the best thing that’s happened in the past ten fucking years, and the other overlords are finally taking him seriously. About damn time.

Alastor stands a few feet away near the bar counter, tapping his claws together behind his back. “No, no, I’m quite alright. No need to worry yourself on my account!” He rarely accepts the drinks Vox offers to him, much preferring to have his wits about him when stuck in the same room as his enemy.

He isn’t particularly fond of the idea of drinking himself into a stupor, let alone around Vox. The man is handsy enough sober, and trying to fight off a drunken Vox’s affections while his own mind is blurred sounds like far too much of a hassle.

“Y’re such a fucking buzzkill.” Vox rolls his eyes, attempting to push himself into a standing position without falling. “Y’just think you’re sooooo much better than everyone else. Well I’ve got news for you, pal.” 

Alastor’s grin widens in amusement as he watches the other man nearly stumble when he tries to take a step forward. What a mess he’s become. Though that’s hardly anything new, he supposes.

Vox, somehow, manages to get over to where Alastor is standing and pokes a claw against his chest. “You’re my prisoner. I own the Radio Demon, and all of Hell knows it! So you can take your dumb little attitude, and shove it up your-”

“Vox.” Alastor lifts a hand to grasp Vox’s sleeve with two fingers, as if he’s contaminated with an infectious disease, and drags his hand away from his chest. “Do try to control yourself. You’ll end up flat on the floor if you continue stumbling about like that.”

Vox scoffs and yanks his arm away, rubbing at his sleeve. His drunken mind is convinced that he needs to find a way to take Alastor down a peg, he’s been way too fucking smug for weeks on end.

He won’t even have a drink with him. He even offered his Sazerac. Sazerac! Shit from earth is expensive as fuck to find in Hell, and Alastor still won’t take the damn glass?

All he’s done this whole time is be fucking annoying, trying to piss him off. Vox is supposed to be the one in charge around here, and apparently Alastor needs to be reminded of that.

“Should’a just killed you weeks ago.” Vox takes a drunken step backwards, which isn’t the best decision for a man full of more alcohol than intimidation. He nearly falls flat on his ass, his hands shooting out to his sides to balance himself.

Alastor lets out a chuckle as he nearly falls over, but he can’t have the man tumbling to the ground and shattering his screen. That would ruin the entertainment for the evening.

So Alastor takes a step forward and grabs Vox by the shoulder of his suit, steadying him in place. “You are far too drunk for your own good. Perhaps you should sit down before you ruin that lovely little screen of yours.”

Vox brings a hand up to swat at Alastor’s wrist, completely missing and only clawing at the air. “Get off me, prick. I can do it myself.” 

There’s an additional warmth that curls in his stomach when Alastor touches him, something warm and fluttery that’s never gone away over the past 70 years. He hates that he still isn’t over this piece of shit.

“Oh, I’m sure.” Alastor hums with amusement, but doesn’t let go of Vox’s suit. He starts dragging him over to the bed with little tugs that nearly send Vox face first to the floor, the only thing keeping him standing is Alastor’s hand.

“H-hey! What do you think you’re doing?!” Vox stumbles along without choice, being dragged over to his own bed like a misbehaving child. Stupid fucking Radio Demon.

“Hush now. You clearly couldn’t have made it over here on your own.” Alastor deposits Vox on the edge of the bed, standing over him with calculated amusement in his eyes.

Alastor finds himself preferring Vox when he’s in this state. Perhaps it’s because he’s entirely incapable of being the imposing overlord he pretends to be while drowning in drink.

There’s a part of him that recognizes that it feels familiar, watching Vox drunkenly stumble into the bed. Almost like how it was all those decades ago, when Vox was still called Vincent and Alastor allowed himself to get far too sentimental.

It’s something Alastor tries to avoid thinking too much about.

Vox lands on his ass in a heap, hands straightening out behind him and balancing himself. The room feels like it’s spinning, and it does make his stomach twirl with discomfort. Maybe he should lay down for a bit.

But he’s not going to have Alastor just standing over him and watching him. Especially when he’s untied and freed for the evening. But there’s no way he can tie him back up in this state.

Vox leans up just enough to grab onto Alastor’s sleeve and with a surprising amount of force, yanks him into the bed right next to him. “Then you’re sitting your ass down, too.”

Alastor lets out an annoyed grumble at the pull, his ears pinning flat against his head. If it weren’t for his need for Vox’s assistance to break his own deals, he’d be dangling Vox out the window by the neck with his shadow by now.

“I’m sure you can manage to keep your hands for yourself for one evening?” Alastor tries to pull his arm out of Vox’s grip, but his hand is surprisingly tight around his elbow. He’s not letting go.

“Nope. Had enough of your bitching.” Vox pulls Alastor down further into the bed, yanking them both into a laying position with Alastor on top of him. “We’re doing what I want now.”

The static rises in Alastor’s chest as he’s suddenly on top of and face to face with Vox. His eyes narrow in annoyance, though he doesn’t immediately try to pull away. “Is that so? I wasn’t aware I consented to being your cuddle toy for the evening.”

“You know what? That’s actually a great idea.” A grin slides onto Vox’s face and he wraps both of his arms tightly around Alastor’s waist, pulling him tightly against his chest.

Alastor squirms in the grasp, trying to find purchase on the bed sheets to separate himself from Vox’s grasp. “Is this truly necessary?” He sneers, but Vox isn’t letting go of him no matter how much he tries to push himself away.

How is the man holding onto him so tightly when he’s completely plastered? The feeling of being squeezed in such a way makes Alastor’s skin crawl with discomfort.

“You are incredibly fortunate that I have half the mind to avoid tearing those arms of yours off their hinges.” Alastor continues to try to find some sort of comfortable position while he’s being squeezed like a puppy gifted to a child, hands searching the sheets for any leverage.

His knuckles brush against Vox’s ribs in the struggle, entirely on accident, but it does earn a reaction that he might be able to use to his advantage.

A drunken, entirely out of character giggle bubbles out of Vox’s throat, though he still refuses to let go of Alastor. “Watch where you’re grabbing, asshole.” He clears his throat to chase away that little laugh that had just escaped him, tightening his grip on Alastor.

Though there’s a part of him that didn’t entirely hate the sensation. There’s always something that feels good whenever Alastor actually touches him of his own accord. 

Alastor’s ears flick in mild annoyance at the continued hold, but that reaction was interesting. “Oh? What was that noise about, Vox?” His fingers brush against his ribs again, more deliberately this time. “Is this a sensitive spot?” 

Another giggle bubbles out of Vox’s throat and he wiggles underneath Alastor. “St-stop doing that, you prihihick.” He’s still refusing to let go of Alastor, fingers locked around his waist. Maybe he should stop drinking so much. It makes him stupid and nostalgic and giggly and apparently ticklish.

“Now why would I do that?” Alastor brings both hands up to Vox’s ribs now, starting to scribble the tips of his claws along the bones. “You are making quite the interesting noise. I don’t believe I’ve ever heard you laugh like that before.”

Vox’s hands finally let go of their hold around Alastor’s waist in favor of trying to find his wrists to push them away, his shoulders shaking with involuntary laughter. “Gehehet off me! I’ll fuhucking-” A snort cuts off his attempt at a threat.

God, he knows he looks fucking stupid right now. Since when are grown ass men ticklish? He hates that there’s a part of his mind that likes how Alastor’s claws feel.

Alastor is all too pleased with the reaction he’s earning from Vox, especially now that he’s not being squeezed and cuddled like a toy. But he sees no reason to stop now, this is simply a new form of entertainment.

“Oh, my, I had no idea you were quite so ticklish!” Alastor starts poking in between each rib, poke poke poke, as he trails up Vox’s side towards his underarms. “What a delightful little weakness for an overlord to have.”

Ohnonono, not there. Vox can already feel how ticklish he is right there.

“Dohon’t you fucking dare-” Vox snickers as he feels the fingers approaching his underarms, his legs kicking out on the bed. A cyan blush is starting to rise up onto his screen, despite how much he wishes he could stop it, flustered from the attention Alastor is giving him.

“Oh, dear. Someone must be veeery ticklish here if you’re squirming this much.” Alastor taps his fingers right at the edges of Vox’s underarms, threatening the idea without moving in.

The blush that’s crawled onto Vox’s screen draws Alastor’s attention, his ears giving a minute twitch of thought. Hm. The man is getting flustered. Not angry, not defensive. Flustered.

“Fuhuhuck off-” Vox is already giggling just at the idea, and he can’t bring himself to clamp his arms down to protect the sensitive area. He leaves himself fully available to be tickled, even as he attempts to put up the show of resistance.

Alastor absolutely notices that Vox leaves his underarms wide open, his smirk curling a bit higher. Vox is enjoying it. Of course he would.

“You’re not even trying to stop me. Why is that, I wonder?” Alastor tilts his head with amusement, lingering the tips of his claws at the edges of Vox’s armpits. “Don’t tell me you’re enjoying this.”

Vox lets out a scoff and rolls his eyes, but he doesn’t deny it either. “Whatever. Just get it over with.” He can feel his skin tingling with adrenaline, knowing that Alastor’s fingers are inches away from a place that’ll send him into a fit of involuntary laughter.

And honestly? The idea of completely losing control of himself due to Alastor’s touch is extremely appealing.

“As you wish.” Alastor wastes no further time, starting to scribble the tips of his fingers into the center of his underarms. “Do try to control your wiggling. I’d hate for you to buck me off.”

Vox dissolves into laughter quickly, his heels pounding against the bed sheets as his legs kick out. “Fuhuhuck you!” He gets out between giggles, shoving at Alastor’s arms uselessly to attempt to push him away.

Shit, that’s more ticklish than he remembers being there. Half of the squirming is genuine, while the other half is purely performative so he can have a way to deny enjoying it when Alastor inevitably calls him out on it later.

“Oh, my, such language!” Alastor grins, tracing a circle around his underarms before jabbing back into the center. “And here I thought you could manage to have some level of manners. It appears I was wrong.” 

Alastor easily maintains control against Vox’s pathetic attempts at squirming. When Vox manages to shove his hands a few inches lower, Alastor simply scribbles into his ribs before crawling back up to his underarms.

Vox tries to twist his body left and right to dislodge Alastor, but he’s way too full of alcohol to actually manage to get him off. He doesn’t know how much more he can handle when he already feels like a flustered, giggly mess. “Ohohokay, stohohop!” 

“Now why would I do that when you’re having such a great time?” Alastor’s fingers leave his underarms, but only to trail both of his fingers up to the sides of his neck. The tips of his fingers start fluttering over both sides of his throat. “Frankly, so am I. This is the most entertaining you’ve been in weeks.”

Vox’s shoulders hike up as his neck is attacked, more little giggles escaping from his throat. “Nohohot enjoying shit-” he falsely protests, feeling his screen heat up further with a cyan blush. This is the most physical attention Alastor has given him in 70 years.

“You and I both know that’s not true.” Alastor does find something strangely appealing about the look on Vox’s face, the way his expression twists into helpless laughter. It’s a much better look than that scowl he always wears.

It makes him look a lot more like Vincent, the man who used to follow him around everywhere and spent every waking moment attempting to appeal to him.

The thought curls something strange and fluttery in his chest, entirely invasive and unwelcome, making Alastor’s falter briefly against Vox’s neck.

He really shouldn’t think about things like that. Those memories were all buried for a reason, after all.

Alastor’s ears flick as he promptly shoves that emotion right back where it came from, shifting to lay beside Vox instead and pulling his hands away from him. “There, now. You should really attempt to sleep off that liquor before you make yourself sick.”

Vox takes a few deep breaths to catch his breath as soon as Alastor is off of him, staring up at the ceiling. Damn it, he didn’t really want him to stop. He was… having fun. He misses the feeling of Alastor’s hands on him already.

It takes genuine effort to bite back the admission, especially when the liquor in his system is begging him to do so. But Vox manages to swallow all of those complicated emotions right back down.

Vox scoffs and flips to face away from Alastor, laying on his side. “Yeah, whatever. Just don’t bother me while I’m trying to sleep.” He lets his eyes close, shutting off the spinning room from his vision.

Alastor watches the other man roll away before he looks up at the ceiling, crossing his arms across his stomach. The room falls into silence, leaving Alastor’s mind free to wander to places it shouldn’t.

Vincent did look rather adorable when he was giggling and squirming like that. Something about it was appealing, much as he hates to admit it. He finds himself wanting to do it again.

…Maybe when Vox is drunk again, and won’t remember Alastor’s apparent new interest in touching him in such a way. He’d hate for the man to get the wrong idea.

It’s just… entertainment. That’s all it is, nothing more. A way to occupy his time instead of spending hours trying to keep the man upright.

For now, he allows the room to fall into silence, Vox slipping into dreams and Alastor lying awake to glare at the ceiling.

12:15 PM

Vox marches down the hallway towards the employee offices. He can feel the slight prickle of electricity buzzing under his skin, annoyance and disbelief raging in his mind.

If Ethan really was running his mouth to Alastor, Vox is going to be hiring for a new assistant within the hour.

But Ethan is also one of his oldest and most trustworthy employees. And Alastor is a lying piece of shit that can’t be trusted. 

Either way, he needs to clear things up with Ethan. Just in case.

Vox peels open the door to Ethan’s office, spotting the eel standing by the copying machine and sorting through a stack of papers.

“Ethan.” Vox’s voice is a bit tightened, though controlled for now. “Care to explain why my prisoner is telling me that you’ve been running your mouth?”

Ethan jumps, fumbling the papers in his hand before catching them. “B-Boss!” He blinks at the question, appearing genuinely confused. “Y-you mean the Radio Demon, sir? I haven’t-”

“Save it.” Vox stands over him, tapping his claws impatiently against the copying machine. “Tell me exactly what you said to him when you dropped off the alcohol.”

“I didn’t- I barely even said anything to him.” Ethan stammers, his tail giving a nervous flick behind him. “He tried talking to me but I just dropped off the package and left, sir.”

Vox’s eyes narrow in thought as he stares down at Ethan, searching for any sign of dishonesty, but there is none. Ethan doesn't have the spine to lie to his face anyway. Alastor must have found out some other way. 

At least it wasn’t his best assistant, he guesses. Having to look for another sinner that’s equally as good as shutting the fuck up and staying out of the way would be nearly impossible.

An exasperated sigh comes from his throat as he brings his hand up to his face in annoyance. “Fine. You didn’t tell him.” He waves his other hand dismissively and steps towards the exit of the office. “Get back to work, then.”

Vox pushes the door shut behind him, stepping back into the hallway. How the hell did Alastor know? Nobody else should’ve come into his office to start up a conversation about Vox’s embarrassing morning. And the old timey prick doesn’t even have a cell phone, so he couldn’t have seen it online.

Wait.

He stops in his tracks as the perfect idea comes to mind. A way that he could settle the answer behind it once and for all.

The security cameras.

12:32 PM

Vox speed walks towards the security office, already anticipating what he may find on the cameras. Why didn’t he think of this earlier? Of course whatever the hell is happening to him will be on the cameras. Probably. He hopes.

Either way, he should be able to find out how the hell Alastor found out about this whole stupid fucking situation. That’s something to go off of.

His mind is swimming with the possibilities, barely even seeing what’s in front of him, when a sudden weight slams into his chest.

“Woah, hey, watch it!” Some low level employee barks out, taking a step back before realizing that they just snapped at the Vox. They immediately change their tone. “Oh, shit, I- I mean, sorry sir! It was an accident!”

Vox lets out a grunt as he’s forced to a stop, glaring down at the smaller demon with a sneer on his face. This is exactly the excuse he needs to let out his frustration. He deserves it after being put through hell all day. “That’s it. You’re fired. Pack your desk, get the fuck out of my building, and-”

Before he can even finish his sentence, there’s two sharp poke pokes right into the center of Vox’s ribs.

Fuck. It’s back?!

A sharp gasp escapes his throat as he tries to clamp his mouth shut, but the feeling of claws starting to dig into the spots between his ribs catches him entirely off guard. He thought it was gone, he thought he fixed it?!

The employee is still standing in front of him, their eyes wide with panicked confusion. “Uh, is everything okay?”

Vox needs to try to reply, he’s in the middle of firing this fucking idiot, if he can just ignore how badly it tickles-

“I- I said to- fuhuhuack!” Vox slams his hands down over his ribs, trying to rub away the phantom fingers digging into his ribs. 

He can’t hold back the laughter bubbling out of his throat when he was completely and entirely unprepared for this. And this is no longer the testing pokes and drags from earlier today, this is a full on attack, meant to send him into helpless laughter.

The sensation seems to easily snake around his fingers, starting to crawl up his sides and scribble into his underarms with sharp points instead.

“Wait, are you serious?” The employee blinks as they watch Vox double over in laughter, a grin sliding onto their face. “Ohhh, I get it. Is this a test? To test my loyalty to the company? Don’t you worry, sir, I’m not going anywhere!”

Vox is too busy laughing to even hear what the employee is going on about. He loses the capacity to stand up straight, leaning his back against the wall and crossing his arms over his chest helplessly. “G-get out of- pffahhaha! Fuck!” 

Fuck, it’s fucking everywhere, and it tickles so fucking bad! God, he looks like a fucking idiot, and in front of this nobody?! Fuck, stopstopstop-

The feeling of phantom hands squeezing his ribs make Vox jump forward again with a wheeze. “Get the FUCK out of my sight!” He snaps at the employee, desperately trying to get ahold of himself and choke back the laughter.

The employee lets out a nervous laugh, rubbing the back of their head with a hand. “Right, right. Good one, sir. I’m going.” 

The employee scurries off around the corner, and the second they’re out of sight, the tickling completely stops as if it were never there in the first place.

Vox pants as his palms rub over his sides, chasing away the lingering tingling sensation.

That is it. He’s had enough of this.

12:40 PM

Vox pushes his way into the security office, heading straight for the chair and plopping down. He turns to one of the walls covered in screens, beginning to swipe through the footage of the entire day.

He first starts to skim through the time period after the disaster at 666 News and up until Vox spoke to Alastor. There has to be someone that entered his office during that time to talk to the Radio Demon.

But even as he fast forwards through the several hours of time, nobody comes into the room besides the brief entrance and exit of Ethan. 

And Ethan definitely didn’t talk to him, it looks like he scurried in and out of that office as quickly as he could. At least his assistant hasn’t developed a lying problem.

The rest of the time, Alastor is doing nothing of interest. Rolling around the office. Spinning in the chair. Tapping his foot on the ground. Literally nothing.

Okay, fine. That’s still a mystery. But maybe he can spot something that’ll tell him what exactly is causing that sensation in the first place.

Vox fast forwards to just a few moments ago in the hallway with the employee. He lets it play at normal speed, eyes darting over every inch of the screen for anything suspicious.

There.

There’s a dark, vaguely deer shaped shadow that slinks behind Vox on the ground before wisping up the back of his suit before Vox starts flinching and dissolving into laughter.

Alastor’s shadow. It is Alastor. He’s using his fucking shadow to follow him around and tickle him.

“I knew it. Of fucking course it’s him.” Vox hisses at the monitor, putting his hands on the sleek desk. “I should’ve killed him when I had the chance. I should’ve known not to leave the bastard locked up by himself. He’d just find some way out of it to fuck with me.”

A deeply frustrated sigh escapes from his throat and his claws gouge into the desk. He hardly has time to go kill him now, the rally is coming up quickly. 

But now he knows exactly how he’ll be spending the night once that’s over with.

There’s a buzz in his pocket from his phone, which snaps him out of his thoughts. His claws dig out the device and he swipes it open, looking down at a text from Valentino.

Val 💜🦋: Did you get the drinks, baby? Studio’s been a mess today, I need something to fuck me up tonight. And someone to fuck me afterwards~ 😘

Fuck, he almost forgot. He still has to go to dinner with Val later. When the hell is he actually going to have time to teach Alastor a lesson?

Vox’s fingers click against the screen as he types back.

Vox: Yep, Ethan dropped it off in my office. Drinks are taken care of.

He clicks send, staring down at the second portion of Val’s text. He does tend to get an attitude when Vox ignores his flirtatious remarks, so with a sigh, he types again.

Vox: And don’t worry, I’ll give you something that’ll make you forget all about those whores at the studio 

There. That should be good enough. Though any sort of sexual favor is the last thing on his mind right now.

He glances down at the time on his phone. Maybe if he rushes he could get back to his office, grab Alastor by his stupid coat, and toss him out the window.

Just as he’s considering zapping up to his office, the phone in his hand buzzes again with a text from Ethan.

Ethan: Backstage crew is ready, Boss. Need you here ASAP to tell the crew how you want everything set up. You know how it went last time they did it on their own.

Of course. Everyone just needs something from him today. 

Fine. The deer can wait.

Vox knows that Alastor’s shadow is what’s behind all this now, so at least he can prepare himself so he doesn’t look like a fucking idiot in front of all of Hell.

He just needs to be smart about this.

1:15 PM

The elevator ride down to the lobby is torture. 

It’s packed with various employees and event staff, all heading to the rally early to get everything set up. 

He’s surrounded by half a dozen sinners in a small box, all while he’s trying to figure out how the fuck he even deals with a magical shadow following him around and tickling him.

How do you even fight against that?

Maybe if the lighting crew keeps the stage particularly well lit. That’s an idea.

Vox taps his claws against his biceps with nervous energy, glancing at the others in the elevator with him before staring down at his own shoes.

He’s done plenty of these events before. This time, he knows it’s coming. As long as he keeps his focus on the words, ignores any weird pokes or scratches, then it’ll be fine.

Vox feels a slight brush against his wrist, making him flinch and raise a hand in preparation to start swatting at whatever just touched him. A spark of electricity arcs from his fingers and nearly shocks the startled employee next to him.

Shit, it was just a brush of her arm. There’s no shadow in the elevator, not that he can see.

All of the other employees snap their gaze to Vox’s sudden jolt with confusion, a few in the back corner snickering.

He’s too on edge. He’s making himself look like an idiot already.

“Quiet down back there or I’m cutting your pay.” He scoffs at the employees giggling to themselves in the back, trying to summon his imposing overlord energy. He lets his hand fall back to a crossed position, his muscles stiff and uncomfortable.

Half of the employees standing next to him glance over at him like he’s lost his mind. This is so fucking stupid. He should’ve called off the whole thing at this point.

But that would just be letting Alastor win and see how much he’s actually gotten under Vox’s skin today. And there’s no way in hell he’s allowing that.

Ding.

The elevator doors slide open and the mess of employees shuffle out, Vox following behind them. He glances over his shoulder, checking for any hint of a shadow, and seeing nothing.

The sooner this is over, the better.

1:58 PM

Vox has spent the last hour ordering the lighting crew around, making sure the stage is as lit as it’s possibly going to get. Everything is as shadow proofed as it can be, even if the lights will probably just give him a migraine again.

The sound of hundreds of sinners outside of the curtain definitely isn’t helping his nerves. But he’s taken every precaution he can at this point, and all he can do now is push through it.

The music signaling that Vox needs to step out on the stage begins to play, and he takes a breath and shoves open the curtain with a wide smile on his face.

“Helloooo Pentagram City!” The crowd is already cheering and clapping just at his face alone. The amount of sinners surrounding the stage is massive, camera crews focused on him and people chanting his name.

After the day he’s had, it’s a nice change of pace. The feeling of adoration never gets old.

Vox takes a brief glance behind him before shaking it off and stepping up behind the podium on the stage, placing his hands on top of it and steeling himself to get through the lines. He’s got this, it’s fine.

He starts reading off the lines in front of him, the “Trust Us” slogan, launching into the war against Heaven and how proud Lilith would be of the strength of Hell. All the same things he’s been saying for weeks, rallying up sinners to join the fight against Heaven.

Nearly thirty minutes pass uninterrupted. Vox slowly starts to relax into it as things play smoothly, no phantom sensations.

The bright lights must’ve done the trick. Perfect. Now he can stop worrying so much. Even his muscles start to finally relax.

“And you don’t need to listen to that Princess about her trashy little hotel. Redeeming sinners? No, we have to take the fight to them.”

The crowd cheers at everything he says. They eat it up so easily. This is what he’s good at. Manipulating a bunch of idiots who don’t know how to think for themselves.

Just as he’s about to launch into the next line about his plans, he feels something that makes his claws dig into the wood of the podium in front of him.

It’s back. The lights didn’t work.

The fucker was just waiting for him to drop his guard.

And it might be one of the worst spots yet.

The fucking shadow is curling into the sides of his shoes.

As he glances down at his feet, he sees the long shadow being cast from the podium. Even with the lights hitting everywhere else, there’s a patch just large enough that the shadow could slink into.

And now it’s going for his fucking feet?!

Oh fuck, not there not there not now-

The sharp tips of phantom claws start skittering along the arches of both of his feet at once, nearly making him jump back. He has to actively clamp his mouth shut to avoid letting out some embarrassing noise.

He tries twisting his ankle to press away the sensation, but it does absolutely nothing to stop the claws starting to scribble along the sides of his feet, making his toes curl inside of his shoes. 

Fuck, he needs to keep talking. Just ignore it and stand still. But god, the feeling of those little taps of shadowy fingers up the curves of his feet are fucking awful.

Vox takes a shaky breath, barely holding back laughter. “We- We hahave-” Vox’s eyes squeeze shut as he tries to force the words out without a shaky tone, desperately trying to get ahold of himself.

But the tickling sensation is absolutely ruthless and overriding every single thought in his mind until the only thing he can think is ohgodmakeitstop and fuckfuckfuck. It's impossible to ignore when it feels like feathers are dragging up and down the soles of his feet.

The sensation scritches up the sole all the way to the balls of his feet, just beneath the toes. The feeling of claws starting to rake left and right in that small patch of skin sends a jolt up both of his legs.

He can vaguely hear the crowd murmuring in front of him. He knows he’s trembling and biting his lip, he knows that he probably looks ridiculous right now.

Get it the fuck together-!

“We cahahan-! Nhhh- Nahaha! Fuck!” Vox loses the battle against laughter as soon as the feeling of fingers dipping between each one of his toes hits him, a little scritch scritch scritch that makes one of his legs arch in the air before he tries to slam it into the ground.

It doesn’t help.

If anything, it feels like the sensation is multiplying to cover the entirety of his feet all at once with jabs, scritches, and strokes that are so beyond fucking ticklish holy shit-

“Shihihit- Ethahan!” Vox turns and tries to call out to the assistant behind the curtain, taking a step back from the podium. He needs to get off the stage. People are probably already recording. 

Fuck the rest of the rally, he needs to get out of the fucking spotlight.

Ethan, thankfully, does rush out and push past Vox to speak into the microphone. “Uh- Excuse us, folks! It seems there’s some… Technical difficulties!” 

3:11 PM

Vox can hear the chatter of the crowd behind him increasing as he manages to waddle behind the curtain again, and the second he’s out of public view, the sensation stops entirely.

Fucking Alastor. He’s going to fucking slit his throat open.

He slides his hand into his pocket to yank out his phone. He needs to check the damage. Are people already uploading this? Did Ethan get him off stage fast enough?

Fuck, Velvette is going to be pissed.

She’s already texted him multiple times.

Velvette: wow i just watched the live stream Velvette: what the fuck is wrong with you today? Velvette: actually don’t answer that i dont want to know  Velvette: i have to wipe your fuck up off the internet  Velvette: again Velvette: great job vox Velvette: you owe me Velvette: so you’re going to do my product mixing tonight while i deal with this

Vox sneers down at the phone, claws tightening so hard it creaks the screen. Seriously? She wants him to deal with her weird fucking potions?

Vox starts typing.

Vox: I’m not fucking doing that Vox: I need to get back to my office Vox: Alastor is fucking dead

Vox uses his free hand to brush out the wrinkles in his suit as he watches the three dots move on the screen.

Velvette: forget the fucking deer  Velvette: the vees are about to be a fucking laughing stock because you’ve been acting high out of your mind all day Velvette: get your shit together

Vox lets out a long, exasperated sigh. She’s the only one who knows how to completely scrub a live stream, videos, and pictures off the internet. If he wants her to help, he has no choice.

Fine.

Alastor will still be there after dinner. Better to have all night to tear him apart anyway and draw it out.

S̴a̷t̴u̶r̵d̸a̵y̶ ̴E̷v̶e̸n̶i̶n̸g̶?̷

They’ve had way too much to drink again.

It’s been like this for months. Every weekend, Vincent and Alastor would go to one of the best rated bars in town, have way too much to drink, and stumble home once the bartender kicked them out. It’s almost become tradition at this point.

The bar is comfortably warm, the sound of 1950s music playing behind the voices and laughter of the other patrons. The scent of cigarette smoke lingers in the air around them, two whiskey glasses desperately needing a refill resting on the wood in front of the two overlords.

Vincent rests his elbows on the bar top, nearly doubled over in giddy laughter. The mixture of alcohol and pure glee running through his system has brought that cyan blush up to his face, something that was becoming more and more common around Alastor.

He had met the other overlord a few years back, and they hit it off immediately. Alastor has made a name for himself within Hell quickly, getting acquainted with the other overlords that didn’t interrupt his own plans. Whatever those were.

Vincent is one of those overlords, and with how much the two had in common? It was no surprise that they spent nearly every weekend together.

Alastor sits beside Vincent, his ears comfortably tilted back against his skull. His muscles are loose and the corners of his vision are hazy with liquor in a way few overlords in Hell ever get to see. “No, no, my dear Vincent, you’re remembering that little detail incorrectly! You haven’t won one of our little card games in nearly a month.”

Vincent scoffs playfully and clumsily waves one of his hands in the air. “That’s only because you’re a cheat. So technically, I did win. Because I played by the rules.”

“Ah, but you can’t prove that, now can you?” Alastor has a lazily curled smirk playing across his lips, his chin resting in his hand. 

One of his ears gives a small flick as the music playing in the bar changes tune, some fresh rock song that’s been popular among the sinners lately. He gives an exasperated sigh as he pushes himself up from the stool, wobbling slightly. “Now that just won’t do. Let me pick something far more fitting for the evening.”

Vincent watches the other man stumble over to the jukebox, an amused chuckle escaping his lips. Something about watching Alastor nearly trip over his own shoes is absolutely adorable.

He’s been feeling it more and more often lately, that little flutter in his chest.

It only ever happens around Alastor.

Vincent has never been interested in men. At least, he thought he wasn’t. But most nights that he spends with Alastor, he has a hard time taking his eyes off of him.

Truthfully, even when they aren’t together, he can’t get Alastor off his mind.

It’s just because he’s conventionally attractive, he reasons, there’s something appealing about the animalistic features, the sharpness of his claws, the curl of his smile…

But it’s definitely not because he’s a homosexual. He’s just… aware of when another man looks good. Nothing weird about that.

The music hovering through the bar is switched to something slower, some jazzy song that sounds like it came right out of the 1930s. Typical Alastor choice.

Alastor stumbles his way back over to the bar top, his hands falling on Vincent’s shoulders with a chuckle. “Come, Vincent, we shouldn’t waste the opportunity! Dance with me.~”

The blush on Vincent’s screen flares brighter as he looks up at Alastor, the smile on his lips pulling even higher. “Dance? Come on, Al, you know I’m no good-”

“Nonsense! There’s hardly any other sinners here, regardless.” Alastor gives a determined, drunken tug to one of Vincent’s arms, dragging him from the chair.

“Alright, alright!” Vincent laughs, wobbling as he stands and following Alastor’s lead. He places his hands on the other man’s shoulders, trying to find a position that doesn’t feel awkward. “You’re gonna have to show me how to do this. I have no idea what I’m doing.”

Alastor lets out an amused chuckle, his ears giving one of those little flicks they always do when he’s drunk. “Don’t overthink it. Just follow my lead.”

The two are hardly professionals, especially when they’re half a dozen glasses down. The men snicker with each drunken stumble, chests pressing together as they attempt to move to the beat of the music.

The feeling of Alastor’s chest pressing against his fills Vincent’s veins with pure heat. He can feel his heart beating faster as he looks up at Alastor’s smile, the way his eyes are glazed over and looking down at him with something that almost looks like fondness.

It’s… perfect.

He wants to stay like this for the rest of the night, for the rest of his time in Hell-

But the moment hardly lasts.

The music that had so calmly been filling the air suddenly scratches to a halt, the lights in the bar cracking and fizzling into darkness. The air chills within seconds, all of the warmth and affection that had been swelling Vox’s chest draining into dread.

Something is wrong.

The door to the bar slams open, the other two Vees storming inside.

“Val? Velvette?” Vox’s eyes snap to the two as they approach, though they don’t say a word. Their faces are fuzzy, almost wrong, as their hands land on his shoulders and yank him right out of Alastor’s grip.

When Vox’s eyes flick back over to Alastor, all of the warmth has been drained from his eyes as if it were never there in the first place, pupils pointed into radio dials and his antlers twisting into gnarled curves.

“Al…?” Vox shrinks back into the too-tight hold of his partners, the flutter in his heart racing into something fearful and wrong. 

This isn’t what was supposed to happen. This isn’t how it was supposed to be.

“Oh, Vox, you always were so naive.” Alastor’s voice has chilled into something icy and cruel, staff appearing in one of his hands with a flicker of neon green. “You really thought you were my equal. When all you’ve ever done is hide in my shadow.”

There’s that feeling again. The feeling of a knife twisting into Vox's chest as his screen starts to flicker with pained static. 

All he wanted was to rule Hell together. They would’ve been so perfect together, wouldn’t they? The two most powerful overlords, working together as a team, as partners-

That’s how it should have been.

-------------

Saturday morning

Vox’s eyes snap open, feeling his heart pounding out of his chest. He stares up at the ceiling in silence, claws digging into the sheets and tearing the linens.

A dream. It was a dream.

Fuck. 

He hasn’t dreamed about the past like that in years. Normally, he never even remembered his dreams. But this… this was vivid. This was exactly like that night…

God, he feels like shit.

Vox sits up with a frustrated sigh, still feeling that twist in his chest. Feelings he didn’t want to think about are starting to get dragged to the surface, and he fucking hates it.

Fucking stupid. He needs to stop thinking about Alastor so much. It’s getting him all twisted up inside again.

…Where is the prick at, anyway?

Vox’s head turns as he looks side to side. Not in the bed. He starts to scan the room, spotting the other man still asleep on the armchair, still in his suit with a blanket draped over him.

Seriously? He couldn’t get over his pride long enough to even sleep in the bed? Fucking typical. This is exactly why he can’t stand him. He thinks he’s so much better than everyone else.

Vox rolls his eyes and lets out a scoff as he shifts to start getting up. His eyes linger on Alastor for just a beat too long, examining the way his chest rises and falls and the way his ears give a little flick in his sleep.

Man, he does look cute.

Ugh, there’s that stupid word again. 

This is exactly why he had that stupid dream. He needs to get up, get cleaned up, and get some coffee. There’s shit to do today, can’t spend it all in bed thinking about… him.

With another sigh, he stands up and quietly makes his way into the bathroom. No use in waking Alastor up. He’d probably just get an attitude. And listening to Alastor’s whining first thing in the morning is the last thing he wants to deal with.

Vox learned when he first arrived in Hell that showers were no longer on his agenda. With literal electronics on his body, it’s just a hazard. It’s faster anyway, he figures, to just wipe his body and screen down to make himself look presentable without getting water in his screen.

After cleaning up, Vox heads downstairs to the kitchen, remembering halfway down the steps that there’s absolutely nothing of interest in the cupboards.

Shit. Right. 

With how ordering Chinese takeout went last night, he has a feeling Alastor will be an ass about it if they have to order out for breakfast. Surely there’s something in here that he can work with until he can get some actual groceries delivered up here.

He yanks open the fridge and the cupboards, spotting the leftover sweet and sour chicken that Alastor never ate in the fridge. That’s an option, he supposes, but he has a feeling that Alastor will definitely complain about leftovers for breakfast.

So he checks the cupboards next.

There’s very little to work from that would actually be edible, though after rummaging around and digging to the very back of the cupboard, he finds something palatable.

A box of oatmeal. And it isn’t expired yet.

Surely Alastor won’t complain too much about that. It’s breakfast food, a classic staple, and it’s edible.

Vox rummages around for a pot and dumps a generous amount of the dry oats in. He doesn’t exactly have a ton of experience in the kitchen, he normally pays someone to do that for him, but he can manage a box of oatmeal. 

Probably.

--------------

M̵o̷n̴d̵a̷y̷ ̶e̴v̸e̷n̴i̷n̴g̵?̸

“You’ve seriously never heard of this before?” Vincent sits next to Alastor, both overlords sitting on a park bench. It’s late in the evening, the dusk of Hell covering them with a reddish purple hue. 

Alastor rolls his eyes good naturedly, flicking the cigarette in his hand as he leans back against the bench. “Please, Vincent, superstitions typically have some form of merit. Flipping a cigarette upside down for ‘luck’ hardly has any basis.” 

The two have been spending more time like this together, lately. Alastor typically found it difficult to get along with most of the other overlords, but for some reason, Vincent was different. Vincent doesn’t endlessly irritate him.

Usually.

He can tolerate the occasional Vincent induced headache.

Vincent scoffs at Alastor’s refusal, crossing one of his legs over the other casually. “It’s just for fun, Al. Besides, who would say no to getting lucky? Who knows, it could be exactly what you need. Might help you take down the next overlord that pisses you off.”

Alastor lets out a thoughtful hum and glances over at the man beside him, seeing that puppy-like eagerness in Vincent’s eyes. 

It was always flattering when he looked at him like that. 

Even though the obvious need for his approval should be disconcerting, it’s never felt that way with Vincent.

It’s strange, how even things that would normally itch under Alastor’s skin don’t quite bother him when it’s coming from the man next to him. Even with Alastor despising most forms of physical contact, he finds himself not minding Vincent’s habits of touching his shoulders or sitting slightly too close together. 

If Alastor were really pressed to admit it, he might even say that it’s… pleasant. In a way.

There are even strange, likely delusional and alcohol induced moments where Alastor finds himself wanting to reciprocate. 

Just to see Vincent’s eyes light up, the way his screen turns a bright shade of blue. Alastor has noticed that when he’s really flustered, his antenna will even spark with static.

Alastor finds it particularly amusing when they do that.

Lifting a hand, he playfully flicks one of Vincent’s antennae with one of his fingers. “I suppose I can give it a shot. If only to make you stop pestering me about it.” 

Vincent lets out a shy laugh and brings a hand up to the back of his head, that cyan blush starting to crawl up onto his cheeks, and…

Ah, there it is.

That spark.

Adorable.

---------------

Saturday morning

Alastor’s eyes slowly flutter open, cracking open to gaze at the ceiling. The pull of drowsiness lingers at the corners of his vision, a heavy and uncomfortable weight that he hasn’t felt in a century.

This is exactly why he hasn’t tried to force himself to sleep for 100 years. The ache of trying to wake up. And, dear lord, the dreams. 

Was he really dreaming about Vincent?

And about that night with the lucky cigarettes, no less?

Clearly, he should’ve torn that photograph to shreds last night. It’s getting into his head. Stirring up sentimental nonsense that he thought he buried decades ago.

Vox is getting far too deep into his thoughts. He needs to get this absolute nuisance off of his mind before he does something entirely ridiculous.

With a frustrated sigh, Alastor brings a hand up to wipe his eyes of lingering sleep. He then glances around the room for any sign of Vox, but finds the room completely empty.

He must already be downstairs and preparing for whatever ludicrous idea he’s going to force upon Alastor today.

Alastor pushes himself up from the armchair with a crack of his joints, dusting off the wrinkles in his suit. There’s the scent of something lingering in the air, though it doesn’t smell promising. It smells more like smoke and burnt food than anything edible.

Of course. Vox still hasn’t learned his way around a kitchen after all these years.

His ears flick back with distaste before he pushes out the door of the bedroom and starts to make his way down the stairs. He spots Vox hunched over the stove, fanning away the smoke from leftover crumbs buried in one of the stove eyes.

Vox doesn’t even notice Alastor approach the kitchen, too busy trying to make sure the fire alarm doesn’t go off.

Alastor leans against the doorframe and crosses his arms, a hint of amusement coming to his lips. “Ah, I see you’re trying to burn down the place already! While I appreciate the sentiment, you could at least wake me before you set your lovely little home ablaze. I would be quite interested in watching.”

Vox jumps at the sound of Alastor’s voice, hands flying up and his gaze snapping over to him. 

Shit. Now he’s never going to hear the end of this.

He scoffs and turns his attention back to the stove. “Actually, I’m trying to make us something to eat. Which is more than you’ve done since we got here.” He picks up the pot of oatmeal he’s managed to throw together, though he probably left it over the heat for a bit too long. “Here. Breakfast.”

Alastor leans forward and peers into the pot of oatmeal, giving a scolding click of his tongue. “You dug this out from the skeleton of the cupboards, I’m assuming? I’m not particularly interested in eating expired oats first thing in the morning.”

“God, you are so fucking impossible.” Vox scowls, pulling out a bowl for himself. “Only other option is the leftovers in the fridge. Either that or starve, see if I care.” 

Alastor taps his fingers against his biceps, not exactly eager to indulge in either option. But, he hasn’t eaten since yesterday afternoon. He needs something for the time being.

He decides then that he’s in charge of the cooking from now on. Vincent will not be stepping foot in the kitchen again.

With a sigh, Alastor walks over to the fridge and pulls it open. “I suppose the takeout will have to do. For all I know, you’re trying to poison me with your homemade breakfast.” There’s a hint of playfulness in his voice, but the point remains. He has a feeling Vox likely didn’t cook it correctly.

Vox watches quietly as Alastor pulls the takeout container out of the fridge. So he’s finally giving in. And he’s eating something Vox picked out specifically for him. Even if he doesn’t know it.

A grin pulls onto Vox’s face as he sets his own food on the countertop, leaning in a little closer to watch Alastor picking at the leftover chicken. “See? It’s not that bad. I have good taste.”

Alastor rolls his eyes with a scoff, though he is eating it without complaining too much. It’s not the worst thing he could’ve chosen from that restaurant, but Alastor isn’t going to admit that to the man either. “The only thing you have good taste in is liquor. The rest of your choices are questionable.” 

Alastor’s ears flick as he lets his gaze trail over to Vox, really looking at him for the first time this morning. He’s still wearing that ridiculous t-shirt and that infuriating grin is sliding back onto his screen. 

He looks… domestic.

Alastor hates that there’s some ridiculous part of his brain finding it appealing when Vox looks like this. 

…It is a far better look on him.

An annoyed grumble rumbles from Alastor’s throat. There are those sentimental thoughts again. 

It’s just because he’s being forced to spend so much time with him alone, he reasons. Without anyone or anything else to distract him. As soon as this weekend is over, things will simply go back to normal, and they can return to being at each other’s throats as per usual.

Alastor finishes off a final bite of the cold takeout before taking a step back, putting distance between himself and the other overlord. “Well, I believe I’ll go get cleaned up before you decide there’s something I’m required to attend to.” 

Vox stays comfortably leaning over the countertop with a grin on his lips. Alastor hasn’t even insulted him yet this morning, not genuinely. “Sure thing. I’ve got plenty for us to do today, don’t you worry.” 

“Of course.” Alastor rolls his eyes before turning and heading up the stairs, getting some much needed distance from all of this… domesticity.

-----------------

The hot water against Alastor’s skin is a welcome relief. 

Alastor stands under the spray, letting the water wash off the grime of the previous day. But his mind won’t quiet down. The dream is still replaying in his head, memories gnawing at his chest like they haven’t in years.

He leans up against the tile with a frustrated sigh, closing his eyes and trying to will the thoughts spinning through his mind away like has a million times before.

But this time, for some ungodly reason, it’s not working.

Vincent was one of the few people he had ever trusted during his time in Hell, no matter how brief. They had spent so many hours together, giving Alastor so many opportunities to stop being an overlord and just be Alastor.

But that was quickly ripped away when Vincent had tried to talk him into a partnership.

It just proved he’s exactly the same as everyone else that’s tried to get close to Alastor. In the end, they only ever want something from him. They only ever want to use his power to their advantage. 

So when Vincent had proven himself exactly the same as everyone else, Alastor had to sever the tie. It wasn’t worth being taken advantage of by someone he considered a friend, no matter how much comfort they offered.

Alastor had suppressed all those feelings and all those memories for a reason, and now they’re being dredged back up entirely against his will.

It needs to be locked back up immediately.

Alastor reaches out to shut the water off, unsure of how long he’s been standing there. He quickly dries himself off, mind set to put all of these ridiculous thoughts behind him where they belong.

As he steps out of the bathroom, towel wrapped around his waist with black boxers beneath, he’s greeted by Vox leaning against the doorframe and looking entirely too pleased with himself.

At least he had waited for Alastor to be decent enough before entering, he supposes. Even though he’s not entirely comfortable with being shirtless in front of Vox.

Vox takes a step forward, crossing his arms with a grin. “Here’s the deal. You’re not wearing the suit today. We’re on vacation, not going to a meeting. So you’re putting vacation clothes on.”

“Absolutely not.” Alastor snaps back, picking up his folded suit from where had laid it on the dresser. “I will not be wearing any of your belongings that you’ve brought along on this little trip. I am perfectly fine with my usual attire.”

“I’m not asking.” Before Alastor even has the chance to protest, Vox’s cables shoot out from his sleeves and snatch Alastor’s wrists, tugging them together and holding his arms in place above his head.

With the angelic steel bracelets still locked on his wrists, he’s without his powers, leaving him entirely unable to do anything to stop this. He lets out a low growl, eyes snapping up to Vox. “Oh, lovely. You’ve decided to force me into your clothing? And here I thought you had some semblance of decorum.”

Vox steps forward with a smug grin, leaning down to start digging through his suitcase on the floor. He pulls out an oversized t-shirt to match his own, a pair of gray sweatpants, and a pair of fluffy slippers. “This is your own fault for being a brat. I would’ve let you do it yourself, but you just had to make it difficult.”

Vox just knows Alastor is going to look adorable in these. He needs to see it.

Alastor’s ears pin flat against his head, arms forced above his head and leaving him fully exposed to Vox’s view. He hates this. The way his arms are being held are also tugging slightly on the stitching crossing the wound on his chest, only giving away the discomfort with a quiet grunt.

Vox’s eyes snap down to Alastor’s body, spotting the lingering scar on his chest. Right. He had forgotten about that.

He had ripped the damn thing open a few weeks ago. During their battle. 

“Sheesh. Still looks pretty bad.” Vox comments, looking over the shoddy stitch work Alastor must have done himself. Still has a ring of red irritation around the wound, too. The cables deliberately loosen around Alastor’s wrists to give him a bit more breathing room, though still hold him firmly in place.

“I would much prefer it if you didn’t stare. It’s rather impolite.” Alastor sneers, his smile tightened. He’s already unhappy about being yanked around while he’s half undressed, and being ogled by Vox isn’t helping.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever.” Vox rolls his eyes and snatches up the black t-shirt, shoving it over Alastor’s head and tugging it onto his body.

As Vox pulls the fabric down, the tips of his claws graze against the sensitive skin right along the edge of Alastor’s armpit. Not intentional, just a byproduct of wiggling the shirt onto him.

Alastor’s muscles tighten at that little brush of his claws, and a noise that sounds like the squeak of a small deer escapes his throat. Undignified.

Oh, that’s a sound Vox has never heard before. That gets his attention instantly, quickly pulling the shirt fully down over Alastor so he can see his face.

Holy shit, Alastor looks completely stiff. He’s that sensitive? Vox needs to take advantage of this.

“Oh? What was that noise for?” His fingers shift to hover over the hollows of his pits again. Maybe he can make Alastor make that noise again. “Don’t tell me you’re ticklish. Is that why you got so weird last night when I said that word?”

Alastor attempts to flinch backwards to dodge the encroaching fingers, but the cables around his wrists hold him firmly in place. “V-Vox, I strongly suggest you don’t continue with this line of thought-”

“Pfft, yeah right. As if I’m gonna pass up the opportunity to hear you make those little noises.” Vox doesn’t hesitate, fingers scribbling against the skin of his armpits. Scritch scritch scritch. “What’s the matter? Too ticklish?”

Yes, Alastor is entirely too ticklish to be entirely exposed like this! It’s a stupid little weakness that he’s never disclosed to anyone. Not in life, and not in Hell.

Vox absolutely cannot, under any circumstance, find out what this is doing to him.

Alastor tries to hold the laughter back, he really does. He even bites down on his lip, but even the feeling of sharp teeth sinking into his skin doesn't stop the way his lips start to quiver with barely restrained laughter.

Worse is the fact that he can feel that heat starting to curl in his stomach again. Something warm and fluttery that he believes other people refer to as butterflies.

He hates it. He hates that Vox is the one causing it.

Vox’s grin only stretches wider as he sees a red blush starting to crawl onto Alastor’s face. Oh, this is too good. He gets all blushy when he’s tickled? Vox is definitely going to remember this.

“Alright, alright, I guess I won’t torture you too much first thing in the morning.” Vox chuckles, pulling his hands back. He has no intention of sticking to his words.

Alastor lets out a breath as soon as Vox’s hands are away from his ticklish areas, barely having scraped by without bursting into laughter. Thank goodness, Vox had gotten bored.

“Are you quite finished?” Alastor tilts his head, attempting to tug his hands back down to his sides. He’s wearing a shirt now, at least, but his bottom half is still lacking anything aside from boxers.

“Nope. We still gotta get these on.” Vox snatches up the sweatpants next, the cables around Alastor’s arms giving him a sharp tug to pull him down onto the bed. Much easier this way.

Alastor’s smile tightens as he’s jerked onto the bed, glaring at the man approaching with the pants. He attempts to squirm and struggle, unwilling to sit and take the forced change of clothing without resistance.

“Hold still,” Vox tries to still Alastor’s squirming legs, but the bastard is clearly determined to make this as difficult as possible and keeps kicking his legs out. He can never make anything easy.

With a sharp tug on his arms, Alastor even manages to slip one of his hands free of the cables around his wrists, hand landing on Vox’s shoulder and giving him a forceful shove backwards.

Vox’s eyes widen with surprise at the shove before narrowing. “Oh, no you don’t.” He doesn’t even bother using his cables this time, snatching Alastor’s wrists and pinning the both of them down to the bed with one hand.

Alastor growls as the other man climbs on top of him, leaving him in a vulnerable position on the bottom. “Get off of me.” He struggles against Vox’s grip, but Vox is holding him down tightly.

Alastor, physically, always was slightly more scrawny than Vox. When he had access to his shadows, physicality hardly mattered. But now it’s putting him on the losing side.

“You wish.” Vox chuckles at the squirming, finding it endearing that Alastor can’t push him off. Plus, now he has the perfect opportunity to go back on his word. His free hand darts back up to Alastor’s underarm, slipping just one claw beneath the sleeve and returning to tickle the bare skin of his armpit.

“V-Vox!” Alastor chokes out, dissolving into laughter the second that sharp point lands back on his skin.

“There we go! You’re so ticklish, Al, it’s hilarious.” Vox’s laugh joins Alastor’s, wiggling the tip of that single claw into the hollow of his armpit. The squirming and bucking of the man beneath him is exciting.

This is… fun.

The blush is rising up onto Alastor’s cheeks again as he struggles against Vox’s grasp, kicking his legs out and trying to twist his torso this way and that. “Y-you wihihill- regret this, Vohohox!” 

Vox scoffs playfully, even letting go of Alastor’s wrists entirely and releasing him. His knees straddle his hips, both hands coming down to torment both of his armpits at once. “Go on, then. Try to stop me.” His claws poke poke poke at the very top of his ribs.

Alastor’s hands fly down to Vox’s wrists, trying to shove them away. Giggles keep bubbling from his throat as he squirms on the bed, feeling the heat of the blush spreading all across his cheeks.

Vox’s arms only allow the shove to take the opportunity to land on his stomach instead. “Oh, you want me to tickle you here instead? Got it!” His fingers dip under the hem of his shirt and start skittering the tips along his lower belly.

“Y-yohohou absolute nuisance!” Alastor growls out between laughter, continuing to shove and push at Vox’s wrists to no avail.

As much as he hates to admit it… it’s not the worst thing Vox has done this whole weekend.

It’s slightly entertaining.

Vox’s fingers don’t let up, exploring the spot just below his ribs. “Quit being such a brat and wear the clothes I picked. Then I’ll stop.” Poke poke poke. “Or I can tickle you for the rest of the day. Your choice.”

Even though there is a tiny, unreasonable part of Alastor enjoying the torment, he isn't willing to let Vox find out about that little tidbit. Better to cut it short.

“F-fihihine! I will wear them!” Alastor finally gives in with a final, forceful push against Vox’s wrists. Thank goodness.

Vox allows his hands to fall away, watching Alastor’s chest heave for air beneath him. His face has that dusting of pink and his ears are twitching.

Holy shit, he looks amazing like this. 

Vox wouldn’t mind seeing him look like this every day.

Vox’s claws twitch with the thought, reaching down and snagging the gray sweatpants once again. “I knew you’d come around.” Without struggle from the other man this time, Vox yanks the sweatpants up onto Alastor’s waist, following with sliding his hooves into the pair of fuzzy slippers.

Seeing Alastor in clothing so painfully casual and meant for lounging is something Vox has never seen before, and it’s even more endearing than he could’ve imagined. 

Alastor lets himself be dressed like a child with a roll of his eyes, but accepts his fate this time. He glances up at Vox hovering over him, spotting that silly cyan color flooding onto his screen.

Alastor’s eyes narrow playfully and his static rises in pitch, giving a small struggle beneath the other man’s legs. “You are still on top of me, Vincent.”

Vox is snapped out of his longing thoughts at Alastor’s voice, scrambling off to sit on the side of the bed instead. “Oh, right, yeah.” He clears his throat, steadying his own thoughts again.

Right, there’s still plans for the rest of the day. And now Alastor all cozied up and ready for the first thing on today’s list.