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He’d been curious for a while, really, whether it was the head or the body that held Vox’s consciousness. It’s a delightful discovery. And what’s a demon to do after finding out his least favorite overlord is helpless and at the mercy of whomever has him in possession? Leave him in the care of his friends? Absurd.
So he borrows Vox. It’s trivial work, barely a snap of his fingers before his shadows manifest in Vee tower and bring his prize to him. Normally he’d do this sort of thing some place more remote, but Alastor is tired, and Vox is helpless, and it’ll be nice to have some quality whisky as he plays with the demon.
Predictably, Vox starts whining, and predictably, Alastor has since learned how to take care of that. He mutes him and props him up on the table. He sets out two glasses, feeling generous. Two fingers of Sazerac rye for himself, and two for Vox. He puts a little straw into Vox’s glass, scooting it closer to his screen, and he smiles as Vox sips the whisky with a scowl.
“It almost feels like old times,” Alastor says. He tilts his head in amusement as Vox responds silently. Mouth moving, no sound coming out. Complaining, probably. “Come now, Vox, I thought you missed me. You’ve certainly been obsessed with gaining my attention since your pathetic bid for partnership.”
Another silent rant, Vox’s screen sparking with his irritation. Alastor reaches out to touch, and the electricity arcs to meet his finger. The static shock sends a thrill through him, down his spine, settling in his gut. He exhales slowly, shifting in his seat. He takes another drink of his whisky, relaxing back into his chair, enjoying the steady pulse of want building.
Alastor draws out the moment, watching Vox. He runs the tip of his finger around the rim of his glass, slow. Impulsive, he reaches forward, dipping a finger into Vox’s glass. He gets it thoroughly wet with whisky, then holds it out. It drips into Vox’s glass. “Do you want a taste?” he asks.
Vox’s silent rant ceases immediately, that horizontal strip across his cheeks lightening for a brief moment. Alastor’s smile grows, and he extends his arm further, pressing it into that strange, electronic mouth. It’s wet inside, and he can feel the static of Vox’s tongue tasting the whisky, soaking it up. Alastor pulls his finger back. He dips two into the glass this time, swirling them in the whisky. Vox’s tongue wraps around them before Alastor can even get them into the demon’s mouth.
He pushes them in anyway—deeper. He spreads them, giving Vox’s tongue room to lick between them, to wrap around each in turn, to suck. And Alastor is just a man—he has needs too, as annoying as they usually are. He’s feeling indulgent, though. He hasn’t had the chance to properly revel in his victory. What better night than tonight? He rubs his fingers against Vox’s tongue as he pulls them back out.
Vox’s screen is splotchy-bright, eyes wide and stunned—reminiscent of the old Vox. Innocent, naïve—sycophantic. He much prefers this Vox, poisonous and charming. Three fingers this time, into the whisky, then into Vox’s mouth. The attention has Vox’s eyes half-closed, but his gaze is piercing regardless.
It’s infuriating how nothing gets him going like Vox’s attention, Vox’s devotion, Vox’s obsession. He withdraws his fingers and picks Vox’s head up, moving it to a chair. A performance is always better with an audience, after all. He shifts his chair so Vox can see everything, close enough he can continue feeding the demon whisky from his fingers.
Three fingers again, and Vox licks it all up, forces Alastor’s fingers apart in his mouth with his tongue. Alastor leans back in his chair, pressing his hand against his growing arousal. His little voyeur’s screen sparks, more prickly static zipping through Alastor’s body. He shoves his fingers deep, wanting Vox to choke on them despite knowing he can’t.
And how peculiar, that it has Vox drooling, liquid-something pooling around Alastor’s fingers and then dripping down his screen. Alastor grits his teeth, shifting so he can get his pants open, pull out his cock. The thrill of electricity is stronger this time, and his dick pulses with the buzz of it. He can’t help the moan that escapes him, rocking up into the tight grip of his hand.
“You’re gorgeous, like this,” Alastor hisses. “At my mercy. Desperate for nothing but crumbs.” With wet fingers, he searches clumsily for the unmute button. He finds it. The pop-hiss of Vox’s speakers turning back on has him squeezing his cock, breath shuddering out. He drags his fingers over one of the ports in Vox’s head. The whine Vox lets out, needy and desperate—Alastor spreads his legs, fucks up into his fist, breath coming hot and sharp and heavy.
“Such a pretty little picture-box for me, aren’t you, Vox?” Alastor groans. Vox’s face distorts, a ripple of pixels spreading out as Alastor shoves his fingers deeper. They should have reached the boundary of Vox’s head this time, but they just keep going. He doesn’t bother asking when he stumbles to his feet, jerking Vox’s head properly upright and to the edge of the chair before plunging his cock into Vox’s face.
It's like fucking electricity, a livewire around his dick, and his hips jerk. He wants to go deeper, deeper, deeper—how deep does he go? He’s pressed flush to Vox’s screen now, and it’s such an odd sensation, hips meeting resistance when his dick’s fully inside the demon’s mouth.
“Put your tongue to use,” Alastor growls. It wraps around him, then, wet and slippery, squeezing and stroking and encouraging an in-out rhythm, slow and indulgent as Alastor thrusts, fucks his mouth properly—no wonder that moth keeps Vox around, puts up with his bratty attitude. He’s not sure he’ll give him back. He was Alastor’s first, after all—still is, eternally, Vox will always be his, his, his.
“I own you,” Alastor says, thrusting faster, hips smacking against Vox’s screen as he fucks back into the wet heat of Vox’s mouth and tongue. Vox whines, wanton, and Alastor pulls back, out of Vox’s mouth. He presses his cock against Vox’s screen, his cheek, and it meets resistance.
“It—it doesn’t—the anatomy is—it needs a hole,” Vox says, trying to explain.
Alastor trails his thumb over Vox’s mouth, dipping into it, then swipes his fingers up his face. “Any hole?” Alastor asks.
Vox gets that cute, confused look. “Yes?” he says.
Alastor presses a finger to the edge of Vox’s eye—they widen, and his finger meets no resistance. Shallow, barely dipped inside, but a confirmation. Alastor grins, wicked and wide, all danger. “How curious,” he purrs.
“Alastor,” Vox whispers, eyes still so wide.
“How about this hole,” Alastor asks. He presses the tip of his cock to Vox’s eye, and Vox’s screen flickers black-and-white. “Has anyone ever fucked you here?”
Vox’s no comes out like a moan. It’s a different sort of wet, strange and soft. It feels like he’s fucking something properly, pressure around his cock, Vox’s eye all pixelated and scrambled. Just the one—just the eye that Alastor is making use of. He savors it, grinding in a slow roll, eyes half-lidded as he watches Vox’s reaction, the way the screen distorts around him.
He presses a thumb into Vox’s other eye just to see the way it warps around him, his fingers wrapping around the edge of his screen. He swirls one around the dip of the recess one of his screws sits in, pressing the tip of his claw into it as he grinds his cock deeper.
He tests it—twists his claw, catching it in the head of the screw, but it’s flush, tight, and Vox sends a rush of electricity up his finger and down his arm when he tries again. “Naughty boy,” Alastor purrs. He digs his thumb deep into Vox’s other eye, claws scratching up the edge of the demon’s screen. Another roll of his hips—how fascinating, this anatomy, Vox’s head so flat yet so endless, taking his cock just right.
But it’s not enough, Alastor wants more, more, more—it’s always been that way with Vox, the tease. All potential, no payoff, but Vox’s humiliation is just as good as a success would be. He slides his cock out, slow, free hand sliding down the back of Vox’s head to support it.
He finds one of the ports and runs his tongue over his teeth, grin sharp. Vox lets out a pathetic little mewl, a whining plea of his name. “What’s that, sweetheart?” Alastor asks, voice pitched low. “Use your words.”
“Pl-z-z-ea-zz,” Vox slurs, more distortion than voice.
Alastor laughs, dark and cruel. “No longer Vox, are you, hm? My sweet Vitiata.”
Vox’s screen flickers, those pretty eyes so wide and innocent and oh—Alastor moans, loud, indulgent. “I missed this part of you,” he hisses. “So trusting and desperate—” He fucks in faster, harder, grunting with the force, tugging Vox’s head against him. “This is what you wanted, isn’t it? All my attention just on you?”
The response is unintelligible, garbled digital static, and it has Alastor panting and digging his claws into Vox’s head. He shoves a claw into the port he’s been teasing, laughing something manic and dark at the stuttering mewl, the half-formed, begging buzz of words. Frantic now, chasing his pleasure, but it’s not enough, it’s never fucking enough. He rips Vox’s head back, violently, picking it up with claws and tossing it toward the bed.
The soft oof nearly breaks him out of the violent haze, then his gaze catches on the hidden edge of a panel. Camouflaged, near invisible if it weren’t for the way the light spills over it. He takes his cock in hand, stroking himself as he makes his way over to the bed. He wants Vox to see this.
It’s not something he’d normally do, but he manifests them with a snap of his fingers. A floating monitor, framed in gold like a mirror, the image cut in half—on top, Vox’s face, and on bottom, the back of Vox’s head. He climbs onto the bed, on his knees, and pulls Vox’s head upright so he can watch, then digs a claw into the barely-there gap of the panel, popping it out.
“W—xhzz—wha—zz—t—”
“Shush, Vitiata,” Alastor purrs. “I’ve found a new hole to make use of.” His cock throbs at the thought. He has to adjust himself, spread his legs to get low enough that it’ll be comfortable for him. A little swirl of his finger around the port to wet it with lubricant, to sand off the sharp edges—he stretches it, distorts it with his magic, turns hard plastic to rubber.
There’s a fan whirring, how cute. “Do you have a brain in here?” Alastor asks. The only reaction he gets is an electric pop-hiss, a shiver of quiet lightning crawling down the edges of Vox’s head like a threat. Alastor presses his cock to the hole he’d made. “I’m going to fuck you open,” he growls. “Turn your useless head into a toy, fill it up with my cum and seal it in you.”
“F-xxx-zz-ck,” Vox moans. Alastor presses in slowly. There’s resistance, a hint of it—he grips Vox’s head tighter, forcing his cock in, the head of it sliding into the hole. It’s a tight, hot squeeze, and Alastor groans with the effort, curling over Vox’s head. His claws scratch down Vox’s face, dip into his eye again, then plunge deep.
Vox’s scream is electric—Alastor gasps, humping forward, vision hazy as he forces his cock all the way into that hole, god, it’s so fucking warm, tight, wrapped around him, the buzz of electricity sparking around his dick. Perfect, so fucking perfect.
He can’t get enough, entire body liquid heat, his thrusts turned violent and possessive. The mania of it, of owning Vox like this, making his mark—he scores lines down the side of Vox’s head as he fucks the port he’d ripped wider. His fingers plunging in and out of Vox’s eye are obscene, a lewd mimicry of what he’s doing with his cock, but it has Vox buzzing and hissing and drooling, screen a distorted rainbow of colors.
“Mine,” Alastor growls. He slips his unoccupied hand lower, finding a port on the bottom of Vox’s head, swirling a finger around it just to hear Vox’s fans whirr louder. He’d never understood the obsession with sex, but this—he’s never going to be able to get this out of his head. An eternal fixation crystallizing in him now as he chases his pleasure, heat pooling in his gut.
He fucks the port with his finger, fucks a hole in Vox’s head and shoves his fist further into Vox’s eye—wrist-deep now, thrusting it in and out, three holes being violated by Alastor—but he can do more, he can, he can own this demon completely.
Tendrils of shadow find their way to every entrance, every port and plug and vent, pulsing with Alastor’s bloodlust. They slip into him, wrap around Vox’s components, short-circuit the delicate processors. He can see the sparks, feel them lick up his spine and the crackle of them through his veins. Yes, yes, yes—Alastor groans, god, how is Vox’s head so fucking wet around him, hot and warm, squeezing his cock and the slips of shadow squirming their way through Vox’s anatomy.
He's going to carve himself into the demon—no chance of ever being forgotten, of ever being usurped as Vox’s obsession. He will write his ownership into ever chip, every wire, every corner of Vox’s existence. He grunts as he fucks in faster, the slap of his thighs against the plastic of Vox’s case, eyes rolling in pleasure.
He’s fucking close. “Going to paint you white inside, Vox, make you mine,” he growls. Vox doesn’t respond but for a stuttering string of beeps and a low whine. “My pet, my sweet pet—only mine, only me—”
It catches him off-guard, the swell of the orgasm, crashing into him—he fucks his cock in deep, grinding as he comes, cock throbbing with each pulse, pumping his cum into Vox’s head. There’s so much, and he rolls his hips, desperate little movements—more, more, more, he needs more, needs to fill Vox’s head until it drips out onto the fucking floor.
He groans as the orgasm dies, his cock softening inside Vox’s head. He pulls out with a grunt, collapsing back on his bed. The weight of him on the mattress dislodges Vox and sends his head tumbling to the ground with a crash.
There’s a muffled, “F-zzz-ck,” and Alastor laughs, exhausted and pleased. He flips Vox’s head over with a tendril of shadow, leaning over the edge of the bed and smiling down at him. There’s liquid leaking out of a couple of ports, dirtying up the floor, but Alastor can’t bring himself to care.
“You look good on my floor,” Alastor purrs. “Maybe I’ll keep you.”
Vox’s head sparks, burning a hole into the carpet, and then his signal goes offline for one, two, three seconds—he reboots with a loud chime, then blinks up at Alastor, pixels out of place on his face, parts of his screen still scrambled up.
His voice comes out thick with distortion, but understandable now. “What the fuck was that.”
“Our first date,” Alastor says, voice sing-song. “We’ll do that again tomorrow, I think. My new favorite hobby.”
“Can’t fucking wait,” Vox responds, voice a thin crackle.