Chapter Text
When Rosie teases at the ends of his bowtie, gradually tugging it loose, open, and then off in one quick, impressively fluid maneuver, Alastor’s smile visibly quivers a bit, determined to remain fixed in place despite being shaken loose of its invisible moorings.
The now discarded bowtie lands atop one of the stacks of vinyls littered haphazardly across Rosie’s coffee table, the soft pfft of fabric drowned out by the smooth jazz that filters through the room. Alastor doesn’t say anything, he only huffs softly under his breath as he watches her toss it aside, his breath fogging the rim of his tumbler as he takes another shaky sip of his whiskey.
But, Vox notes in amused contemplation as he settles more comfortably into the thick cushions of the sofa he is currently occupying, nursing his own glass of rye, Alastor doesn’t seem at all upset, or even really off-put by his new, sudden state of undress… nor by the hand deftly working the buttons at the top of his dress shirt open, popping them until his shirt hangs half-undone, his lapels sitting nearly at his shoulders, enough for a thick, tantalizingly inviting-looking burst of sandy colored fur to emerge from beneath the red silk.
With a stifled moan, Vox bites at the rim of his glass, nipping at it in anxious anticipation. When Rosie and Alastor invited him back to Rosie’s house for a nightcap after leaving the bar earlier, admittedly, he was more than a little bit nervous, having heard the stories of the many souls that had wandered into Cannibal Town after hours and were never heard from again—and even in the company of both its Queen and one of its living legends, newly minted Overlord or not, Vox did not feel safe even for a second walking through its streets, not until they arrived at Rosie’s Emporium and the doors were locked securely behind them.
But once they were safely stowed away upstairs, in the lavish loft that sat above the emporium, the warm burlesque glow of the stained glass lamps of Rosie’s living room, a choice selection of music by Alastor, and of course a very expensive bottle of whiskey, all did more than enough to set Vox’s mind at ease. Well, mostly, anyway, as it was simply impossible to shake the feeling that his new colleagues, both known and prolific cannibals, were possibly thinking about eating him. Alastor for sure wasn’t above taking the occasional ‘friendly’ nip at him, the hunger in his eyes not at all subtle even as he laughed it off—and that was him sober. Vox could only imagine him giving in to those urges after a couple of glasses of liquor.
So, with that fear nestled in the back of his mind, Vox had been careful to sip his whiskey sparingly, just in case he needed to bolt.
That was three hours ago. And although the possibility that he might still have to high-tail it back to the entertainment district at any given moment was firmly lodged like a thorn in every nerve of his body, by now he’d downed just enough whiskey to hover somewhat comfortably in that space between pleasantly buzzed and completely obliterated. Enough for him to relax a fraction, just a fraction, and to properly appreciate the scenario that had been steadily unfolding on the couch opposite him for the past while.
For the record, Vox had had his suspicions about the two of them since the very first night he met Rosie.
It was…curious, the way that guarded, genteel facade seemed to slip so easily once it was just the three of them, behind closed doors, the way Alastor’s smile suddenly felt more like a real, actual smile, and not simply the form of self-imposed stoicism Vox had come to understand it to be. He and Alastor were friends—at least by Alastor's standards, Vox supposes. But there was always a wall there, thick as steel, impossible to scale. Boundaries that kept most at a distance. Himself included.
Privacy and personal space were two of said boundaries, both of which Vox was forced to learn the hard way were to be acknowledged and respected when it came to Alastor if one wanted to keep their soul and their limbs; hell, something as simple as throwing an arm around him in celebration nearly cost him that very same arm. The circumference of space around his person that Alastor allowed to be penetrated was dangerously small, and often seemed subject to change. But as he has been learning in the past few weeks, and even more so over the course of this evening, apparently, once Rosie enters the picture, those walls and boundaries no longer seemed to matter or even exist at all. She just seemed able to get away with things with Alastor that Vox couldn't imagine him letting slide with anyone else. Couple that with their standing weekly lunch and dinner dates, the special flourish they reserved for each other's greetings when Carmilla called for an overlord meeting, and tonight, with Alastor moving around her living room with the intimate familiarity of someone moving about their own home, whatever the hell is currently going on in front of him...
By Alastor standards, Vox figures, that is all more than friendly behavior.
It’s surprising though, seeing them be so open about it. He doesn’t know Rosie as well as he does Alastor, which isn’t really saying much since Alastor has remained largely a mystery to him even after being associates for nearly a year, but Vox knows enough to know that she is one, like Alastor, who tended to hold her cards close to the chest, hiding a shrewd, conniving mind behind that dazzling smile. They’re both operating from behind masks, guarded both in appearance and intention.
So to see them like …this— giggly, speaking in hushed, husky tones, their movements roving and languid and seductive, outer layers and accompanying accoutrement shed and draped over various chairs and the floor downstairs (it was precisely at the moment that Rosie’s dress hit the floor just inside the entrance to the loft, leaving her only in the thin, silk slip she wore beneath, that Vox suddenly found himself rosy-screened and floundering, internally fist-pumping the air at the realization that Rosie was indeed that curvy naturally, that it wasn’t just the shape of the dress), draping themselves over each other invitingly, and Rosie’s fingers carding shamelessly through the thick fluff of fur of Alastor’s chest as they spoke quietly between themselves—Vox isn’t too proud to admit that he’s glad to have had his expectations for the evening subverted so sublimely.
And, well, he supposes that it makes sense. Rosie is effortlessly pleasant and at the end of the day just impossible to hate with his whole heart, no matter how much Vox willed it, with a quick wit that often went, not just toe-to-toe with Alastor’s, but exceeded it, an easy, amicable demeanor that could disarm even the most surly of demons (himself frustratingly included), and certainly most of their fellow overlords—and speak nothing of Alastor, who had made quite the show of easing himself down over her after guiding her over from the open space around the gramophone where they had been dancing earlier, crawling over her crossed legs on his hands and knees, his ears and tail flicking with silent excitement, and was now currently resting between her slightly spread legs, his head nestled intimately on her lower abdomen, purring loud enough for Vox’s audio sensors to pick up as her hand disappears lower down his torso, moving deftly beneath the still-buttoned portion of his shirt.
It all feels ritualistic, in a way. The drinks, the dancing, the practiced way Alastor took Rosie’s hand and led her over to the couch, the way she casually tossed her legs up, laying them along its length, smoothing down the fabric of her slip before tossing a knowing glance up at Alastor—and then over at him— and then lounging back onto the arm of the couch like fucking Cleopatra as Alastor lowered himself down to climb over her legs, looking remarkably like a jungle cat on the prowl, the sinew of his bare, darkened forearms shifting beneath the velvet of his skin in a way that Vox isn’t ashamed to admit got him a little hot.
Put bluntly, it feels like foreplay. Like the lead up to some really nasty, drunken fucking.
Curious, because up until now, Alastor never really seemed all that interested in sex, drunk or sober. But apparently there is, in fact, a libido hidden deep down in there somewhere, safely stowed away amidst the shadows and guts and intrigue. Vox can’t think of much else it could be. But then, he has to wonder: by Alastor's standards, what does him not just being allowed to be here, but having been personally and enthusiastically invited along, mean? What is he supposed to think when Alastor, who is usually so fastidious about every aspect of his appearance, buttoned-up and stitched to the nines, from his perfected smile down to every neuron firing behind those eyes, is spread out so wantonly, eyes half-lidded and heavy as his gaze wanders over to where he is, panting softly as Rosie’s hand dives down even further, the last few buttons of his shirt finally crying mercy and popping open?
Discreetly, Vox massages the bulge growing in his slacks, his body warm with excitement. Of all the ways he had expected to be granted access to Alastor's inner circle, this certainly wasn't on that list, or even a consideration for said list. But he's not exactly opposed to it, either. Alastor is pretty, Rosie is pretty, and, well, shit. If this was their way of signaling that they were looking for a threesome tonight, then he was most definitely down for that.
And even if they were planning on eating him afterwards…Vox could think of worse ways to go out.
“You’re bein’ unusually quiet, Vox.” Rosie’s voice is soft, lilting, bemused. A far cry from the bar earlier, where she and Alastor and a couple of other overlords whom Vox has yet to learn the names of, were hooting and hollering with belligerent excitement, and her voice carried throughout the bar, easily recognizable even over the thick crowd stuffed into the small establishment.
Vox swirls the leftover whiskey in his glass, moving the brown liquid over what remained of the two ice cubes Rosie had tossed in with it earlier. “Just enjoying the view,” he admits in the same hushed tone, gesturing with his glass hand to the radio demon sprawled out over her lap. “Nice to know my suspicions were on the money.”
“Suspicions?”
Vox nods, raising his glass to take a sip. “Mmhmm. I always had this sneaking feeling that you two had some kind of thing going.” He pauses to down the rest of his whiskey, only speaking again once he sets the now empty glass down on its coaster on the coffee table. “I definitely wasn’t expecting to be invited up for a threesome, though.”
Rosie’s smile twitches. “Threesome, huh? Well, that’s a little presumptuous.”
Vox chuckles. “What, am I misreading the vibe, here? I don’t know what else I was supposed to think, seeing you two draped all over each other like that with me sitting here watching.”
To his surprise, Alastor is the one who replies, though not to him directly. “Don’t mind him, darling,” Alastor mumbles up at Rosie, slurring his words a bit, too drunk on either the rye or Rosie’s gifted hands, or some mix of both. “‘Vulgar’ is Vox’s default setting.”
They share a laugh at that—Rosie and Alastor, that is. Vox on the other hand, leans forward, resting his forearms on his spread thighs, previously teasing smile dimming a bit. “You’re one to talk, given that you have a woman’s hand half-way down your goddamn shirt right now.”
At the mention of her hand, Rosie curls her fingers beneath the fabric, raking her nails in short but easy concentric circles along Alastor’s abdomen. Vulgar—that’s fucking rich coming from Alastor right now, because the noise that tears from his throat then, some odd confluence of a moan and a laugh, it could very easily find a home in one of Valentino’s movies. But at the same time, it is apt. Because right then, after hearing it a couple of more times, watching the way Alastor’s standing hooves curl back far enough to almost reach his dew claws, the one sole cogent thought in Vox’s head is that he wants to hear that sound muffled by his cock in Alastor’s mouth.
He keeps that to himself, though. For the time being, he girds himself, standing awkwardly as Rosie crooks a finger at him, beckoning him to join the two of them over on the opposite couch. He moves carefully, fully aware that Rosie is eyeing the now prominent tent in his pants with an annoying amount of amusement, certain that Alastor probably would be too, if he had had the wherewithal in the present moment to even notice it.
Thankfully, he doesn’t, his attention fully ensnared by the fingers dancing along his lower ribs.
“Oh, Voxxy, Voxxy,” Rosie tuts as she gestures for Vox to sit down at the opposite end of the couch, which he does, taking Alastor’s trembling hooves up on his lap as he settles, “we are not fucking.” She pauses to laugh down at her fellow overlord—the very one that is nearly paralyzed by very obvious carnal pleasure in her lap. “Ol’ Alastor here doesn’t care for that type of nonsense. His words, not mine.”
“Could’ve fooled me,” Vox deadpans, eyeing his associate, specifically his bare hooves, which are still curling and uncurling inches away from his very much neglected erection. Vox is still holding out hope that it will get some attention tonight, but after Rosie’s stark admission just now…it is not looking good.
Well, that is until Alastor, seemingly having collected himself enough to notice both Vox’s presence on the couch and the stiffness his ankle keeps knocking into, pointedly nudges it, rubbing the long axis of his hoof against it until Vox buckles and groans, resting for purchase against the couch’s arm.
“My, my, someone’s excited,” he croons. “Were you hoping to end this evening in someone’s bed, Vox?”
Despite himself, a sultry smirk emerges on Vox’s screen. He sighs, laughing to himself before directing his gaze to the two cannibals. “Well, I don’t know about the time when you two were alive, but in my era, when someone invites you up for a nightcap, they usually mean sex."
"And you're not one to pass up an invitation."
"No," Vox agrees with little hesitation. "Although…” A pregnant pause hangs in the air for a minute as Vox mentally debates whether or not to admit he originally thought that they were planning on making a meal out of him. He decides to say it. “I do have to admit, I was a little worried that you two were gonna eat me.”
Rosie and Alastor share an incredulous look. And then promptly burst out into laughter. Vox watches them ham it up for a good few minutes, silently stewing with a renewed sense of humiliation, flushed hues of pixelation dancing across the midline of his screen. “Oh, fuck off.”
“That’s a good one, Vox,” Rosie quips once the laughter begins to subside. “But you got too much metal n’ shit in’ya to ever think about doing that.”
Alastor nods in tacit agreement. “Sorry to disappoint you, my friend, but you simply wouldn’t be tasty enough to make the effort. So, you’re safe.”
Shrugging off the weirdly confusing feelings of honest offense at that, because he most certainly should not be upset that Alastor doesn't want to eat him, Vox straightens a bit, if only to put a little distance between his crotch and Alastor’s wandering hooves. It doesn’t work though, for as soon as he settles, Alastor immediately repositions his legs so that they’re open, resting pointedly on either side of the bulge in Vox’s slacks.
Vox truly can’t decide if that bodes well for his odds of getting off tonight or not, but he chooses to take the coquettish edge to Alastor’s smile as a good thing. Mostly. Alastor is nothing if not unpredictable, after all.
And if nothing else, he can log this whole evening away for spank bank fodder, a fantasy for him to extrapolate on and indulge in when he’s alone at home later. For now, he’s just curious to see where this all goes—Rosie still has her hand buried leagues down Alastor’s shirt, tangled unfairly in that glorious chest fur, though her hand has slowed back to its more languid pace, the pace that makes Alastor’s eyelids start to flutter cutely, his eyes pulsing a warm red as he sighs her name aloud in honest pleasure.
“He doesn’t want to fuck, Vox,” Rosie suddenly says, voice low and soft amid the gravelly purring and mewls, pulling Vox’s attention away from Alastor and up to her. She graces him with that same knowing smile from before, along with a saucy wink that heats up Vox’s vents, perhaps a little more than he is comfortable acknowledging. “As in, he doesn't want the penetration part.” Rosie’s smile takes on a darker, more impish edge. “I never said he didn’t enjoy the stimulation.”
And that seems to be true enough; Alastor’s eyes are rolling now, the bulbs of the lamps around the room flickering in tandem with the rapid pulse of the reddish glow of his eyes, and the soft pants that he can’t seem to tamp down anymore.
The soft sensuality of it, however, is almost comically mismatched with the snickers and sharp peals of laughter that erupt from the man every so often, when Rosie seems to dig in just right.
Honestly, Vox is as confounded by the sight as he is aroused by it.
“Are you…tickling him?”
Rosie laughs, digging in a bit harder, which in turn causes Alastor’s back to arch up, letting out another laugh-moan noise that really shouldn’t be as hot as it is. “What can I tell’ya? He loves this.”
“Huh.”
‘Loves’ seems like a bit of an understatement, case in point: when Rosie momentarily ceases her onslaught, taking a minute to shake out her fingers and relax the knuckles, Alastor, seemingly too far gone to even pretend to care about maintaining his usually immaculately guarded facade, moans her name, bordering on a whine, while flailing a wayward hand up behind him, blindly groping around until he finds her arm and unabashedly stuffs it back down his shirt.
“You are incorrigible, mister,” she whines back, though it is with the good-natured smile of someone who had clearly long grown used to these types of shenanigans. It makes Vox wonder just how long they’ve known each other, and more importantly, how long this whole deal had been a part of their evening rituals.
“You can tag in anytime, ya know.”
For a brief instance, the words don’t register in Vox’s systems; lost as he is in both his thoughts and the simple, primal indulgence of an almost risqué evening with his two fellow overlords, it takes a good beat before he blinks his vision back into focus and turns to Rosie, his expression one of confusion, and, perhaps, burgeoning excitement.
“Say what, now?”
“I said you can tag in,” Rosie repeats, a little slower, her smile spreading wide. “He’d let you.” Momentarily, she turns her attention down to Alastor, jostling his attention with a teasing hand rubbing up and down his sternum. “Wouldn’t ya, darlin’?”
To Vox’s absolute surprise, the low murmur triggers a perfectly adorable flush of hot red across Alastor’s cheeks and the bridge of his nose, and he pointedly cants his head away to stare at the floor. His smile is quivering with either indignation or anticipation in that moment; Vox can’t quite tell, as it’s not an expression he’s used to seeing on Alastor’s face.
What he can tell, however, is that the answer to Rosie’s prompting is definitely not no— not with the way familiar shadowy tendrils immediately slip around his wrist, dancing almost giddily along his claws as they tug his hand in closer, beckoning him in.
Dare he say, Alastor seems eager.
It's a clear invitation. One that Vox has no intention of passing up.