Chapter Text
The cacophony of Pentagram City's streets parted like the Red Sea as Alastor strode through, his crimson suit a splash of blood against the grimy backdrop.
Demons scurried out of his path, their eyes wide with a delicious cocktail of fear and awe that made a smirk play at the corners of his mouth.
"Good day, my dear fellows!" Alastor's voice crackled with radio static as he tipped his head to a group of cowering imps. They flinched at his acknowledgment, and he chuckled. "Why so glum? It's a beautiful day in Hell!"
His gaze swept over the crowd, noting the way they averted their eyes, how they hunched their shoulders as if to make themselves smaller targets.
It was intoxicating, this power he wielded. With each step, he felt more like the predator he presented himself to be.
And yet…
The crowd's fearful whispers faded into white noise as Alastor's mind turned inward. The dirty little secret he'd guarded for decades, threatened to unravel everything he'd built.
The vaunted Radio Demon, was an omega.
And omegas did not do well in Hell.
Alastor's lip curled in disgust, though outwardly his grin remained fixed.
He’d made the most of his eternal damnation. Seized power at every chance he had it. Aligned himself with the most powerful beings in the Ring of Pride. Carefully cultivated the image of power and control.
But…even Alastor couldn’t escape the torment of the afterlife. Beneath the glamour that hid his omega scent and the suit and coat he wore like armor, the demon that despised being handled was soft and inviting.
His biology demanded to be touched, to be had, by an alpha no less.
The heat cycles were a curse, a reminder of a vulnerability he refused to acknowledge.
Having a week of heat in spring was terrible enough as a human. But his personal torment had been amplified in death. The deer demon suffered heat for two days a month, for three months during his season.
Making the proud overlord into a whimpering, cloying whore, desperate for a knot.
An affront to everything Alastor presented himself as.
The price of power was eternal vigilance, and Alastor knew that one slip, one moment of weakness, could bring his carefully constructed world crashing down around him.
A bead of sweat trickled down the omega’s temple, and he quickly wiped it away with a red silk handkerchief, staring at the cloth like it personally insulted him.
His smile tightened, a hint of strain creeping into the corners of his eyes.
Not here. Not now.
A nearby demon sniffed the air curiously, and Alastor's eyes flashed dangerously.
"What are you looking at?" he snarled, his antlers elongating menacingly.
The demon yelped and scurried away.
Alastor's thoughts drifted unbidden to Vox as he ducked into an alley, scaring the riffraff out of his way. That insufferable television overlord. The omega’s lip curled in disgust, but a tremor of need rippled through him.
Pompus, preening, little peacock of an alpha—but the arrangement was necessary. A means to an end. Nothing more.
Alastor was unwilling to finish the thought even in his own mind.
Going to Vox—his rival, his lesser—was humiliating. The flathead made sure it was so. And Alastor could do nothing. Lest his secret be revealed. Lest…Vox stop giving him what he needed.
Alastor did not want to need him.
Maybe this time, he could manage on his own. Just spare his pride a little longer…
But as another wave of heat washed over him, Alastor's resolve faltered. He paused, leaning against a grimy wall, his breath coming in short gasps.
With a herculean effort, Alastor pushed himself upright, plastered on his signature grin, and continued down the street, each step a battle against his own biology.
As Alastor rounded a corner, a familiar voice cut through the din of Pentagram City.
"Hey there, Smiles! Fancy meetin' you here," Angel Dust called out.
Alastor's eyes narrowed, taking in the scene before him. Angel was surrounded by a group of leering demons, their catcalls and crude gestures making their intentions clear. As if cornering the most well known omega in this Ring weren’t enough
With a flick of his wrist, Alastor summoned his microphone staff. "Gentlemen," he purred, his voice laced with menace as he tilted his head, pupils turning to spinning dials, "I suggest you find your entertainment elsewhere."
The demons scattered, leaving Angel alone with Alastor.
"Aw, you do care," Angel teased, batting his eyelashes. "How about a thank you kiss, hot stuff?"
Alastor's grin tightened.
"My dear Angel, your attempts at flirtation are as misguided as they are unwelcome. Perhaps you should aim your affections at someone more…receptive to your charms."
Angel snorted. "What's the matter, Smiles? Afraid you can't handle a real omega?"
A surge of heat coursed through Alastor's body, his composure slipping for a fraction of a second. He gripped to his staff, forcing himself upright.
"Handle? My dear, I could obliterate you with a mere thought. Your crude advances are beneath me, as is your very existence."
“Big talk from someone who looks like they're about to swoon.” Angel's confident smirk faltered. But the look of concern that crossed his mismatched eyes was more insulting than his flirtations. "You feelin' alright there, Radio Demon?"
Fuck. Was his condition that obvious?
"I assure you, I am in perfect health," Alastor said, his voice steady despite the turmoil within. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have more important matters to attend to than entertaining your delusions of adequacy."
How much longer could he maintain this facade? The heat was intensifying, threatening to overwhelm him at any moment.
The streets of Hell had never seemed so long, so daunting. Each step was a battle against his own nature, a fight he feared he might soon lose.
Alastor paused at a street corner, his ever-present smile fixed in place as he surveyed the scene before him.
Demons of all shapes and sizes scurried about, their eyes darting nervously in his direction before quickly averting their gaze. A satisfying tremor rippled through the crowd as he took a single step forward.
It never did get old.
“Mr. Radio Demon, sir" a brave or foolish demon ventured, "is there anything you need?"
Alastor turned, his eyes glowing with barely contained power. "What I need," he purred, "is for you to mind your own business. Unless you'd like to become my next broadcast?
As the demon fled, Alastor's smile faltered for a fraction of a second. He could feel sweat beading on his forehead.
"Not yet," Alastor muttered, straightening his bowtie. "I won't give him the satisfaction. I am the Radio Demon, and I bow to no one, least of all my own biology."
With renewed determination, Alastor stepped back into the flow of foot traffic, ignoring the burning sensation coursing through his body. He would endure. He had to.
A passerby, emboldened by liquor or stupidity, called out, "Hey, Radio Demon! You're looking a little flushed there. Everything alright?"
Alastor's head snapped around, his grin stretching to manic proportions.
"My dear fellow," he said, his voice dripping with honey-coated venom, "I assure you, I've never felt better. Though I can't say the same for you in about five seconds."
As the foolish demon's screams faded into the distance, Alastor allowed himself a moment of quiet pride.
He was still in control, omega status be damned.
Let them wonder.
The omega straightened his posture and continuing his walk.
Let them fear.
He was the Radio Demon. He would not be defined by his biology, or the expectations of anyone else.
With each step, Alastor reaffirmed his resolve.
The heat could rage, Vox could wait, and Hell itself could burn. Alastor would remain master of his own destiny, no matter the cost.
The show must go on.