Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“So, I've been thinking, Alastor, with your incredible power and my massive influence, we would be unstoppable. Radio AND video. Me and you; we could rule Hell, together, as partners.” He lifted his hand for a handshake, his grin hopeful but already bracing for the emotional impact of a bus.

Alastor did not immediately respond.
Instead, the Radio Demon gently tapped the edge of his half-full tumbler with one sharp claw. His smile remained frozen in that entertained but sloppy way that suggested he was probably at least tipsy.

A full minute passed.
The longest minute of Vox’s entire existence.
Just as he opened his mouth to laugh it off as a joke, trying to save his face, Alastor finally spoke.

“As partners?” Alastor repeated, lifting his head with wobbly, uncoordinated grace, nearly elbowing his glass off the table. “Are you proposing, Vincent?”

Vox, mid-sip, instantly choked. His screen exploded in a cascade of glitchy squares, static, and blue-screen. He coughed so violently he almost toppled out of his chair.
Alastor snickered as if he was watching a clown fall down a flight of stairs.

When Vox finally managed to inhale air again, he looked up with a blue-tinted blush spreading over his screen and his antennae drooping downward like embarrassed noodles.
“Uhm… what?”

Alastor refocused on his whiskey, resting his cheek in one hand, smile sharpening.
“Well, you said it yourself. Ruling Hell together as partners.” He swirled the drink lazily. “Two Overlords entering a deal of such… intimacy. Wouldn’t that count as a political marriage?”

Vox blinked, processing as fast as a drunk motherboard could.
He was the newest Overlord, sure, but he was 99% confident that was not how political alliances worked.
Still… he learned to never look a gift horse in the mouth, even if the horse had fangs, red eyes, and the power to make him scream for eternity.

“Uhm… sure?” Vox offered weakly.

He waited for Alastor to start laughing, or mock him, or dissolve into radio static. But Alastor simply finished his drink. Slowly. Very slowly. Staring at Vox like he was expecting something more.

Two silent minutes passed while Vox tried to process what was happening.

“I’m waiting,” Alastor finally said.

“For what?” Vox said dumbfounded, wondering if the alcohol was making Alastor incomprehensible or if Alastor was just being Alastor.

“For the proposal, of course.” Alastor folded his hands. “Surely a charismatic gentleman such as yourself knows how to perform a proper proposal?”

This was definitely a trap.
A trap wrapped in a riddle wrapped in several layers of sarcasm.
But Vox didn’t have to be told twice, mostly because he wasn’t thinking twice.

His screen glitched violently again as he stumbled out of his chair, bolting for the exit. Then he raced back inside, breathless.
“DON’T MOVE. I’ll be right back.”
He sprinted out again before Alastor could say a word.

Several screams echoed from outside the bar. Something crashed. Something else exploded.

Moments later, Vox burst back in, panting, sweaty, and triumphantly holding a golden ring still attached to a sinner’s freshly detached finger.
He paused only long enough to yank the finger off and toss it behind him (it hit someone, who cares). Then he dropped onto one knee, almost slipping and screen-planting on the floor.

“Alastor–” He had to stop and catch a breath after all this killing and running. “Alastor… will you help me rule Hell together… and make me the happiest sinner in the Pride Ring?”

He beamed up at him, hopeful, exhausted, and a little covered in blood that was not his.

Alastor took his sweet, sadistic time answering. He inspected the ring as though Vox had spent months and millions instead of brutally mugging someone in an alley.
Finally, at long last:

“Of course, dear,” he purred, sliding the ring onto his finger with a pleased expression.

Vox erupted into glitchy laughter, wobbling to his feet in disbelief.
“We should toast to this!” he declared when he managed to compose himself, pouring another drink, mostly on the table, partly in the glass, and raising it high.

Alastor clanked his own glass against Vox’s and finished it in one go.

They celebrated their sudden engagement by drinking until the bartender locked himself in the back and didn't want to come out.

Glass after glass piled up on the counter until Vox’s face was lagging at 2 fps and Alastor’s shadow began wandering off in the wrong direction. Both demons were visibly hammered.

“You know what, my friend?” Alastor announced, pushing away from the counter. He had just finished laughing at Vox’s terrible impression of someone important, (he couldn’t remember who), but it didn’t matter, because everything was funny now.

Vox dropped his heavy TV head at the bar counter.
“What?” he asked, eyes flickering in and out of alignment.

Alastor leaned forward until his forehead nearly touched Vox’s screen. To be at the same height, he half-slid down the barstool, both hands bracing himself so he wouldn’t topple off entirely.
“Why wait?” he said, his smile a bit too wide, his posture a bit too wobbly. “We could get married in the chapel by the Casino. Tonight.”

Vox gasped, screen glowing with astonished joy.
“Fuck yeah! Let’s do that.” Absolutely zero thoughts behind those words.

He pushed himself off the stool.
His knees didn’t agree.
He dropped an inch before catching himself on Alastor’s arm.

“Up you go,” the radio demon helped him stand up even when he had trouble doing it himself.
Alastor barely avoided falling forward as Vox dragged him toward the exit. Every few steps, one of them tripped and the other overcorrected, creating a jerky, zig-zagging walk.

They somehow made it down the street without dying.

Alastor paused for a snack, nearly making Vox fall on his ass, spotting a random sinner. Before the poor soul could scream, Alastor grabbed them and tore out a chunk with the casualness of someone stealing fries.

He turned to Vox and offered him a piece, but the man kindly declined.

Alastor shrugged and ate it himself before continuing their stagger toward the chapel.

By some miracle (or perhaps the universe simply gave up), they reached the chapel’s doors without collapsing. Vox pushed one and held it open, acting like a gentleman.

A tired, overworked sinner behind the small reception desk looked up and nearly shat himself.

Vox raised a hand to wave, almost tipping himself sideways.
“Hi,” he said brightly.

“Hello! What a disastrous establishment! ” Alastor chimed, equally unstable.

“One marriage, good sir,” Vox announced, trying to mimic the way Alastor talked. “Right now.”

The sinner blinked at them. “S-sir, it’s almost three in the morning…”

“Even better,” Alastor said, resting his chin on Vox’s shoulder because his neck had clearly decided it didn’t want to hold up his head anymore. “Perfect hour for a life-changing decision.”

The sinner stared at them, noticing their inability to stand upright without mutual assistance.

“Do… you have rings?” he asked weakly.

Vox proudly held up Alastor’s hand, displaying the stolen ring glinting under the flickering chapel lights.
“We brought one.”

“One second,” Alastor’s shadow disappeared for a few seconds and came back with a golden ring to match the one he was wearing, no one knowing where it came from. Alastor made a low bow.

“Allow me,” He took Vox’s hand and put the ring on his finger, making Vox hold in his breath until Alastor stepped away.

The sinner swallowed. Hard.

“Alright,” he said faintly, “then we’ll… proceed.”

Vox turned to Alastor with a bright, drunk smile.
“Do we need witnesses?”

“I know exactly who to call,” Alastor declared. Then he whirled dramatically toward the chapel worker, who stiffened like a mouse caught in a lion’s grin. “My good man, do you possess one of those marvelous telephonic devices?”

The sinner shakily pointed at the rotary phone on his desk. He didn’t trust his voice. Wise decision.

Alastor snatched up the handset and dialed with the confidence of someone who should absolutely not be trusted with phones in his current state.

After two rings, a silky, perfectly poised voice drifted through the receiver:
“Hello, this is Rosie. How may I assist–”

“ROSIE, MY DEAR!” Alastor boomed with a loud voice. The chapel worker flinched. Vox snorted.

There was a sharp inhale on the other end, the kind a grand lady takes when deciding between homicide and patience.
“Alastor,” Rosie said slowly, each syllable clipped with murderous elegance. “Do you have any idea how discourteous it is to wake a lady from her beauty sleep? This had better be–”

“Rosie, dear, listen,” Alastor slurred urgently, talking right over her growing wrath. “I need you to be a witness.”

“A witness?” Her tone cooled several degrees. “I beg your pardon? To what, precisely? A murder? A summoning? Another one of your broadcasts?”

“For my wedding!” Alastor declared triumphantly. He reached across the desk for balance and missed. “I’m getting married right now. This very moment! And naturally I thought of you, because, you know-”

He lowered his voice to the faintest whisper, although given his state it came out as more of a conspiratorial stage-whisper. Still, low enough so anyone else in the room couldn’t hear it.
“-our little deal.”

There was absolute silence for three full seconds.

Then Rosie spoke again, every word dipped in sugar and venom, the hallmark of a lady pushed to the brink.
“Alastor. My dear. If you believe for one moment that I am going to participate in whatever lunacy you and that walking television set have concocted while thoroughly intoxicated, you are gravely mistaken.”
A pause.
“Come see me when you’ve sobered up and when you remember how to respect a lady’s rest.”

And she hung up.

Alastor stared at the receiver, his last functional brain cell wondering how she knew he was with Vox right now.
“Rosie? Rosie, hello- helloooh!” He slammed the handset on the cradle a few times, accomplishing absolutely nothing besides making the sinner squeak.

Finally, Alastor sighed and set it down. “Well, that’s unfortunate.” He turned to Vox, then pointed at the trembling chapel worker. “I suppose this gentleman will have to do! Congratulations, you’re now the honored witness!”

The sinner flinched. “I- I’m not sure I-”

“Fantastic,” Vox interrupted, patting his cheek gently and accidentally smudging a streak of blood across it. “You’re hired.”

The sinner looked like he was silently begging God to kill him.

Alastor dragged himself toward the altar, swaying so violently he had to grab the pews for support. Vox followed, only to trip over absolutely nothing and catch himself on Alastor’s coat.

“Alright,” Alastor announced, straightening his spine. “Let’s do this.”

The chapel worker shuffled forward with the look of a man who had accepted his impending doom. He held a tiny officiant’s booklet as though it were the only thing tethering him to life.

He cleared his throat, which came out as a squeak.
“W-we are gathered here today–”

Alastor lifted a finger.
“To witness history,” he corrected proudly.

Vox nodded with exaggerated solemnity.
“Amazing history. The beginning of something amazing.”

The chapel worker blinked hard and continued.
“Yes, well… we are gathered here today to witness the joining of two special souls.”

Alastor leaned into Vox, whispering with a grin that wasn’t at all quiet, “He called us special.” Vox had to put himself on mute for a second to not burst out laughing.

“These two individuals have chosen this particular place and this partic–”

“Okay, we get it,” Vox interrupted, waving his hand lazily. “Skip to the good part.”
Alastor snickered.

The sinner, who clearly regretted every decision that led him to this moment, rapidly flipped a few pages.
“Very well… please face each other and hold hands.”

They obeyed. Vox’s screen lit up with a big smile, brightening up the room so much Alastor had to squint.

“Do you take this man as your wedded husband?” the chapel worker asked, turning to Vox.

“I do.”
Vox’s smile was so sincere.

“Will you love him, honor him, and keep him in sickness and in health, forsaking all others, and remain loyal to him as long as you both reside in Hell?” the sinner continued.

Vox’s blush intensified. “Uh… yeah. Sure.” He scratched behind his head.

Alastor received the same question.
“I will,” he answered without a flicker of hesitation, almost too quickly.

The officiant nodded, relieved to be nearing the end.
“Now, repeat after me.” He turned to Vox. “I, Vox the TV Overlord…”

Vox repeated the vow line by line, stumbling on several words and slurring through the rest, but managing the important parts with heartfelt enthusiasm.

Then it was Alastor’s turn, and he repeated his vows calmly, trying to sound composed.

The chapel worker snapped the book shut the moment the last word was spoken.
“I now pronounce you husband and husband. You may… uh… share your souls.”

“Wait, what?” Vox began, eyebrows lifting in alarm.

Before he could finish the thought, a pulse of green light erupted around them, flooding the chapel and rattling the stained-glass windows. Vox blinked rapidly as the glow faded. His hands were still clasped around Alastor’s, who wore the widest grin of the night.

“What does that mean? What the hell does that mean?” Vox turned to the officiant for answers, but the man had vanished so completely it was like he had never existed.

Vox swung back to Alastor, thoroughly confused.
“Alastor, what the hell just happened?”

“Don’t trouble your lovely, big head, Voxxy. I’m very excited for this new partnership.” Alastor patted his cheek lovingly, which did absolutely nothing to reassure him. A portal rippled open behind the Radio Demon.

“Adieu, my dear husband.”
Alastor stepped through with an uncoordinated step without giving Vox a chance to respond.

Vox was left standing alone in the silent chapel, stray confetti from absolutely nowhere drifting down around him as he tried to process the last ten minutes of his life.

“…What the actual fuck?”

Chapter Text

The next morning, Vox woke up with the kind of hangover that made him wish he could die a second time. Not just a headache, no, this was a full-system shutdown. His screen flickered weakly, his antenna drooped like a dying houseplant, and every sound in a five-mile radius felt like an elephant stepping on his screen.

He somehow managed to crawl, literally crawl, to the bathroom, where he threw up three times, drank half a gallon of water straight from the jug, dry-swallowed two Tylenol, and dragged himself back to bed.

He cursed God, the angels, existence, and especially the cruel cosmic joke that Hell still allowed hangovers.

It wasn’t until the afternoon, after a well needed shower, that he finally noticed something unusual. There, on the fourth finger of his left hand was a golden ring.

For a moment he simply stared at it, waiting for his brain to reboot.

Then the memories hit him like a road roller through a children’s parade.

The bar. The drinking. The Alastor.

Him confessing something suspiciously close to feelings.

Alastor twisting it into a marriage proposal.

The chapel. The vows.

Marriage.

Then the green flash. Someone saying something about sharing souls.

Oh no

“OH NO.”

The panic flooded him so fast it nearly flushed the hangover right out.

His first instinct was to call Alastor; his… husband.

He almost threw up again just thinking about the word.

Thankfully, they didn’t need telephones to communicate, he knew Alastor rarely answered to those even though he had evidence that this fucker had one. A few months back, they discovered they could tune their signals to the same radio frequency, like a pair of walkie-talkies. (Vox had to explain what a walkie-talkie was; Alastor spent ten minutes torturing him with the worst and loudest noises echoing in his skull before he learned how to turn it off)

Vox switched his internal systems to the private channel, wincing as the headache scrambled his reception.

“Alastor… Alastor, do you hear me?” he whispered, because normal volume felt like slamming his face against a gong.

Silence.

He tried again, a little louder. “Al! Come on, do you hear me?”

He was about to repeat himself when static suddenly crackled through his head.

Bzzzz—bzzhhh—bzzz

“Vox? My word, you sound like death warmed over. Is this important?”

Vox had never heard Alastor sound this exhausted. He sounded like a man who had been beaten up by a jazz band.

“Yes it’s important! What the hell happened yesterday?!”

The moment he raised his voice, pain stabbed through both of them, and they hissed in unison.

On the other end, Alastor groaned.

“My dear fellow, whatever transpired last night can wait. Try me again in… oh… two to three business days, once this infernal headache quits doing the Charleston on my skull.”

Before Vox could protest, the signal clicked off.

Vox remained frozen in place, ring glinting mockingly at him.

He flopped face-first onto his bed, muffling a long, static-filled groan.

After a short, miserable nap (the kind where you wake up feeling exactly as awful as before) Vox tried contacting Alastor again.

No answer.

Not even static.

Just dead air, in every sense of the phrase.

Fine. If Alastor wanted to play the ghost, Vox would just have to get answers himself.

So he decided it was time for… research.

And by “research,” he meant figuring out what the hell Overlord-marriage actually meant, because the longer he thought about the words “shared souls,” the more he felt his circuitry sweating.

He remembered the Overlord meeting last month, where he’d cornered Carmilla Carmine with his best salesman smile and a pitch about television being the perfect platform to advertise her weaponry empire. She’d been polite; cold, but polite, which was the best he could get coming from her. Vox had promised to contact her about collaborating “soon,” which translated to: I’ll call you when desperation hits.

Desperation had officially hit.

He scribbled out a letter to her, pitching a meeting about “mutually beneficial media expansion.” He also promised “fantastic results” and “minimal costs,” which was Overlord code for: I will lie to your face but deliver something impressive eventually.

As soon as the ink dried, Vox called for Ethan. His assistant appeared instantly, already winded as if he’d sprinted from the next room.

“Get this to Ms. Carmine immediately,” Vox ordered, shoving the envelope into his hands. “If you don’t, I swear you’ll wish you had.”

Ethan nodded so fast his entire head blurred, bolted out the door, and nearly tripped over a cable.

“And get me a large pepperoni pizza on the way back!” Vox added, yelling after him before returning to his desk. He still had an evening news script to go through, and Hell forbid he went on air without seeing first what his writers managed to come up with. Last time he didn't have time for it and ended up reading a script with a big spelling error live, making him look like an idiot. Oh the screams that followed after the show…

There was no rest for a new Overlord, especially one whose entire technological empire was being run by sinners who still struggled to plug cables into the right holes. Television technology in Hell had barely spread beyond the larger circles, and if Vox wanted real reach, he had a mountain of work ahead of him.

He threw himself into his tasks, losing track of time, until Ethan burst back in. He was out of breath, soaked in sweat, and clutching both a letter and a large pizza box.

“Thank you, Ethan,” Vox said, taking them both. “You can take the rest of the day off."

Ethan almost wept with relief before stumbling out.

Vox didn’t like any of his employees. But Ethan was the closest thing to competent, so Vox treated him almost like a real person. Almost.

The moment the office door shut, he inhaled the pizza like a starving hyena. It was the first solid food he’d kept down since the wedding… god, he couldn’t even think the word without wincing.

Once the box was empty, he finally picked up the letter with his name on it, noting Carmilla’s elegant handwriting.

He opened it carefully with a claw and read:

“I can manage to squeeze in our meeting tomorrow, 10 AM.

Signed, Carmilla Carmine.”

Short and sharp. He respected that.

Then a realization hit him:

He’d sent Ethan home.

Which meant he now had to rearrange his entire morning schedule by himself, write the proposal, prepare his talking points, and make himself look presentable. All in less than a day.

He groaned.

“This generation,” he muttered to himself, stomping over to his calendar. “Nobody wants to put in the hard work anymore. Back in my day, you worked your circuits off to impress your boss…” or you just killed your way to the top. That worked too.

He sighed dramatically.

He couldn't wait until some competent people would die and end up working for him. 

He grabbed his pen, took a deep breath, and got back to work, wedding ring glinting mockingly every time he moved his hand.

This would be a long night. 

The next morning, Vox discovered

two things almost simultaneously:

1.  Alastor still wasn't answering his calls.
2. The ring absolutely refused to come off

He'd spent good twenty minutes in front of the bathroom mirror tugging at it with desperation, pouring soap all over it and even considered using a buzzsaw. But something about slicing off his finger felt a bit… drastic.

Eventually he had to accept defeat, shove a glove over it, and pray no one noticed the very obvious ring-shaped bulge underneath.

By the time he finished the morning news broadcast, electrocuted a producer, and downed his third cup of coffee, it was already time for the meeting with Carmilla Carmine.

The presentation was flawless (as expected. He was Vox). And Carmilla was the easiest audience he’d had in weeks: focused, sharp, and already calculating profit margins. She even seemed interested in marketing “everyday weapons” to sinners for self-defense. Perfect.

After an hour of solid planning, they finally reached the only part Vox actually cared about.

Payment.

“How much would you charge for this media campaign?” Carmilla asked, voice calm, sipping from a mug with tea.

Vox sat across from her, laced his fingers together, and let his screen form his most dazzling, ultra-high-definition smile.

“I must say, it’s a tremendous honor being here with the Carmilla Carmine. You’ve been such an inspiration for a developing Overlord like myself! Truly a guiding beacon–”

“Get to the point,” she cut in.

He cleared his throat. “Right. Well. I was thinking… just this once… I could organize the entire campaign for free~.”

Carmilla didn’t react. She just stared, waiting.

He continued, voice lighter than he felt, tapping one finger on the table because the other hand (the ring hand) was locked in place on his lap, hiding it from anyone's sight.

“See, as a relatively new sinner and Overlord, there’s a lot of basic information I… seem to be missing. And since there are absolutely no reliable books about the Pride Ring, believe me, I checked. I was hoping I could ask you a few questions. Nothing invasive, of course. You can refuse anything, naturally.”

Carmilla slowly tilted her head and looked at him with an expression he easily recognized.

It was the same expression Alastor gave him whenever Vox wasn’t sure if he’d delivered a brilliant joke or said something painfully stupid.

A look that screamed: Your charm is not working. Stop trying.

His screen pixelated for half a second from anxiety.

Finally, Carmilla spoke.

“…I’ll answer five questions,” she said. “And I reserve the right to refuse any of them.”

No debate. No wiggle room. Just a cold, ironclad limit.

Vox knew it was the best offer he’d get. So he flashed the brightest smile he could fake, reached out, and shook her hand.

Carmilla released his hand and leaned back in her chair, folding her gloves neatly on the table with practiced poise.

“So,” she said, voice smooth, “what questions do you have?”

Vox cleared his throat, adjusting his tie even though it was perfectly straight. 

“Right! Yes. Questions. Easy.”

He crossed one leg over the other, very deliberately keeping the hand with the damned-stuck ring tucked safely between his knees.

“First question’” he wanted to start with something easy. 

“In terms of hierarchy enforcement; how are disputes between Overlords actually resolved?”

Carmilla answered without hesitation.

“A lot of disputes end in polite agreements, mediated by mutually assured destruction. The rest end in spectacular violence. If I'm not wrong you could ask your friend what happens when Overlords battle”

Vox swallowed the urge to ask how she knew he was close with Alastor but he guessed an observant person like she was, would notice it on their last Overlord meeting just by their body language.

“Second question…” he continued quickly. “Soul dealings. What are the… limitations? For Overlords specifically?”

Carmilla waited a few seconds, pondering if she should answer this or not. Finally she answered with the short version.

“None,” she said. “Except for taking a soul that is already owned. I also recommend staying away from people close to others more powerful than you”

Vox nodded and resisted the urge to tug at the ring.

“Third question,” he said, voice carefully steadying. “Is there any… legal recourse if a soul enters a contract while compromised? Do I have to have their sober consent or something?” 

Carmilla looked almost annoyed answering this, like it should be obvious .

“If anyone was foolish enough to make a binding pact while impaired,” she said, “that’s their problem. The universe does not care if you were drunk, coerced, or concussed. Power recognizes only action, not excuses.”

He tried to hold up his smile but those weren't the answers he was hoping for.

“For my fourth question,” he said, forcing the confidence back up to acceptable levels, “what… would cause an Overlord’s power to change unexpectedly? Not decline, just… shift.”

Carmilla tapped one long nail against her mug, almost deciding not to answer but something told her it was probably for the best to not have an unstable, uneducated, new Overlord on the loose.

“A new pact. A broken pact. A soul exchange. Emotional compromise…” She thought for a second. “Or marriage. Those are the usual triggers.”

“Marriage?” Vox acted surprised, “Overlords can get married here? Is it different from marriage on earth?”

Carmilla stared at him.

Stared.

Hard.

For a second he thought she could read right through him.

“For a normal sinner married to an Overlord, it’s essentially a glorified soul contract. They give up autonomy, the Overlord gains certain rights, and the sinner gets to use a small part of the Overlord's power.”

Vox swallowed.

“And if two Overlords marry?”

“They exchange fifty percent of their souls,” Carmilla said, blunt as a gunshot. “Shared contracts. Shared vulnerability. Shared consequences. And if one sells their souls to someone else… well.” She took a calm sip of her drink. “They both suffer from the outcome.”

Vox’s screen glitched with static for half a second.

“Fascinating,” he squeaked, having to count to ten to calm down. 

Their meeting finally came to an end. Vox thanked Carmilla for her time with all the polite grace he could muster, promising remarkable results with the new campaign.

Once outside her building, he immediately tried calling Alastor again.

Still nothing.

Vox took a deep breath as a heavy, cold realization settled in his chest.

He might be new, sure.

But he wasn’t fucking stupid.

Alastor had planned this.

And Vox… Vox was most probably in deep shit.

Like “should’ve read the fine print but was too busy staring at the bastard’s stupid smile” levels of deep shit.

He had no other choice now.

He had to find Alastor himself.

Which normally would’ve been impossible; the Radio Demon’s home location was a mystery even to other Overlords.

But after a year of their friendship, a lot of new tech gadgets and months of stalking with absolutely no shame…

Vox had finally cracked it.

He’d found Alastor’s address.

Not easy. Tracking down a professional serial killer who practically invented the concept of covering one’s tracks was almost impossible but it wasn't his first rodeo and Vox had always loved a challenge.

The walk across the Pride Ring was long, but it gave him time to sort through the disaster known as his thoughts.

Could this all still… maybe… possibly, be Alastor actually wanting to marry him? Just because he… liked hi—

Nope.

Absolutely not.

He was not that naïve.

(But it had been a nice second and a half of delusion.)

Fuck.

That bastard really got him.

He respected that.

But still.

Finally, he stepped onto the right street, one of the worst in the entire Pride Ring. The road was empty, but Vox could feel eyes on him, crawling across his back like bugs.

There were no lights anywhere.

The only illumination was the dim red glow of Hell’s sun yet somehow, the shadows still managed to look darker than they had any right to. Almost… aware. As if they were moving. Whispering. Giggling.

(He was 90% sure it was Alastor’s influence.)

The half-standing walls were riddled with bullet holes, claw marks, blood stains, and several suspiciously sinner-shaped smears.

Vox decided he did not want to analyze any of it.

Walking into the apartment building felt borderline illegal, like trespassing in a haunted house. A deep, gut-twisting fear crept into him. A fear he hadn’t felt since he was a child.

And suddenly, it made perfect sense why no one ever found Alastor’s home.

No one sane would willingly walk in here.

He climbed the creaking stairs, each step sounding exactly like from a horror movie.

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” he muttered. Everything about this place was a big horror cliché, there's no way Alastor could still claim that he has never watched a horror movie.

It had the exact same vibe as Alastor himself: creepy, unsettling, old-fashioned, and yet somehow… classy.

Finally, after what felt like two entire centuries, he reached a plain old apartment door. He raised his hand to knock… and froze.

There was a note taped to it.

In neat handwriting.

With a tiny drawn smiley face.

He felt his whole system crash.

It read:

“Congratulations! You found me.

I wouldn’t expect any less from my husband.

I would congratulate you in person, but I’m currently visiting Rosie. (She sends her regards.)

Hugs and kisses ♡

—Alastor”

Vox stood there, completely dumbfounded, once again.

Chapter Text

Alastor practically floated down the sidewalks of Pentagram City, whistling a bright tune. His walk was light, his grin impossibly wide, and in his arms he carried a lush bouquet of deep red roses. Far too nice for the mood of the streets and absolutely perfect for the one person he hoped to charm.

His spirits were high. Miraculously, his whiskey-hazed brain from two nights before had produced a rather elegant solution to his predicament. Marriage.

Why, how had he never considered it before? A perfectly legal loophole, an elegant technicality! Half his soul still locked away in Rosie’s neat little contract, and now the other half bound to Vox. Not exactly free but he could work with it!

He straightened his best suit, set his smile to “dazzle,” and stepped through the polished doors of Franklin & Rosie’s Emporium.

“Alastor!” Rosie called the moment she saw him, her voice sweet with hospitality and sour with everything else. “How delightful to see you upright, conscious, and not bellowing into some poor woman’s telephone line at three in the morning.”

“Rosie, my dear!” Alastor swept forward, offering the roses. “You grow lovelier every passing second. Tell me, where is our dear Franklin?”

“Franklin is moping somewhere in the back.” She sighed theatrically. “Domestic bliss is terribly glamorous, you know. I assume you understand that now, given your… recent developments.” She led him toward her office with a perfectly poised sway of the hips.

“My memory serves me right, doesn’t it?” she continued. “Your new… spouse is that television-box gentleman I met at the Overlord meeting?”

Alastor puffed up proudly. “Ah, your memory is as impeccable as ever! Yes indeed! I am now happily, gloriously, undeniably married to Vox.”

He flashed his new ring before her eyes.

They sat across from each other at her spotless desk, smiling with that polite sharpness only two Overlords could manage; both grinning, both ready to bite.

Rosie set up a pot of tea with a flick. “I must admit,” she said, “I am rather disappointed to have received my wedding invitation with such a short notice. It is quite undignified, Alastor, to do something so irreversible while you were… shall we say, ‘out of your head.’”

Alastor took his teacup delicately. “Ah! But spontaneity is the spice of—”

She cut him off with a narrowing of her eyes sharp enough to slice glass.

“Does your husband know what a scheming little weasel you are?”

“Oh, I should hope so!” Alastor chirped, crossing his legs with exaggerated grace. “He’s a rascal himself, truth be told. One might even say,” his grin widened, “a match made in heaven!”

Rosie inhaled slowly through her nose, smiling a smile that didn’t reach her eyes.

“You think you’re terribly clever, don’t you? Pulling strings, wriggling free of your obligations, using that poor newly-minted Overlord as a loophole in your contract.”

“I merely applied ingenuity, my dear.”

“Mm-hm.” She set down her teacup with a soft click. “But do you know what I think?”

Her smile softened into something far too knowing.

“I think,” she said lightly, “you actually like him.”

Alastor blinked.

He had braced himself for scolding. For threats. For Rosie to lecture him about irresponsibility, drunken decision-making, and contract etiquette.

But this?

“Excuse me?” His grin froze.

Rosie leaned back in her chair, folding her hands with the elegance of a queen.

“Oh, don’t play naïve with me. You’re insufferable, but you’re not stupid. I’ve watched you two dance around each other like a pair of snickering youths. All that posturing, the bickering, the rivalry, goodness, it’s practically romantic. And you,” she pointed her spoon at him, “are not the type to do anything as sentimental as marriage unless there’s a sliver of genuine fondness tangled up in your scheming.”

Alastor sputtered “Rosie, that is preposterous, slanderous, and frankly–”

“Adorable,” she declared, interrupting Alastor’s sputtering. “Who on earth would suspect that the mighty, fearsome Radio Demon would fall for a walking television set? Oh, Alastor, darling, I am delighted.”

She dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief as she continued to laugh, shoulders trembling. “Truly, I did not know you were capable of such… evolution. Falling for technological progress, my, my.”

Alastor’s ears fell so flat they practically drooped off his skull. Ridicule. In his presence. In his best suit. Absolutely unacceptable.

He stood so sharply his teacup rattled. His smile twitched, strained not to crack. “My dearest Rosie, I regret to inform you that you are utterly, entirely, spectacularly mistaken. Vox has been nothing but a blight upon my good name since the day we met.”

“Mm-hmm,” Rosie hummed, lifting her tea once more. “And yet here you are, blushing like a schoolgirl at her first dance when I so much as mention the notion.”

Alastor’s hands flew to his cheeks in horror. He hadn’t even felt it happening. 

He opened his mouth, searching desperately for a dignified explanation. Annoyance, irritation, a mild allergic reaction, literally anything but not a single excuse could justify such a reaction from him.

He swallowed hard. Straightened his bow. Collected what remained of his dignity.

“Well!” he announced too loudly, “thank you for the charming tea, my dear. You are, as always, positively delightful.”

His exit line fell from his lips like a blade. And he turned on his heel to flee before she could say anything else.

“Do visit again soon, Alastor!” Rosie called brightly after him. “And next time, don’t forget to bring your new husband!”

Her grin followed him all the way out the door.

Alastor marched down the street, his microphone tapping far too aggressively for a man who claimed to be calm.

Feelings.

Him?

Utterly preposterous.

He could admit, purely in the spirit of honesty, that Vox was… occasionally less insufferable than the general people of Hell. At times even interesting. And yes, they’d shared a few late-night conversations about their former lives and respective homicidal hobbies, but sentiment? Attachment? Fondness?

Ridiculous.

Vox was nothing more than the unfortunate but necessary key to his freedom.

A tool.

A bright, loud, irritating, puppy-eyed tool.

By the time he’d walked long enough to cool the humiliation simmering under his skin, he waved a hand and opened a portal. Home. Silence. Control. Somewhere he could regain composure.

Or so he thought.

The moment he stepped inside, his desk chair spun dramatically (unnecessarily so) around 180°.

And there sat his husband.

Vox leaned forward, fingers laced on his knees, eyes narrowed, screen flickering with irritation and something else, something that almost looked like hurt.

“Well, well, well…” Vox said, voice tight. “Look who finally decided to show up.”

Alastor clasped his hands behind his back. “Vox! What a pleasant surprise. Most impressive to see you’ve managed to locate my dwelling. Though I should have expected nothing less from you.”

“You didn’t answer my calls,” Vox said, ignoring the compliment. “And before you say anything; no, I wasn’t calling your radio frequency so you could serenade me with static. I was trying to talk. Properly.”

Alastor waved a hand. “My apologies, darling. I was occupied with…other obligations.”

“Other obligations,” Vox echoed. “Right. Like ditching me after tricking me into marriage without even buying me dinner first.”

Alastor clicked his tongue. “Now, Vox, don’t make it sound like you were coerced. You were drunk, yes, but hardly unwilling. You all but swooned.”

Vox’s screen glitched. “I did NOT swoon.”

Alastor tapped him lightly on the chest. “If you insist.”

Vox’s face may have turned a lighter shade of blue but he did not smile. He didn’t even fake one.

“Cut the crap, Al.” He sat back. “I’ve learned things today. Important things.”

“Oh, delightful,” Alastor replied with a chuckle. “Education suits you.”

“Great,” Vox snapped, “then maybe you’ll appreciate my new knowledge. For example, do you know how Overlord marriage works?”

Alastor’s smile froze a millisecond too long.

Vox leaned forward again.

Enjoying this.

And furious.

“If an Overlord marries a normal sinner? It’s basically a soul contract with rings.” He tapped the metal band on his finger, which still refused to come off. “Cute, manageable. Y’know.”

Static crackled faintly from Alastor’s fingertips.

“But,” Vox continued, “if two Overlords get married… they share half of their souls. Getting basically tied up together.”

A beat.

A heavy beat.

Alastor’s smile stretched a little thinner. “Mm. Yes. Tied. Quite a word.”

“And I want to know,” Vox continued, leaning in, “why you did it. What the hell is going on?”

Alastor sighed dramatically, as though Vox were the unreasonable one here.

“Very well. If you must know, I am not solely tied to you.”

Vox froze.

“…What.”

“I am bound,” Alastor said, adjusting his bow, “to Rosie as well.”

“ROSIE?!” Vox nearly short-circuited. “Your soul is what… shared?! Like a child of a divorce?!"

“Well, perhaps not exactly," Alastor mused, “You and I share souls, whereas she simply owns mine… or I dare to say our souls now. Or at least half of it!”

Vox’s screen flashed in outrage. “So let me get this straight. You married me to get halfway out of your contract with her? And now we are not only sharing souls but also OWNED BY HER?!”

“What can I say?” Alastor said pleasantly, clasping his hands behind his back. “You were the one who proposed.”

“Alastor.” Vox stood. “You owe me the truth. All of it. Because you dragged me into this, and I’m not letting you play with my soul.”

Alastor’s smile flickered.

Just for a moment.

Then it returned. Bright, sharp, and evasive.

“Oh, Vox,” he said softly, stepping closer, “if you insist on playing husband, you should know; some doors are better left unopened.”

Vox glared at him, unblinking. “Try me.”

They stood inches apart. Alastor’s smile stayed perfectly in place, but his ears betrayed him; angled back, tense, uncomfortable. Vox didn’t move, didn’t blink, didn’t breathe. The room felt like the air thickened.

Alastor could normally twist any tension into a joke, a jab, a jaunty tune. But this moment wouldn’t bend. Or maybe… he simply didn’t want to bend it.

Rosie was wrong, of course. He didn’t have feelings, he refused the thought outright. He hadn’t trusted anyone since his mother, and he certainly wasn’t about to start now. But the way Vox was looking at him, searching him, challenging him, made something in Alastor’s stomach twist in a way he deeply resented.

He turned away, hands clasping behind his back. “Well. If you must know…” He took several seconds longer than necessary to compose himself. “I made a bargain with Rosie. When I was still alive. A small favor in exchange for… considerable assistance once I arrived here.”

“What favor?” Vox asked immediately.

Alastor nearly flinched. He hadn’t even heard him move. Suddenly Vox was right behind him, head tilted slightly, arms crossed, too close for someone who claimed to be furious.

“That,” Alastor said slowly, “is something you will have to ask Rosie. I am bound by contract to silence.”

He turned, expecting anger, accusations, maybe even a spark of violence but instead Vox’s screen flickered once, and then:

A chuckle.

A real, genuine chuckle.

Which grew quickly into full laughter.

Alastor stared, smile twitching with pure annoyance as Vox practically folded in half from laughing.

“Oh my god–” Vox wheezed, clutching his side. “I can’t– I cannot believe this. The great Radio Demon, the nightmare of everyone in the Pride Ring, actually pre-ordered his powers! You’re a fraud!”

The static that erupted around Alastor vibrated the very walls. His form stretched, distorted limbs grew, antlers branched out like wicked trees, voice dropping into a bass-lined snarl.

“B̴͎̭̜̜̽̂ḛ̵̢̛͑͝ ̵̨͚̠̊́͋v̶̦̆̋̚͝ë̷̫͎̲́̽̓r̸͔͙̮̒͠ỹ̵͓̘ ̸̨̣̾͠ͅͅċ̵͙̌̐̋â̸̮͎͙̩r̷̜̝̖̺̎̈̊͘e̷̜̹̞̅͛͝f̵͍̙͛̃̍͜ù̶̠̝̖̈̆͝l̷̰̔̌ ̶̬̘͗͘w̵͎̜͆̓h̴̟̮̜̓ͅo̸̙̮̳̚͝ ̸̼̘̋ỹ̷̱͕̪̰͛o̵͎͔̎͐̊̕u̷̙̯̦̻͗̏ ̴̛̲̘͂͗͜͝ĉ̶̙͎͕̘͛͘ā̷̲̉͐͝ḷ̵̗̎l̶̖̞͌̅͛ ̶͕̈́͘à̸̧̼̬̽̋̐ ̸̨̪̙̻͛͊f̴̢͚͍̀́r̵̬̥̣͈̈́̇a̶͎̳̾ú̷͙͛d̵͙̠͓͌͗̒.”

Vox didn’t even flinch. If anything, he looked mortified at himself for laughing.

“No, no, listen!” he protested, waving both hands in front of him. “I respect it, okay? Hell, if I’d had half a brain when I was alive, I would’ve done the same. It’s smart!”

Alastor’s oversized silhouette simmered down, reluctantly shrinking back to normal. The static softened until the lamps stopped rattling.

Vox continued. “But honestly? That clears up a ton. I’ve been asking around, and nobody, absolutely nobody could figure out how you rose so fast. Like, overnight fast. It drove some of them crazy.”

Alastor’s ears perked despite himself. Praise, even begrudging praise, always found its mark.

“Wait, wait, let’s back up!” Vox snapped, the pitch of his voice climbing. “You manipulated me into basically selling my soul to another Overlord! I should be the one furious here!”

Even if Alastor had just opened up, Vox was still pacing, still livid, still looking like he wanted to throttle him with the nearest cord.

“I want a divorce!” he shouted, jabbing a finger at Alastor like an accusation.

Alastor blinked once, dry and unimpressed.

“Hmmm… no.”

“No? What do you mean no?!” Vox squawked. “How do we divorce?! There has to be a way!”

They looked, for one ridiculous moment, like two spoiled children arguing over a toy both of them had broken.

“Vox,” Alastor sighed dramatically, hand drifting up to his own forehead like some fainting Victorian widow, “you wound me. Just two days ago you were stumbling over your feet to propose, and now divorce? In my time, no one divorced. They simply lived in quiet mutual misery until death.” He paused. “You modern sinners are so… wanton.”

“Oh, spare me the ‘in my day’ routine!” Vox threw his hands up. “I didn’t know what the deal meant! I’m not about to be dragged into some contract with an Overlord I barely even–”

“Well,” Alastor cut him off, spinning his microphone lazily as he walked past him, “you do get the benefits.”

Vox froze mid-rant, antennas lifting like a cat hearing a can open.

“…Benefits?”

“Of course, dear!” Alastor whirled around with a sharp grin. “You didn’t think I’d pull you into chaos without a prize at the end, did you? Sharing half of our souls means…” he tapped his chest lightly, “...sharing half of our power.”

Vox’s entire frame went still. His fingers twitched. His screen flickered.

Sharing power. With Alastor.

That was… unhinged. Unthinkable. Unbelievably tempting.

“And with Rosie’s deal in the equation…” Alastor continued, stepping in close enough for his breath to ghost across Vox’s cheek, “we become something rather… unstoppable.” His hands settled on Vox’s shoulders, a faint green glow blooming where skin met cloth. “Imagine it, darling. You and I. The entire of Hell bending before us. Not Overlords; Gods.”

Vox swallowed, pupils dilating into a cold, eerie glow.

Godhood.

Recognition.

Awe.

Fear.

He saw it. All of it, laid before him.

But then the fantasy flickered.

And he snapped out of it.

“How do I know,” he said tightly, “you won’t turn on me?” He tried to pull back, but Alastor followed, steps soundless, smile tightening with something too soft to be safe.

Vox didn’t trust him. He liked him, God, he liked him, but that didn’t mean he trusted him. 

Alastor could’ve laughed, could’ve taunted. Instead, for the first time in a very, very long time, something faltered behind his smile.

“That,” he said quietly, lifting Vox’s hand and guiding it to his chest, “is the beautiful part, sweetheart.”

He leaned in, lips brushing dangerously close to Vox’s ear.

“The marriage makes it impossible for us to harm each other. Not even a scratch. If you get hurt… I get hurt. If I bleed… so do you. Our souls are tied in a perfect knot.”

“And I,” Alastor murmured, voice warm and crawling under Vox’s skin, “have no desire to harm myself.”

That wasn’t reassurance.

That was seduction dipped in logic.

Manipulation laced with something he couldn’t define. Something dangerously close to sincerity.

Vox stood there, staring at him.

Breathing shallow.

Heart racing.

Want gnawing at sense.

A future where they ruled Hell.

Together.

A future where Alastor couldn’t betray him because betraying Vox meant betraying himself.

It was everything Vox ever wanted served on a silver platter by the one man he shouldn’t trust.

“…Well, dear husband,” Vox purred, his grin stretching wider as realization lit up his screen, “this can only mean one thing.”

Before Alastor could question it, Vox caught his hands and pulled him in, guiding him backwards in a sweeping motion like the first step of a dramatic ballroom dip. The Radio Demon let out a startled breath, claws instinctively digging into Vox’s shoulders for balance, ears flicking upward in surprise.

Alastor arched a brow, half confused, half amused by the sudden theatrics.

Vox leaned over him with a smirk that was all trouble and triumph. “It means,” he said slowly, savoring each word, “this calls for a celebration.”

The room hummed softly with static, a mix of TV and radio, the tension between them shifting. No longer hostile, but charged, curious, undeniably intimate.

Chapter Text

“That’s your best suit?” Alastor asked, staring as Vox stepped out of his room looking like a high-schooler who’s mom got him his first tuxedo.

Vox did a full spin anyway. “Hey, it’s not that bad! And ever since I died, I’ve been more of a vest guy! It suits me.”

Alastor didn't agree but he didn't deny it either so he saw it as a win.

Vox frowned at the mirror. He knew damn well the tuxedo looked like something a desperate sinner would rent for prom night. In fact, he wanted to burn it. Unfortunately, Hell’s tailoring industry appeared to be mostly scammers and he was tired of electrocuting everyone who didn't meet his standards. And he will not admit to Alastor he can't even manage to find a tailor.

Alastor lounged across the couch, kicking his feet in the air like a teenage girl. “I simply cannot allow my husband to stroll into Cannibal Town looking like… that. You’ll be eaten faster than the appetizers.”

“Well, excuse me,” Vox groaned, dropping beside him. “Some of us don’t own fifteen identical red suits. I have options. Two. Very tragic options. The marine blazer with that turtleneck wasn't that bad! It's quite stylish!

“And while you did look ‘stylish,’ it was not proper attire to meet a lady.” Alastor pointed out.

Vox slid lower on the couch like a dying plant.

“Well, these are all the clothes I have.”

Alastor shot upright. “Then we’ll simply have to fix that!”

Alastor grabbed Vox by the wrist and yanked him to his feet, positively delighted.

“I know the best tailor in all seven rings.”

“Al, please, can we walk–”

Too late. The world snapped sideways as Alastor teleported them.

A second later, Vox stumbled out onto the sidewalk, clutching his stomach and leaning forward like someone who just rode ten roller coasters at once.

“Hhhh… oh my god– I hate when you do that,” he wheezed.

“Oh, don’t exaggerate, dear,” Alastor said, patting Vox’s back.

Vox zapped him out of pure spite.

A sharp spark snapped across Alastor’s palm… and at the same time Vox hissed and clutched his own hand, shaking it like someone slapped it with a ruler and muttered something aggressively under his breath. 

At least he knew the “Can't hurt each other” rule worked.

Alastor pretended not to hear it, straightened his suit, and dramatically pushed open the shop door.

The moment they stepped inside, the little bell over the door gave a jingle. A scrawny sinner in a pinstripe vest peeked up from behind the counter.

“Oh my Lord, Mister Alastor,” he squeaked, voice cracking. “What an… unforeseen delight! How may I be of service today?”

Alastor didn’t bother hiding his amusement. He strolled forward and rested his laced fingers neatly on the counter, leaning in with a smile so polite anyone would be uncomfortable.

“It isn’t I who require your impeccable craftsmanship, my good man.” He stepped aside just enough to gesture grandly at Vox. “It is my dear companion who seeks your expert eye.”

The tailor’s gaze drifted down. First to Alastor’s hand, where the golden wedding band glinted in the shop lights. Then he turned to Vox, spotted the matching ring, and visibly gulped. His jaw opened, shut, opened again. Somewhere behind his eyes, mental math was happening.

“Y-you… of course! Naturally! A pleasure, a tremendous honor! How may I help you today?” he stammered, snapping into work mode so fast he nearly pulled a muscle.

“We need an elegant suit for this dazzling television set,” Alastor declared. Vox elbowed him for that one. “And we need it quickly. Tell me, could you manage something in, say… two hours?”

The tailor didn’t answer directly. He simply marched out from behind the counter and immediately began circling Vox with a tape measure.

Vox lifted his arms without being told, watching with mild interest as the tailor ducked around him, muttering numbers under his breath.

“Any particular style, color, or cut, sir?” the tailor asked while writing things down.

“Yes,” Vox said, finally sounding like himself. Confident. Sharp. “A darker blue, midnight or navy, not cobalt. Tailcoat preferred. Standard notch lapel, nothing flashy. And real wool, not whatever synthetic garbage you sinners keep trying to pass as fabric.” He wrinkled his nose. “The lining should match my aesthetic; something sleek, maybe a silvery tone to contrast the blue.”

The tailor froze mid-scribble, eyes wide. “O-of course, sir. Naturally, sir. Real wool. Only real wool.”

Alastor watched Vox with a small, satisfied curl of his lips. He always enjoyed when Vox actually knew what he was talking about. It was… charming. Not that Alastor would ever admit that aloud. He just hummed approvingly, leaning his elbow on the counter and pretending not to listen too intently as Vox continued talking about lapel structure, button placement, and the horrors of badly matched threads.

“Impressive, darling,” Alastor said lightly once Vox finished a surprisingly detailed explanation about tailcoat silhouettes. “I had no idea you were such a connoisseur.”

Vox shrugged, trying and failing to hide how pleased he was. “Of course I am. Any self respecting man should know his way around suits. Especially if they're a public figure.”

“You say that as if you didn't wear the dorkiest vest five minutes ago,” Alastor whispered sweetly. 

Vox elbowed him again. The tailor flinched like he expected an explosion.

“Hey, if you want to earn people's trust you have to look harmless” Vox argued. “You wouldn't know, a walking horror movie stereotype” he grinned at Alastor, looking him up and down.

“I have no idea what you're talking about dear, I have never seen one of those “horrifying films” you're talking about” Alastor tilted his head in an innocent way. 

“Uh-huh” Vox had a hard time believing it.

Once he finished the measurements, the tailor bowed and hurried to gather fabric samples.

“It will be done in two hours, sirs. I’ll prioritize it immediately,” he promised, voice trembling but sincere.

Vox reached for his wallet out of habit. “Alright, what’s the total? I can pay now.”

“Oh! No, no, no, absolutely not!” The tailor nearly slapped the wallet out of Vox’s hand. “Please, sir, I insist, it’s free. No payment required. None at all. Consider it… ah… an honor. A privilege to be able to make something for mister Alastor’s special friend.”

Vox blinked, then slowly pocketed the wallet. “Right. Sure. Great customer service.”

They stepped out of the tailor’s shop with two whole hours to kill. Vox immediately exhaled.

“I really should get back to work while we wait,” Vox muttered, rubbing what would be his temples when he was a human. It was the understatement of the entire century. Between waiting half the day for Alastor yesterday, and spending all morning with him, he had postponed six meetings, ignored three memos, and had to ghost Ethan, silently escaping through his office window.

He turned to go, only for Alastor to smoothly hook two fingers around his elbow.

“Nonsense,” Alastor said with a bright smile. “Breaks are essential! Even for electronic appliances like yourself. And this… ah, this is the perfect time for lunch.”

Before Vox could object, Alastor was already tugging him down the street with alarming confidence.

“And,” Alastor added, voice sing-song sweet, “I do not take no for an answer.”

Vox knew it was irresponsible. He knew he would regret it. He also knew Alastor’s hand was warm around his arm and, well, he wasn’t about to pass up a lunch with his husband. It almost felt like a date~. 

“Fiiine,” he groaned dramatically. “But I’m picking the restaurant.”

He stopped being dragged and (without quite noticing) caught Alastor’s wrist, then shifted to his hand, tugging him decisively toward the direction of the restaurant.

Alastor noticed immediately.

Vox… absolutely did not.

The TV Demon marched forward, talking, gesturing with his free hand, looking everywhere except at the fingers still curled around his.

Alastor followed quietly, his smile stretched wide, his ears high with interest. He didn’t comment. Didn’t tease. Didn’t pull away. Just allowed Vox to lead him.

They walked hand-in-hand for a full block before Vox realized what they were doing. He jolted and immediately dropped Alastor’s hand.

“Sorry! Sorry. That was… habit? Accident? Stroke?” Vox sputtered, trying to avoid a disaster.

Surprisingly Alastor didn't have much of a reaction. 

“No harm done,” he said calmly and they continued walking. Vox had a hard time believing it.

They took up the conversation where it ended before, having a pleasant walk. 

“You know,” Vox said, “I recently discovered I can teleport too.”

“Is that so?” Alastor asked, sounding genuinely interested.

“Yeah! I think it’s only through radio waves. I can jump short distances between cameras, TVs, transmitters, still trying to figure out the mechanics. There’s a resonance factor involved, maybe some kind of frequency tether, and–”

He stopped when he noticed Alastor watching him. Watching him, not judging, not mocking… just listening, the way people do when they’re fascinated by something they don’t understand.

Alastor liked when Vox talked with expertise. Vox could see it. He wasn’t sure what to do with the realization, so he panicked and kept rambling.

“Anyway, uh, point is, soon I won’t need you to teleport me anymore.”

Alastor clicked his tongue. “How tragic. I’ll lose my most entertaining travel companion.”

“Companion?” Vox repeated, voice cracking.

“Mm-hm.”

Vox’s screen glitched.

Alastor leaned closer. “Besides… you do exaggerate. My teleportation isn’t that bad.”

“It feels like my organs get rearranged alphabetically,” Vox retorted. “I would rather walk through all seven rings on foot.”

“Perhaps you’re simply sensitive,” Alastor purred, enjoying every second of how easily Vox bristled.

“Sensitive?” Vox hissed under his breath. “I’ll show you sensitive–”

Alastor was grinning too hard, clearly delighted that Vox had taken the bait. Vox’s irritation was so predictable at this point that Alastor could probably set his clocks by it.

He didn't continue, sensing Alastor was playing with him. 

They finally arrived in front of a bright diner that seemed far too cheerful to exist in Hell. Neon lights buzzed over checkered floors and cushy red leather booths. The place smelled like grilled meat, frying oil, and milkshakes.

“This,” Vox announced triumphantly as he marched inside, “is my absolute favorite diner. Best burgers in the entire Pentagram City. And their milkshakes? Divine. If I still had arteries, they’d clog in joy.”

Alastor stared around the room like he had stepped into a crime scene. “You and your fast food,” he sighed, taking a seat across from him. “If you weren’t already dead, your diet alone would have finished the job.”

“Oh yes, forgive me, Your High Nutritional Majesty,” Vox quipped as he slid into the booth. “I forgot we have a professional dietician here. A cannibal. Very inspiring.”

A waitress approached, trembling so hard her pen nearly rattled out of her hand. She clearly lost the internal staff gamble on who had to serve them. 

“W-what can I get you?” she asked, voice cracking up. 

“We’ll have two cheeseburgers, one coffee, and a big chocolate milkshake,” Vox said, not even glancing up from the menu.

Alastor raised an eyebrow. “Someone is quite assertive today.”

Vox immediately got embarrassed . “Sorry! Sorry. I just, look, you need to try their burgers. And I figured you’d prefer coffee over soda.”

Well he wasn't wrong. Alastor looked amused, borderline pleased, before hiding it behind his normal grin. 

“But I have been wondering something,” Vox continued, resting his cheek in his palm and studying Alastor closely.

“Oh?” Alastor returned the stare with a lazy tilt of his head.

“Well… your cannibal tendencies.” Vox said it gently, genuinely curious. “Is that something you brought from your human life, or did Hell… encourage it?”

“If you must know,” Alastor began in a smooth, nostalgic tone, “I sampled human meat in life, but strictly for ritual purposes.”

“But once I arrived in Hell in this delightful part-deer form… well, cravings appeared. Deepened. And being friends with the Overlord of Cannibals certainly helped cultivate the habit.”

“That’s… actually fascinating,” Vox admitted, his screen glowing softly with interest. “I’ve wondered how people with different forms taste. Like, if someone has chicken legs or horns or feathers, does it affect uh… the flavor?”

“It varies,” Alastor said thoughtfully. “A sinner with chicken attributes tastes faintly of poultry but still mostly human. Though quality differs from sinner to sinner.”

Vox nodded like he was taking mental notes. Alastor leaned in, eyes gleaming.

“I must confess…” he purred, “ever since I met you, I’ve wondered what you might taste like. Would your blood crackle like electricity on the tongue? Would your meat tingle like licking a battery?”

Vox choked on absolutely nothing. His screen glitched violently before resolving into a bright blue blush as if his face had short-circuited.

“A-Ah, well, I mean, I guess… uh… maybe a bit like shark?” Vox squeaked.

“Shark, hmm?” Alastor rested his chin on his palms, staring at him like he was the most interesting entree on the menu. “Delightful. I’ve never eaten shark.”

“Some of my design features are shark-inspired, I think!” Vox rambled desperately, trying to bury his embarrassment under fun facts. “Did you know shark fin soup is considered a delicacy in parts of China and Southeast Asia? They serve it at weddings, but the fin is mostly for texture–”

Mercifully, the waitress returned with their food, interrupting Vox’s panic-spiral.

However, instead of placing the drinks separately like any reasonable, non-sadistic waitress would, she set massive chocolate milkshake right in the center. Two long, curly straws spiraled out of the whipped-cream mountain.

Vox’s screen flickered. Oh great. Perfect. Fantastic. Now they looked like teenagers on their very first outing at some diner. He could practically hear the romantic background music.

He reached out, grabbed the cup with both hands like it was a lifeline, yanked it toward his side of the table, and jammed his mouth over one of the straws. The dramatic slurp did absolutely nothing to calm the overheating in his circuitry.

Across from him, Alastor’s grin stretched even wider, clearly delighted. Vox being flustered was apparently his new favorite form of entertainment.

“Well now,” Alastor’s eyes gleaming with mischief, “you were right. This milkshake does look divine. I believe I’ll have a taste, if that’s all right with you.”

Vox opened his mouth to protest, but Alastor didn’t give him the chance.

He leaned forward across the table, slow and deliberate, until he was close. Too close. Vox could feel Alastor’s breath brush against his screen a half-second before the demon wrapped his lips around the other straw and took a long sip.

Vox’s entire screen froze.

Static. Then a flash of color bars. A few scattered pixels attempting to form words that looked suspiciously like SYSTEM ERROR. His processors tried to reboot, panic-flaring so hard he nearly knocked over the fries.

Alastor sat back, wiping a trace of whipped cream from his lip with a clawed thumb.

“Mm. Too sweet for me,” he announced, clearly amused as he watched Vox’s display glitch in sheer mortification.

He even chuckled.

Neither of them noticed the journalist tucked away in a booth across the diner. Camera already out, lens already zoomed, just in time to snap a perfectly incriminating photo of the two of them sharing a milkshake, their hands so clearly showing their rings.

They finished their lunch, Alastor actually enjoying the meal (even if he would sooner gnaw off his own arm than admit it out loud). He dabbed at the corner of his mouth with a napkin like he wasn’t secretly impressed that Vox managed to pick a place that didn’t serve “culinary atrocities.”

The walk back to the tailor ended up being dramatically shorter, thanks to Vox deciding now was the perfect moment to show off his new fast-travel abilities. He challenged Alastor to a race before the deer demon could protest, then promptly blurred off through a TV set in a display window of an electronic store.

Alastor, not one to decline a chase, simply warped himself into a shadow and stepped out right outside the tailor.

“Wait-! Wait until-” Vox wheezed, bent forward with his hands on his knees as Alastor watched him. His screen glitched with static as he sucked in a breath. “Wait until television spreads across all of Hell. There’ll be a camera on every corner and then, then you will never beat me again.”

He paused to take three more dramatic breaths before straightening up like nothing happened.

Alastor flashed him that smug little “uh-huh, sure” smile before stepping inside the tailor’s shop.

“Mister Alastor and his… companion! Perfectly on time!” the tailor chirped, far too pleased for someone dealing with two Overlords. He ushered them behind the counter toward the changing room.

Vox took the offered box and disappeared behind the curtain. A suspicious amount of rustling and muffled curses followed. Finally, he stepped out and even Alastor froze.

Vox stood there in midnight-blue dress pants and a matching tailcoat with soft light-blue pinstripes that matched the lining. An elegant white shirt peeked out underneath, crisp and perfectly fitted.

But the winner was the bow tie: a deep, rich blue with a bright center, an unmistakable echo of Alastor’s own.

For the first time in ages, Alastor was… stunned. His grin froze for a second. Just a second. Vox looked good in a suit, annoyingly good. And worse, it fit him perfectly. Like a glove.

Alastor snapped his composure back into place before Vox could notice.

“Well, well… who would’ve expected a glorified TV set like you to clean up so nicely?”

Vox turned in the mirror, admiring the sharp lines and tailored fit.

“Wow. It feels so good to be back in a nice suit. I’m finally in my element!”

“Yes, yes, you look adequately presentable to meet Rosie. Shall we?” Alastor stepped aside and held the door for him.

Vox walked out first, leaving Alastor just enough time to whirl back toward the tailor.

“I expect ten more of these suits, designed, sewn, and delivered next week. Keep the blue theme. You have a good eye my friend.” His voice dropped to a silky-terrifying whisper. “I will provide an address later.”

The tailor went pale enough to rival a ghost.

“Y-yes! O-of course, sir!”

Alastor vanished through the door before Vox could notice he’d stayed behind for a moment.

Tired of walking the entire way to Cannibal Town (and ignoring Vox’s very dramatic protests) Alastor simply grabbed him by the elbow and teleported them right onto the edge of the square.

Vox immediately doubled over like he’d been hit by a truck.

He heaved.

He gagged.

He muttered curses for at least a few minutes.

Alastor only watched, hands politely folded behind his back, his smirk showing someone who enjoyed suffering just a bit too much.

“Are–” gasp “are you TRYING to kill me?” Vox wheezed.

“Oh do get a grip,” Alastor hummed. “It builds character.”

When Vox finally reassembled his internal organs, they stepped into Rosie’s shop

The bell chimed. The scent of sugar and… something vaguely meaty filled the air.

“Alastor!” Rosie walked toward them, her skirt swishing. “You’re back, and with your new hubby, I see.”

A few cannibal women stationed around the counter perked up, waving at Alastor with shy smiles.

Alastor ignored them completely.

Vox, however, memorized every one of their faces.

“It’s so wonderful to see you again, Mrs. Rosie!” Vox stepped forward, turning on a polished, old-Hollywood grin. “Even more enchanting than I remember.”

He lifted her hand and kissed it, a perfect gentleman’s bow.

Rosie giggled behind her fingers. “My, my. Alastor, you never told me you’d acquired yourself a charmer.”

Alastor’s grin sharpened. “But of course, Rosie. Nothing less from my husband.”

Vox didn’t miss a beat. He just turned to the cannibal women, raised his hand with the gleaming golden ring and gave them a very pointed wave that translated directly to: “Back off, ladies. He’s taken.”

“Now then,” Rosie said as she ushered them deeper inside. “Can I offer you boys anything? Tea? Coffee? Perhaps those delightful fingers you’re so fond of, Alastor?”

“No thank you, Rosie,” Alastor replied as he settled into a chair beside Vox. “We are just coming from a rather generous lunch.”

“Very well,” Rosie said, taking her seat across from them and folding her hands.

“So then, Vox darling… what are your intentions with my Alastor~?” Rosie leaned in.

Vox, completely unprepared, inhaled his own breath and immediately began choking on nothing (once again this day).

He slapped his chest, and nearly toppled out of his chair.

“Rosie, dearest, must you torment the poor man? If his wires fry, he’ll stain the upholstery.” Alastor watched Vox fight for his life with a look of mild amusement.

“Can’t a lady have a little fun anymore?” Rosie sighed dramatically, leaning back with a demure hand resting on her cheek though her eyes gleamed with sadistic delight.

Then she brightened, folding her fingers neatly in her lap.

“I would like to start by congratulating you both on such a serious commitment! I always knew Alastor had an eye on you, Vox, dear, but I never imagined he’d actually act on it!”

She said it with the tone of a proud mother embarrassing her teenage son in front of his crush.

Alastor froze. His ears flattened back, a small amount of color warming his cheeks. Vox, equally afflicted, stared at the wall as if it could swallow him whole.

“Nonsense, my dear Rosie,” Alastor finally managed, voice an octave too high. “It’s purely a political matrimony.”

He cleared his throat, regaining composure. “Entirely transactional. Nothing more.”

“Mhm.” Rosie nodded slowly, the kind of nod that said I do not believe you for a single, microscopic second.

“Well then,” she continued sweetly, “I imagine you’re aware what marriage between Overlords entails?”

Vox straightened, trying very hard to channel confidence.

“Yes. I’ve done research. As I understand it, I fall under the same contract Alastor does?”

He sounded sharp, prepared, but his hands were clenched under the table. He still hated the thought of being deceived and get bound to another Overlord.

Rosie glanced at Alastor with mock disappointment. “So you were generous enough to give him some information, you scoundrel.”

Alastor rolled his eyes.

“But yes,” she continued, “you fall under the same contract. I extend my power, power neither of you could dream of, to both of you. But in exchange, you must perform a task for me.”

The lights dimmed. The air thickened. The atmosphere definitely changed.

“And what,” Vox asked, quieter now, “would that be?”

“That, my dear…” Rosie’s eyes darkened into something ancient and hungry,

“…you will learn in due time.”

“Until then, both of your souls belong to me. At least… half of them.”

Vox stared at her, jaw dropped.

In due time!?

What the hell is that supposed to mean!?

He snapped his head toward Alastor for help, explanation, reassurance, anything.

But Alastor only offered a tight, crooked smile that looked far too much like a grimace.

“So let me get this straight,” Vox said, voice fraying at the edges, “I’m supposed to sit here and wait on your leash for who knows how long, without even being told what I’m meant to do?”

“Well, I’m terribly sorry, darling,” Rosie replied, clasping her hands primly, “but I do recommend reading a contract before verbally signing it.”

The sweet, wicked curl of her smile told Vox exactly where Alastor had learned all his worst habits.

Chapter Text

When Vox finally stumbled back into his office after the not-so-fun meeting with Rosie, he barely had time to hang up his coat before the universe decided to punish him further. A mountain of tasks crashed onto him at once: Carmilla’s campaign demands, the launch schedule for the new VoxTek TV model, a last-minute rewrite for the evening news broadcast, and at least twelve other problems that absolutely needed his attention.

He sat down, blinked once, and somehow 72 hours passed.

He hadn’t eaten anything except coffee that had long since surpassed the recommended limit of caffeine per cup and was beginning to taste like bitter death. Alastor may have had a point when he said that if Vox wasn't dead, his diet would kill him.

Not that it mattered. What was he going to do now, die again? Would that make him double dead? Was there a Double Hell? He laughed at that thought, an unhinged little “heh” that echoed uncomfortably around the room.

His vision kept going blurry, the words in front of him melting into nonsense. His typewriter was clacking away like it was mocking him in Morse code. He was 90% sure it was doing it on purpose, and if machines could smirk (hilarious, coming from him), this one definitely was.

But there was still so much to do. And who else could he trust with it?

He had Alastor’s radio broadcast playing in the background to keep himself awake. The familiar voice soothed some of the buzzing in his brain. Even when Alastor wasn’t live, the calm jazz and old-time tunes from his station softened Vox’s nerves just enough that he didn’t start screaming at his paperwork.

Just a little more, he told himself. He would take a break soon. Really. One more document, and he’d eat something. One more meeting, and he’d take a nap. One more contract to review, and he’d blink. Just a tiny blink.

That was what he'd been promising himself for the last twelve hours.

Maybe it really was time for a nap, because Vox was pretty sure he was hallucinating. The shadow behind him looked… wrong. He could swear it was moving but every time he whipped his head around, it snapped back into place like nothing happened.

He blinked hard, rubbed his face, and took a long swig of cold coffee. The new talk-show contract needed his signature and-

OKAY. NOPE. THAT SHADOW DEFINITELY MOVED.

Vox shot up from his chair so fast he nearly screen-planted, cables tangling around his feet. He marched straight to the wall, squinting at the suspicious patch of darkness. Then-

A high-pitched snicker echoed behind him.

Vox screamed. Loudly. It was not dignified.

He spun around and caught a flash of a giant grin and antlers etched into the darkness before it slipped back into place. He knew exactly whose shadow that was.

“...Alastor?” he asked, inching forward like he expected something to jump out at any moment.

But Alastor wasn’t there. No radio hum, no static, no smug bastard in sight. Just the shadow, stretching lazily across the floor like a creature sunbathing in misery. Vox felt almost disappointed.

He stood there, exhausted, eyes wide, pointing at the wall like a madman. “Did Alastor send you to spy on me?”

The shadow shook its head.

Vox blinked. “Then… did he send you to tell me something?” It was a long shot since they could simply communicate through radio waves, but who knew?

Another shake.

“Then what the hell are you- HEY!”

The shadow drifted away from the wall, gliding over to his desk. It poked through his scattered office supplies, tapped his typewriter keys, stretched itself over his blueprints, and deliberately nudged his coffee mug toward the very edge of the desk.

Vox froze. “Don’t. You. Dare.”

His voice dropped to a terrifyingly calm whisper. It was the voice of a demon who had not slept in three days and who had already lost two pens, a whole contract, and most of his sanity.

The shadow turned to look at him, grin widening impossibly. Then, with another delighted little snicker-

push.

“NOOO! THAT WAS MY FAVORITE MUG!” Vox dove forward as it hit the floor and shattered. “WHY!?”

The shadow only wiggled its fingers at him in a mocking little wave, clearly very proud of itself.

Vox let out a groan and slumped down beside the remains of his beloved mug. He leaned back, resting his head on the desk and watched the shadow.

“Uuuurgh… then what do you want?” he muttered, sounding one emotional breakdown away from killing off half of the Pentagram City.

The shadow drifted back to the wall, stretching and warping until it began morphing into vague shapes, looking like it was playing a cursed game of charades. 

Vox squinted at it, eyes half-glazed with sleep deprivation.

“Okay… you’re… lying down? Dead? Unplugged? Coma?”

The shadow shook its head. Vox blinked. “Sleep. You mean sleep.”

It nodded, making a triumphant noise.

Then it changed again, now holding something cup-shaped and pretending to drink.

“Glass? Poison? Water?”

Another approving sound.

“Great,” Vox grumbled, rubbing the top of his screen. “Sleep. Water. Next?”

The shape shifted once more, holding an apple. Then a pizza slice. Then a sandwich. Then something that might have been soup or might have been a small, sad top hat.

“Food?” Vox guessed. The shadow nodded vigorously.

Vox stared up at it. “Are you telling me to: eat, drink, and go to sleep?”

The shadow nodded again, folding its arms like a disappointed parent.

Before Vox could form a protest, the shadow glided behind him and despite being two dimensional seconds earlier, it somehow managed to shove him away from his desk.

“Hey, HEY! Stop that!” Vox hissed, digging his heels in. “I have work to- HEY, STOP, NO- BAD SHADOW!”

The shadow didn’t care. In one smooth motion it hoisted him up and began carrying him out of the office. Vox flailed helplessly in the air.

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING!? PUT ME DOWN!”

A few employees witnessed the spectacle. Vox mentally flagged each of their faces.

They would be… handled later.

Minutes later, he found himself deposited in the cafeteria like an unruly toddler. Before he could fully regain the dignity he definitely no longer had, the shadow vanished, then reappeared, holding a brown paper bag.

Vox eyed the bag warily, arms crossed. Logic said go back to work. His stomach, however, was louder than the screams in Alastor's broadcasts.

Fine. Whatever. Eating would at least get the shadow off his case.

He reached inside.

“…Is this a Taco Hell burrito?” he asked, baffled.

The shadow nodded, standing close and purring like a demonic cat.

He took a bite.

Then another.

Then inhaled the entire burrito.

When he inevitably started choking on it, the shadow simply handed him a bottle of water, which he downed instantly.

He finally slumped back in the chair, breathing heavily, staring at the ceiling.

“…Okay,” he rasped, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Are you happy now?”

The shadow shook its head with a dramatic nope and instead wrapped its dark arms around him from behind. Before Vox could even process the hug (much less fight it) they sank straight into the floor.

They reformed in the middle of Vox’s bedroom, where he promptly screen-planted into the carpet.

“HHACK- COUGH- KHHH-” He wheezed, palms slapping the floor like he was fighting for his life. “I hate this– I hate you–”

Beside him, the shadow produced the saddest, wobbliest frowny face imaginable. Real “kicked puppy” energy.

Vox groaned and forced himself upright, brushing dust off his pants. “I hate you… so much,” he repeated, but with a defeated tone. He was definitely getting desensitized to Alastor’s teleportation. God help him.

“I’m going back to work,” he said, pointing accusingly toward the door. “If you stop me again, I swear I will turn on EVERY light in the Pride Ring.”

He took one step.

The shadow made a distressed squeak and immediately pounced, coiling around him like an affectionate, clingy, monster and shoving him backwards onto the bed. Vox hit the mattress with a grunt.

“H-HEY! Let me go!” he snapped, struggling against it. Unfortunately, he was so sleep-deprived he had the physical strength of a breadstick.

The shadow simply tightened its embrace, letting out irritable little noises.

Then it peeled away, melted to the wall, and shaped itself into a giant clock. It dramatically spun the hands two hours forward before pointing at Vox again.

“You… want me to sleep two hours?” he asked, sounding half-dead. The shadow nodded, then slithered back to him and nuzzled into the crook of his neck.

Vox let out an involuntary laugh. “S-stop, that tickles– okay, okay!” God, this was ridiculous. Being cuddled by something Alastor-formed was kind of weird but he damn wouldn't complain.

“Fiiine,” he sighed, sinking into the pillow. “Two hours. Not a second longer.”

The shadow nodded enthusiastically.

They lay there for several minutes, the shadow wrapped around him like a warm weighted blanket. But even after being awake for three straight days, Vox’s brain refused to shut off.

Something was missing.

After another long, tired minute, he whispered, embarrassed already, “Uhm… could you…”

God, he wanted to die. If the shadow snitched about this, he would combust.

“…could you bring me the radio from my office? It helps me sleep.” He muttered the last part like a sin.

He didn’t even finish the sentence before the shadow dissolved and reappeared, placing the radio neatly on his bedside table. It tuned itself to Alastor’s broadcast without even being asked to.

The shadow slithered back into place, hugging him tighter, curling around him protectively. The soft hum of a jazz song filled the room.

Without thinking, pure instinct, pure exhaustion, Vox reached up and stroked the shadow’s head. Just a mindless, slow little pat. 

The shadow melted into the touch, leaning into his hand with a pleased little purr that vibrated against Vox’s ribs.

The radio hummed softly, the shadow held him tight, and Vox’s eyelids finally, finally grew heavy. He could’ve sworn just before consciousness left him that the shadow pressed something like a kiss to the top edge of his screen, right where his forehead would be.

Before the song on the radio even finished, Vox was asleep.

After a while, once the room filled with the soft snore that meant Vox was out cold, Alastor finally seeped out of the darkness of the corner, stepping forward to the bed.

He clasped his hands behind his back, eyes landing on Vox and then on the shadow still curled protectively around him.

“Alright now,” he murmured annoyed, “that’s quite enough doting. You’ll smother the poor fellow.”

The shadow only tightened its hold on Vox’s waist and hissed in Alastor’s direction.

“Hissing? At me?” Alastor whispered, deeply offended. “Really now, some gratitude would be appreciated. You’ve completed your task marvelously, but it’s time to take your leave.”

The shadow hesitated, glancing between Vox and its master with guilt.

“Yes, yes,” Alastor sighed, softer this time, “I know. But he’ll be quite alright without you for a few hours.”

With great reluctance, and one last lingering look at Vox, the shadow peeled itself away, flattening onto the floor and sliding obediently beneath Alastor’s shoes.

Alastor glanced once more at Vox and teleported away, leaving the TV Overlord to sleep for far longer than two hours.

Chapter Text

This had to be, without competition, the longest meeting in Vox’s entire life (and death).

The launch of the brand-new VoxBox TV™ was right around the corner, but suddenly every department had collectively decided to fall apart like wet cardboard. The marketing team had somehow sent out promotional posters listing 25 channels that did not exist, legal was screaming because a rival tech company accused them of copying a knob design and engineering sheepishly reported that turning the volume past level six electrocuted customers to the brink of a second death.

“Woopsie,” they had said.

Vox wanted to throw them all into a volcano.

He’d already been stuck at this conference table for three hours as the face of VoxTek, and judging by how many “one more thing!” comments the managers kept adding, they weren’t even halfway done. Every second felt like being slowly stabbed with a dull knife.

But the absolute worst part wasn’t the incompetence… or the screaming… or the fact that he was pretty sure one of the engineers was three gnomes in disguise.

It was that he missed Alastor.

He hadn’t seen him in days – unless one counted his overly affectionate shadow. And Vox did not. Even if Vox liked it, it didn't substitute Alastor. It didn’t make snarky comments in that stupid charming voice, didn't make fun of him in the funniest way possible and didn't find its way into his heart.

To keep himself from flipping the table, Vox tried occupying his mind, cycling through his internal settings like a bored kid with a remote. He adjusted his own volume up and down. He turned his saturation to maximum until everything looked like a fever dream. He switched through languages and then cycled through radio frequencies to listen in on random broadcasts.

Static.

Rock and roll.

A demon singing terribly off-key.

Alastor’s station was playing swing but there was no sign of his voice. Of course, Vox knew Alastor's radio station’s timetable by heart and this wasn't the time he was usually on air. 

He slumped in his chair as another engineer began explaining (again) why the exploding remote controls “weren’t technically explosions, more like forceful heat releases.”

He needed something to survive this meeting. Anything.

And then it hit him.

He froze his screen mid “thoughtful business expression,” muted himself, and angled his body just enough to suggest he was still listening to the meeting. No one would dare question him.

Then, Vox tuned his signal over to Alastor’s wavelength.

“Hello,” he muttered in the scratchiest, oldest, most ridiculous voice he physically could produce, all inside his head, “is this mister, sir, Alastor the Radio Demon?”

There was a beat of silence, Alastor likely thought it was an incoming fan call, he always got them. People begging for advice, validation, or to lovingly threaten his life.

“I suppose so!” Alastor cheerfully answered. “How may I help-”

“Is your refrigerator running?” Vox blurted out, interrupting him with the comedic grace of a brick.

A confused pause. “Er… yes? Is this some sort of advertisem-”

“Well, you better go catch it!”

And Vox hung up.

The sheer stupidity of what he had just done hit him all at once.

A CEO.

A high-profile Overlord.

And here he was prank-calling his… husband. Through radio waves. In the middle of a critical meeting.

He should have felt ashamed.

Instead he nearly died.

Vox’s whole body shook silently as he fought, F O U G H T, not to burst into laughter. The only thing saving him was the frozen screen still displaying “serious professional Vox,” and the fact he’d muted all audio. If he hadn’t, the room would currently be hearing a sound comparable to a TV having a stroke.

He clutched the edge of the table, trembling, pixelated tears threatening to glitch out of his eyes.

Okay.

Okay, good.

He felt better now.

He could totally-

“You’re a funny lad, Vox, you know that?”

Vox’s screen un-froze in alarm, flicking briefly to static.

“Alastor? I have no idea what you mean,” he communicated inside his head, sounding far too delighted for someone claiming innocence. “I’m in a very important meeting right now, so I don’t know why you’d think I was being funny.”

“I can see that,” Alastor replied smoothly.

And in the corner of Vox’s peripheral vision, a shadow flickered, barely there, like a ripple in the darkness.

Vox stiffened. He carefully glanced around the conference room. Thankfully, no one else noticed anything strange; everyone was too busy listening to the lawyers drone about the fourteen lawsuits currently barreling toward VoxTek.

“Tell me, Vox,” Alastor purred inside his head, his voice sounding closer now, “who would have guessed that the President of the most technologically advanced company in Hell, truly a titan of innovation, would stoop to such pathetic, childish prank-calling of another Overlord?”

Vox’s chest puffed a little. Most technologically advanced.

At least Alastor recognized greatness.

“I was bored!” Vox hissed silently back through the radio waves, fighting the urge to smile and blow his cover. “Pleeeease, help me escape this meeting. I’m dying.”

“Can’t you simply end the meeting? If you hadn't noticed it yet, you are the boss, Vox,” Alastor replied, irritated, sounding as if he thought Vox was being even more dense than usual.

“I can’t just end a meeting in the middle of it!” Vox whispered back mentally. “I told my assistant not to disturb me no matter what, so the only thing ending this meeting will be me killing myself or killing everyone else!”

“Hm. That can be fixed,” Alastor purred.

That tone. That tone should have warned him.

Before Vox could mentally scream, the lights above flickered once… twice… and then shifted into an ominous green glow.

Then the shadow moved.

It didn’t just move, it stretched across the walls, growing until it filled the entire conference room. Antlers spread through the ceiling as the shadow expanded, warping into a towering silhouette with a wicked grin

The lawyers froze mid-sentence. Then all hell broke loose.

Someone screamed. Someone else screamed louder. Someone fainted on the table and rolled off.

The shadow peeled itself off the wall and suddenly Alastor was there, manifested physically, but in his “oh dear God he’s hungry” form. He snatched one of the assistants by the collar and lifted her toward his giant, too-sharp smile, looking like a cat about to swallow a mouse.

People were screaming that the Radio Demon had infiltrated VoxTek HQ, that everyone was doomed, that they were going to die, and that Sheila from accounting owed someone 30 dollars and they refused to die before the debt was returned.

Vox didn't expect this turn of events but he could work with it.

He decided that the best course of action was, obviously, to play the hero.

“ALASTOR!” Vox thundered, his demonic form swelling in size as extra screens flickered into existence around his face, his claws growing sharper and thick cables burst from his back. “Put down this poor woman!”

Internally, he added with a dry tone: “Actually, you can eat her. She’s terrible at this job.”

Alastor made delighted eye contact with him and swallowed her whole like a nightmare pelican. How bad was it that Vox found it kind of… hot? 

He groaned. “That’s it! Get ready for the fight of your life!”

His wires spread and tightened beneath him, lifting him higher so he looked intimidatingly tall.

“Cheesy,” Alastor snorted, tentacles of shadow curling up from the floorboards.

The entire office had gathered at a respectful distance, watching their big boss “bravely” defend them, blissfully unaware that Vox would sacrifice every single one of them just to get out of this meeting.

Alastor struck first. He grabbed the massive conference table, one solid piece of hardwood imported from somewhere expensive (Vox didn’t actually remember), and hurled it at him.

Vox dodged, barely, and the table exploded into the wall behind him, punching a hole clean through the plaster.

“For FUCK’S sake! Do you have any idea how much renovations cost?!” Vox snapped internally as he fired a cluster of wires at Alastor. They wrapped around the demon’s arms and torso, pinning him for a split second.

And oh.

Oh, that power felt incredible. Vox nearly shivered. 

They technically shared power now thanks to the marriage contract, making Vox unbelievably stronger than before. But Alastor had twenty extra years of violent experience, so in practice he still hit harder, moved faster, and fought like he genuinely enjoyed every second of it.

Which, considering the way he looked at Vox… might actually be true.

Alastor lunged, snapping through the wires like they were cobwebs, and sank his teeth into Vox’s shoulder, ignoring his own pain.

Vox screamed mentally, loud enough to distort a few of Alastor’s frequencies.

“OUCH!! That hurt, you bastard!”

Alastor licked the blood off his lips, voice gliding through the static with satisfaction.

“I took it as a reward for rescuing you from that dreadful meeting. You’re welcome.”

Alastor's expression was wild and delighted.

“And I must say,” he purred, leaning close enough for Vox to feel his breath on the screen, “you taste absolutely delicious, darling.”

Before Vox could think about how fucking erotic that was, Alastor swept his shadowy arm across the room and shattered the massive floor-to-ceiling window.

Both of them crashed through it in a shower of glass, plummeting into open air.

Vox’s internal voice was a furious shriek: “MY WINDOW!! I'M NOT MADE OF MONEY!!”

On the street below, a crowd had gathered. The brave ones stayed to watch, betting on who would win, the rest ran for their lives as two powerful overlords crashed onto the pavement, lighting up the entire block. 

Calling this a fight felt generous. They were barely hurting each other. The whole thing looked more like a violent waltz. They circled one another, pacing in wide arcs, both glowing with energy, destroying everything they came near. Cars alarmed, streetlamps exploded, windows shattered above them in a glittering shower.

Whenever Vox lunged forward, Alastor slipped away with a smooth turn, shadows swirling behind him in an elegant swoosh. Whenever Alastor reached out with a claw, Vox twisted around with finesse, wires spiraling like ribbons trailing a dancer’s hand. It was all movement and rhythm.

Vox knew Alastor was not fighting seriously. The bastard was toying with him. Those shadow tentacles never struck with real force. Instead they brushed against Vox’s skin, curling and gliding, sending confusing waves through his circuits. One wrapped around his waist for a moment, not tight enough to restrain him, just firm enough to make him freeze. Another flicked across his screen, as if teasing him into stepping closer and keeping the performance going.

It was infuriating. And addictive.

Vox had never seen Alastor like this. The usual smug, carved-into-stone smile had softened into something more alive. There was excitement in his eyes. Real excitement. Each time their bodies clashed, even lightly, Alastor’s grin shifted, revealing something deeper, something Vox had not known the Radio Demon was capable of. It made Vox want to push harder, to see what else he could draw out of him.

So he charged again, sending a surge of energy through his cables. It was meant to stun Alastor, not seriously injure him, but the power spiked more than expected. Electricity cracked through the air and hit Alastor in the chest. Vox felt it immediately, the same shock ripping through his own body, his knees buckling for a second.

When he looked up, Alastor stood perfectly still in the smoking crater the attack had created. Slowly, the Radio Demon raised his head. His antlers flickered like struck by lightning. His smile stretched, wider and more feral, shadows shimmering behind him.

He did not look angry. He looked hungry.

He stared at Vox as if Vox had just delivered an appetizer, a main course, and dessert in one unexpected burst of voltage.

Vox’s circuits fluttered in something that was absolutely not fear.

Alastor moved first. One slow step. Then another.

Vox couldn’t move. Couldn’t blink. Couldn’t look anywhere but at him, completely mesmerized.

Alastor’s grin softened into something dangerous and intimate.

Vox shuttered.

Then everything snapped into motion.

Alastor shoved him, a strike that sent Vox flying into the narrow alley beside them. Vox hit the brick wall hard, sliding down with a rough thud. His back ached.

He barely got his hands beneath him to push up before Alastor was there.

In a blur, the Radio Demon grabbed him by the collar and yanked him to his feet. They slammed chest to chest, Vox being held upright only by Alastor’s grip.

Their breaths hit each other's faces, warm and uneven, mingling in the cold alley air.

The noise of the city disappeared completely.

No more crowd.

No more onlookers.

No more world.

Just them.

Vox could feel Alastor’s heartbeat through the shredded suit, pounding fast and wild.

His own parts hummed, vibrating in sync with it, betraying him completely.

They stared at each other with an intensity that felt almost painful.

Too close.

Far too close.

Close enough that if one of them leaned the slightest bit forward, their mouths would meet.

Vox’s screen flickered.

Alastor’s eyes glowed.

Something molten and terrifying stirred between them, an emotion either felt before. 

Alastor was the one to break it.

He blinked slowly and stepped back, the air between them getting cold the moment the distance grew. His grip on Vox’s collar loosened before slipping away completely.

“Thank you for the delightful dance, my dear,” he said, voice low and honey-smooth. “I have not felt that alive in years.”

Vox’s fingers twitched, reaching out without thinking, but Alastor was already stepping towards his newly opened portal.

He could only watch Alastor vanishing, leaving nothing but Vox standing alone with a bruised back, a ripped vest, trembling hands, and a heart he could not get to quiet down.

Chapter Text

A public figure like Alastor naturally gathered a colorful collection of enemies. There were always sinners lining up to “challenge” him, meaning: throw themselves into a deathmatch they had absolutely no business believing they would win. Some wanted revenge, some wanted glory, some just wanted to see if they could land a single hit before being dismembered.

And then there was that one snake demon. What was his name again? Alastor never bothered to remember. The little worm showed up every few months just to get kicked like a football, and he still hadn’t learned to stop trying.

The constant pestering was exactly why almost no one knew where Alastor lived. Not even Rosie. If she wanted him, she simply had to summon him.

The two exceptions to that ironclad rule were:

1.  Vox, who managed to find his address with impressive stalking skills. 
2. His oldest, dearest friend, Mimzy.

And speaking of the devil…

“ALASTOOOOOR!”

Mimzy didn’t knock. Mimzy never knocked. She kicked his door open so hard the handle embedded itself into the wall, then stormed into the living room like a tiny hurricane.

Alastor had just sat down with a beautifully cooked venison steak, prepared exactly to his tastes, when his friend marched up to him with murder in her sparkly eyes.

“Mimzy, my dear, always a pleasure to–”

“Cut the bullshit, Al!” she snapped, an extremely unusual tone from her. “Care to explain what in Hell’s name this is?”

She slapped a magazine onto the table. It looked like one of those tacky, over-scented women’s gossip rags that always reeked of cheap perfume and desperation. 

But the front page… oh, the front page.

There, in glossy high resolution, was a picture of him and Vox. Sharing a milkshake. Nose-to-screen. With two matching curly straws. It looked like a promotional poster for a really cheesy romantic comedy.

The picture was perfectly taken right before Vox’s face froze, framing it as something more than just innocent teasing.

Alastor blinked.

He read the headline aloud:

“NEW POWER COUPLE IN HELL?!?!”

Unoriginal.

He snatched the magazine from her and flipped through it. Shockingly, the quality of the photo was crystal clear. That fact alone was concerning. Normally his background radio static made it impossible to be able film or photograph, but this photo had no interference at all. This was… concerning.

The article inside stretched across several pages, complete with sparkly heart-shaped borders and an offensively large pink font.

They’d collected “multiple eyewitness statements”, from the bartender at the bar, a patron who saw them arguing over teleportation, someone who watched them walking with “mysteriously interlocked hands,” and even a waitress who cheerfully reported that “they seemed cute together”.

Then came the worst part:

A magnified shot of their hands, zoomed all the way in, showing two very shiny golden wedding bands.

The caption read:

“Secretly married? Our reporters think YES!”

As if that humiliation wasn’t enough, the next page proudly showcased a quote from the chapel worker:

“Oh yes, the two gentlemen visited our AMAZING CHAPEL, BOOK YOUR WEDDING NOW, over a week ago in the middle of the night. It was short and sweet.”

Alastor stared at the page, jaw twitching.

“How could you not tell me you got married? How could you NOT INVITE ME TO THE WEDDING!?” Ah, that explained why Mimzie was so upset, that's probably the absolutely worst offense Alastor could even manage to do. 

This was… not ideal.

In fact, this was dangerously close to catastrophic.

Alastor had been so sure he could keep the marriage under wraps. Vox barely socialized with anyone who wasn’t on payroll, and none of his employees wanted to get close enough to risk being electrocuted, fired, or yelled at. Perfect conditions for secrecy. And the man tended to be quieter about personal matters than his personality suggested.

But this? This was bad. Truly bad.

Vox was manageable. Predictable. Pathetically easy to manipulate when poked correctly.

You could play him like a piano if you knew the keys. A little praise here, a taunt there, and he melted into whatever shape Alastor needed. A loyal, excitable, occasionally charming mutt, but still a mutt. A housepet with too much voltage and an ego problem.

And Alastor hated dogs… but Vox, strangely enough, he could stomach. Sometimes he even enjoyed the little creature buzzing around him. On rare occasions, Vox even held his interest.

Which only made this worse.

If the marriage became public knowledge, the fallout was obvious.

Vox would become a target. People would go after him, not out of strategy, but to spite Alastor. To poke at the Demon of the Airwaves and see what noise he made when his favorite toy got kicked.

And Vox may survive this, especially since they shared power now but that means that the contracts of Overlord marriage would become public information. How else would Vox become so strong overnight? 

They might even come after him.

Not to kill him, of course. That was laughable. But to bait him. To drag him into stupid territorial games. To shout about alliances, about attachments, about vulnerabilities.

About weakness.

He could already imagine the snickering. The whispered gossip twisting through Hell:

The Radio Demon got soft. The Radio Demon got domestic. The Radio Demon got married.

He would look tame. Predictable. Human.

It made his stomach churn.

“Alastor, are you alright?” Mimzy asked, suddenly softer.

Her voice alone made him flinch. She knew him too well. Even the tiniest crack in his mask was enough for her to pry open his entire emotional vault. 

Her hand gently landed on his own, which still rested on the magazine. He yanked his hand away as if her touch had burned him.

“Just peachy!” he chirped, voice filled with bright, forced enthusiasm. “And I am terribly sorry about the wedding, Mimzy dear! It was nothing grand, nothing worth troubling you with. A political gesture, really. Just paperwork with some flair, you know how it is!”

His grin widened unnaturally, too sharp and too cheerful, like a crack in porcelain trying to pass for a smile. He stood, dusting off the front of his coat that was perfectly clean to begin with.

“I promise,” he continued with theatrical flourish, “that you would be the very first person I’d summon to orchestrate such an event properly! Balloons and fountains and a jazz band! But this wasn’t that sort of party.”

Mimzy’s eyes narrowed. He could feel her analyzing every twitch of his face. She knew something was wrong. She knew he was lying. And she knew that pushing him right now would only make things worse.

So she gracefully let it go.

Instead she asked, “So… when do I get to meet this lucky guy?”

A dozen answers flashed through his head, most of them some variation of “hopefully never, over my dead body, or better yet over his dead body.” But instead he settled on a stiff, polite smile because Mimzy was still watching him like a hawk.

“We will see dear, he is unfortunately an incredibly busy man.”

Vox had reached out several times since their… playful brawl. Five whole days of somewhat casual messages (trying to not sound desperate) that Alastor resolutely ignored. He had important things to do. Overlord wannabees to tear apart. Screams to broadcast to the masses. Souls to devour.

Definitely not avoiding Vox.

Alastor was simply busy.

He offered Mimzy a cup of coffee but she waved him off.

“No time,” she chirped, already halfway out the door. They were rehearsing a new number soon and, as she claimed, she didn’t want to be late for once.

She was already ten minutes behind schedule.

As soon as she left, the thin, calm front he’d been holding onto cracked.

He stared down at the wretched magazine lying on his table like a curse. That photograph of him and Vox sharing a milkshake like two adolescents should not exist. It should never have existed.

He had to fix this before anyone else saw it. Before it spread. Before someone, anyone started thinking Alastor, the Radio Demon, was… mushy.

The word alone made his stomach twist hard enough to bruise his ribs.

The magazine, thankfully, wasn’t widely read. It wasn’t even considered reputable in Hell’s standards, barely above fiction printed on toilet paper.

But even so… one spark was enough to start a wildfire. 

He drummed his fingers on the cover, considering options.

He could hunt down the journalist. The little worm who’d had the gall to sneak that photo, and broadcast his screams across all seven rings. Now that was tempting. But no… as satisfying as that would be, it would only draw more attention to the story. And attention was the last thing he could afford.

Perhaps the editor-in-chief could be persuaded (through a generous amount of torture) to publish a retraction. Maybe even an apology. Claim the entire article was forged. Yes… that could work.

But again, the risk: too many eyes, too many questions. 

He rubbed his temples, pacing the room, going through different scenarios.

Convince Vox to divorce him and then kill him? Possibly. Vox would be easy to sway but divorce meant losing half his power, and Alastor had no intention of doing that.

Just as he reached the height of his irritation, a sharp, shrill noise sliced through the air.

His antique telephone, a possession only a few knew about, began to ring.

Slowly, he approached, lifting the handset with deliberate caution, pressing it to his ear.

“Hello? The Radio Demon speaking.”

For a split second he wondered if Vox had somehow acquired this number too. Frankly, it wouldn’t have surprised him.

“Alastor.”

Rosie’s voice slipped through the receiver. She almost never called, Rosie preferred eye contact and porcelain teacups, not telephones. The fact she was calling at all made his ears twitch.

“I’ve just come from a lovely Overlord meeting,” she announced.

Overlord meeting? That was scheduled for two weeks from now. His stomach tightened.

“Is that so?” he replied with his casual charm.

“Yes. And tragically you and your husband were not invited.” The sweetness in her tone was stretched thin. “Would you like to know what we discussed in that meeting?”

He already had a sinking suspicion. Still, he smiled into the receiver. “Do tell!”

“A new publication came out today,” she purred. “With the most adorable cover photo of you and Vox. Sharing a milkshake, no less. I’m thinking of framing it and hanging it in my shop. I’ve never seen you quite so… enamored.”

His ears flattened tight against his skull. This was spiraling faster than he thought. If the other Overlords had already seen the article, then it had spread much farther than that pathetic magazine deserved to be capable of.

“But,” Rosie continued, tone sharpening beneath the sweetness, “the other Overlords did not share my fondness for the picture. They seem to interpret your marriage as… preparation. A consolidation of power before an attempted attack.” Her voice darkened. 

“Alastor, they are preparing to declare war on the two of you.”

His grip on the receiver tightened.

“Alastor,” she went on, voice low, proper, and furious, “I should not have to explain what will happen if you provoke every Overlord at once, especially those tied to the Morningstars. You and Vox will fix this. Immediately. Even if you must parade through all of Hell declaring you are wildly, stupidly in love and that the marriage is nothing more than that.”

That was the last thing he wanted. He had been drafting plans to convince everyone the exact opposite, that he didn’t care about Vox in the slightest. The irony made his jaw clench.

“Rosie… I understand this may look–”

“I will not hear it.”

Her voice cracked like a whip, brimming with fury he had never heard from her before. “You ignorant, arrogant little pet. You reap what you sow. I will not be cleaning up your mess this time. If war breaks out, you and Vox will be the ones paying the price.”

A cold prickle slid down his spine. Rosie had never spoken to him like that.

“I will be speaking with Vox as well,” she said, calming down. “Consider yourselves fortunate, Carmilla and Zestial wish to summon you both first, to explain yourselves. You have one day. Good luck.”

The line went dead before he could respond.

Alastor slowly lowered the handset, staring at nothing, the silence in his home suddenly suffocating.

The morning news broadcast ended, and Vox let out a long sigh as he stepped into his office. The last few days have been… difficult. Alastor had been ignoring him, vanishing without a word since their not-quite-a-fight in the streets. Vox knew the Radio Demon had moods, and that “emotional intimacy” made him react the way a cat reacts to a bathtub full of holy water.

But still… five days?

Vox replayed that moment in the alley for the thousandth time. How close Alastor had been. The look in his eyes. How fast Vox’s heart was beating. How embarrassingly obvious it might have been.

Maybe that was the problem. Maybe Vox had made it too obvious. Maybe he had stared too long, leaned too close, breathed too hard.

Maybe he was delusional thinking Alastor even cared. Ugh.

He dropped into his chair and forced himself to focus on his paperwork, numbers and reports scrambled on his desk as if they might drown out his thoughts. He was halfway through analyzing a spreadsheet when a knock sounded.

“Come in,” he said, voice flat.

Ethan stepped in looking like he’d swallowed a frog. He clutched something glossy and pink, one of those tacky gossip magazines.

“Hey, boss,” Ethan said, already inching backward toward the door. “Have you, uh… seen this?”

He placed it on the desk as if it were a bomb, then bolted out of the room at full sprint.

What now? Another hit piece about VoxTek? Some smear about the new TV model? Whatever it was, he’d crush it like usual.

He looked down.

And choked so hard his screen froze, pixelated, reset, then rebooted.

On the cover, in bright obnoxious letters:

“NEW POWER COUPLE OF HELL?!?!”

Beneath it:

HIM.

ALASTOR.

SHARING A MILKSHAKE LIKE SOME SWEETHEARTS IN A CHEAP ROMCOM.

Vox grabbed the magazine, flipping pages at a frantic speed. The article was even worse. Each paragraph drained him more until he slumped back in his chair, staring blankly at the ceiling tiles.

He was ruined.

Absolutely, utterly, inescapably ruined.

Alastor would never speak to him again after seeing this. Not after being publicly declared married to Vox. And how in Satan’s name did a journalist get a photo of them? Alastor’s static usually completely ruined the pictures.

Had the photographer been disguised? Invisible? Or simply suicidal?

And the reputation fallout… oh, it would be catastrophic. Half of Hell would claim he seduced his way into power. The other half won't dare to say it out loud but he knew what they would be thinking. Killing people to step up in the career ladder was fine, it was easy to hide the evidence. But getting married to the strongest sinner in hell? He was done. All respect; gone.

VoxTek would take a hit. His stock in the public eye would plummet. Investors would panic. Overlords would whisper.

This wasn’t bad.

This was hellfire-level catastrophic.

He forced himself to inhale, exhale, calm down. This wasn’t the first time someone tried to smear him. He’d survived far worse.

He was Vox, goddammit. The media was his kingdom.

He slammed his fist on the desk.

“ETHAN!”

Ethan appeared instantly, terrified, trembling, holding a clipboard like a shield.

“Y-yes sir?”

“Gather everyone,” Vox said, standing up so fast his chair rolled backward into the wall. “Lawyers. PR. Crisis management. Every senior manager on the premises. I want the whole damn hive ready in ten minutes.”

Ethan nodded rapidly.

“And,” Vox added, voice dropping to something genuinely lethal, “I want the editor-in-chief of this trash magazine found. I want him hanging upside-down by his balls before dinner.”

Ethan squeaked.

“Y-yes sir!”

He fled again.

Vox scrubbed a hand over his screen, feeling the static buzz under his fingertips. He was furious, humiliated, panicking and under it all, aching.

He hoped Alastor wasn’t ghosting him forever.

And as he straightened his bow and prepared to go fix the fallout of his marriage announcement–

He got the call from Rosie.

Chapter Text

The call with Rosie only made everything worse. She forbade him, forbade him, as if she were his mother, to give any official statements before the meeting with Carmilla and Zestial. Annoying, but understandable.

But the part about playing lovey dovey with Alastor?

Holy shit. Vox was a dead man.

Sure, Vox might have… a crush. A big one. A gigantic, humiliating, all-consuming crush on the Radio Demon. He had accepted that several emotional breakdowns ago. But he also knew Alastor well enough to know that the man would rather gnaw off his own arm than pretend to be romantically involved with anyone.

He was still chewing on that fear when a voice cut through the air.

“I suppose it is time for our honeymoon phase, my dearest.”

Vox shrieked.

“Holy shit! Where did you even come from!?”

He nearly fell backwards, clutching his desk. Alastor didn’t react, stepping forward with that infuriatingly calm posture… but still maintaining a careful distance. Five days apart and the air between them felt heavier than a black hole.

“I assume you’ve heard from Rosie about the meeting tomorrow,” Alastor said.

He wasn’t scowling (as it was impossible for him to do so) but this was as close as he could get.

“Uh… yeah…” Vox swallowed hard. He shouldn’t be nervous. He was the fucking TV Overlord. But suddenly every movement felt too loud, every breath too warm. He hated how relieved he was to see Alastor again, and how awkward that relief now felt.

“Alastor… maybe we could convince Carmilla and Zestial it was just a drunken mistake?” Vox tried, desperate to untangle the mess without losing the one person he cared about way too damn much. “We could say we drank and woke up with the rings on. No memory. Blackout situation. Easy.”

Alastor sat in Vox’s chair, spun around once because why the hell not, then leaned forward.

“You don’t want to play hopelessly in love, Vincent?” he purred, elbows resting on the desk. His expression taunted him. Dared him.

Vox’s screen flickered light blue from embarrassment and frustration which only annoyed him more. He was stressing so much that if he wasn't already bald, he would be now, and Alastor was still mocking him?

“You were the one who got us into this, Alastor!” Vox snapped, stepping closer. “I’m over here trying to save my reputation, prevent a war AND somehow avoid making you uncomfortable, but sure, I’ll just go fuck myself instead! You ghosted me for five days over nothing! What am I supposed to do so you won’t disappear even longer after this!?”

Alastor didn’t expect that. Vox saw it, just a flash, in the way the Demon’s smile stiffened. A crack. A moment of surprise.

Then Alastor scoffed.

“Ghosted you? I was simply busy,” he snapped back. “I’m sorry I am not here to entertain you every moment of the day. I am not a jester in this court.”

“Cut the crap, Al!” Vox fired back. His voice shook, but not with fear… with something rawer. “You don’t want to deal with the fact that I actually care about you. And guess what?”

He raised his hand. The golden ring glinted under the office lights.

“We’re tied together fucker. You and me. So tell me now, what do you think we should do about this?”

The room went dead silent.

Not the comfortable kind of silence, but the suffocating, air-tight, kind that only arrives when something very, very bad is about to happen.

At first Rosie snapping at him, now Vox of all people raising his voice at him. It felt like the world was tilting sideways. Alastor could feel control slipping through his claws, and control was the one thing he could never afford to lose.

He shouldn’t be here.

He should vanish.

Melt back into the shadows.

He could slip away for a year or ten until Hell forgot all about this stupid article and the ridiculous scandal it created. Vox would be painted as the abandoned spouse, deserted without explanation. It would make Alastor look powerful, uninvolved, untouchable.

It would be easy.

But Alastor… couldn’t move.

What in Lucifer’s name was wrong with him?

This wasn’t him.

This wasn’t the legendary Radio Demon, the walking nightmare children were warned about.

He should rip Vox’s throat out and serve him with mashed potatoes for daring to talk back to him like that. That would be normal. That would be safe.

Instead, he stood there, trembling with rage he didn’t fully understand.

Alastor’s smile twitched. When he finally spoke, his voice crackled with static.

“What do you know about caring, Vincent?”

He rose to his feet slowly, his silhouette distorted, pulled upward, antlers splitting into twisting, jagged shapes.

“You stand there,” he continued, his voice deepening into a warped snarl, “telling me you care, telling me you don’t want me to disappear… but that isn’t the whole reason, is it?”

His body expanded, limbs elongating, spine cracking as the polite mask dissolved into a nightmare. His grin sharpened into a crescent of predatory teeth and claws lengthened.

“You’re a pathetic little wretch,” Alastor hissed, his head bending at an unnatural angle as he loomed over Vox. “A conniving, desperate little parasite who climbed his way to Overlord status by using everyone foolish enough to fall for your charm.”

The lights in the office buzzed violently.

“How many did you kill to land here?” he continued, stepping forward. Each step rattled the floorboards. “Eight by your own hands? Not counting the ones who died because of your influence alone? Hilarious.”

Vox staggered back, but there was no fear in his face, just anger, hurt, defiance.

It only made Alastor angrier.

“Don’t insult me with your little laughs and those doe-eyed glances,” Alastor crooned. “I wasn’t born yesterday.”

The shadows behind him writhed like a living storm. His antlers scraped the ceiling.

“How many sold their souls because of your pretty promises, hm? Because you smiled at them like you gave a damn?” His voice rose, dripping venom. “Such a young Overlord, yet already owning so many innocent souls. Tell me, Vincent…”

He leaned in until his monstrous grin hovered inches from Vox’s face.

“Are you even capable of real connection?”

“Wow. Just… wow.” Vox laughed, the sound manic and cracked around the edges, one hand dragging over his face as if trying to hold himself together. “All this coming from you? The other serial killer in this room? You think I’m using you to gain power?” His voice rose, wild and disbelieving. “You were the one who suggested the marriage, Alastor!”

His circuits hummed hot with fury and heartbreak.

“Fine. You want honesty? Yeah, I’ve done horrible shit. I ruined people. I manipulated, climbed, lied, killed. But if you want proof, actual, real proof, that what I feel for you isn’t just some tactic, that it’s the first real attachment I’ve ever had in my existence… then I’ll give you proof.”

He didn’t back away.

He stepped closer.

Even though Alastor towered above him like a living nightmare… Vox still surged forward. His cables whipped out to lift him to Alastor’s height, bringing them eye to eye.

“Tell me, what do you want!? You want me to kneel for you?” Vox hissed. “Worship you? Rip out my own beating heart? I will. I’ll do every twisted, depraved thing you ask if that’s what it takes to get through to you. You want to eat me alive?” His voice broke, raw and sincere. “Fine. Do it. I don’t care. Just don’t disappear. Don’t leave.”

That sincerity hit Alastor like a brick to the skull.

For a moment, his monstrous form hesitated. His shoulders twitched. His silhouette shrank an inch, his smile faltered, then snapped back too sharp, too wide.

“Do it.”

Alastor’s voice was low, distorted, suffocating every corner of the room.

Vox blinked. “What?”

“Do it,” Alastor repeated, his tone almost sweet. “You claim devotion? Prove it. Or is this just another one of your performances to make yet another fool believe in you?”

Vox didn’t flinch.

He laughed.

Not a normal laugh.

A crack in reality.

A jagged, spiraling sound tore out of him, high and unhinged. His pupils shrank to pin-pricks, swallowed by a screen flicker that rippled across his face. His chest heaved with each breath, laughter choking out of him as if he were stuck in some deranged loop inside an asylum.

Before Alastor could spit out another taunt, Vox’s claws snapped longer, sharper, gleaming like ten polished scalpels. His arm jerked upward and, without hesitation, he slashed into the left side of his own chest.

The sound was wet.

Alastor inhaled sharply. He felt it too. Their contract saw to that. A twin echo of agony ripped through him, but he stayed rooted to the spot, transfixed.

Vox didn’t stop.

He didn’t even hesitate.

Blood and static fizzed down his torso as he dug deeper, pushing muscle aside until something metallic shone beneath the torn flesh. His steel ribs curved like cage bars glinted under the room’s dim light. He hooked two fingers around them, and wrenched the ribs apart.

Both of them gasped.

Pain lanced through them, electric and blinding.

But Alastor couldn’t look away.

Behind the parted plating, Vox’s glowing, blue, heart throbbed wildly. Every beat lit up the inside of his torn chest like a lantern. And there Vox stood, swaying, breathing in shallow bursts, eyes glassy with pain and mania.

Then, as though his strength simply dissolved under the weight of his offering, Vox sank to the floor. His knees hit the ground with a dull thud. Still, he kept his hands on his ribs, prying himself open with shaking, blood-slicked fingers.

He remained there, chest bared, refusing to give up, refusing to hide.

Presented for Alastor.

Like an altar.

Like a shrine.

Like the lamb who kneels, knowing the blade is coming, yet offering its throat all the same.

A sacrifice not merely waiting for slaughter, but begging to be seen.

Alastor stepped forward.

His form shrinked, not entirely into his normal self, but caught somewhere in the middle. His claws were still sharp, his grin still predatory. He took a few, slow, steps forward. 

He stopped in front of Vox, staring down at the open chest, at the heart beating for him. Only for him. It was the most beautiful thing Alastor has ever seen. 

He could rip it out.

He could devour it in one bite.

He could make Vox watch him until his last breath.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he reached forward, grabbed both sides of Vox’s screen with a trembling grip, and crushed their mouths together in a kiss that tasted like blood and passion. 

It wasn’t a good kiss. It wasn’t even a proper kiss.

Vox’s breath hitched, each exhale weaker than the last. Blood was running freely down his torso and the dizziness was hitting him in heavy, rolling waves. The world blurred. Colors warped. 

This can’t be real, Vox thought dimly. I must already be—

But the kiss deepened, desperate and forceful. Emotion surged through the room like a storm of static. Their tongues clashing in a messy, frantic struggle for control neither of them truly had anymore. Vox could feel himself fading, the strength sliding out of his body with every heartbeat, every drop of blood spilled between them.

His fingers scraped weakly at Alastor’s shoulders. Then slipped.

Vox collapsed forward, the entire weight of his body sagging into Alastor’s arms, his screen going completely dark.

Alastor pulled back just enough to look at him. His own breath was uneven, part pain, part something he didn’t have a name for. He stared down at the figure in his arms, trying to compose himself.

“…Fuck,” he whispered into the heavy silence.

Vox was still breathing but nothing else moved. His screen was gone, blacked out entirely.

Alastor lowered him to the floor as though handling something delicate, something he had no idea how to treat. With a gesture, his shadow rose behind him, helping him bend back the ribs and stitch the gaping wound closed with a neon-green thread. 

And when the makeshift repair was done, he didn’t hesitate. He gathered Vox against his chest and teleported straight to Vox’s apartment.

Vox woke up feeling worse than during his last hangover. His skull throbbed (not that he had one), his mouth felt like someone had vacuum-sealed it, and his chest hurt like absolute hell.

Why the fuck did his chest–

Oh.

Oh right.

Alastor.

Panic hit him like a boot to the face. He jolted upright with a gasp, only to freeze when he realized he was in… his bed?

His bed?

How the hell did he get back to his bed?

“Good morning! I hope you’ve slept well.”

Vox shrieked.

The Radio Demon was sitting in an armchair beside his bed, like if this was a hospital visitation, hands folded politely.

Vox blinked at him, confused out of his goddamn mind. Alastor had never been in his bedroom before (as far as he knew). The last thing Vox remembered was that they were still in his office when he–

He carved out his own chest.

Right in front of Alastor.

Wow.

Wow. Dramatic much? Even for him.

He remembered getting dizzy… the warmth of blood soaking through… not being able to look away from Alastor’s expression… and then…

Then everything got fuzzy.

There was static, darkness… maybe a hallucination?

And then…

And then wasn’t there a kiss?

No. No, that had to be a dream. A weird blood-loss fever dream. His face flickered with a bright, embarrassing blue blush.

“Uh… yeah, uhm…” He pulled his comforter up to his shoulders. “What are you… doing here? Not that I mind! I’m very mindless! I mean, nevermind, just… what happened?”

Alastor smiled, smug amusement painted across his face.

“Don’t you remember?” he purred. “You offered yourself so generously to me, my dear Vox. A gift, beautifully presented, and I scarcely took a fraction of what was given.”

Vox’s blush deepened to neon.

Has he died again?

His internal processors were scrambling. A few cables definitely had the wrong voltage. He needed answers, even if asking made him want to curl up and cease to exist for a bit.

“Okay, don’t take this the wrong way. It might just be the blood-loss insanity talking but…” He swallowed hard. “Did we… kiss?”

Alastor’s ears flattened instantly. His eyes darted away. He did not respond.

Instead, with the smoothest deflection in the history of Hell:

“Are you hungry? I took the liberty of inspecting your kitchen and I must say I’m deeply disappointed by how atrociously understocked it–”

Vox’s sharp inhale cut him off.

“OH. MY. GOD. WE DID KISS.”

Alastor rolled his eyes so hard it was a miracle they didn’t fall out. His ears flattened tight to his skull, broadcasting his embarrassment.

“You don’t have to be so dramatic about it,” he muttered.

“But- like- ugh… I think my brain just stopped working. Hang on.” He pressed his palms to his face. “Give me a second.”

“When has it ever worked properly?” Alastor asked sweetly.

“Fuck you,” Vox shot back, too light and too grin-heavy to have any bite. Then that grin slowly melted into confusion. “So… should we, like… talk about it?”

“Talk about your brain not working?” Alastor tilted his head with polite, venomous innocence.

“What? No! About the kiss!”

“Hm.” Alastor tapped a claw to his chin. “What is there to talk about?”

Vox’s face went lighter with embarrassment. “I don’t know… ehm…” His voice dropped to a mortified mumble. “Will it happen again?”

He had to look away. He was a man, an Overlord feared by hundreds, an embodiment of television, and now he sounded like a teenage girl confessing that she maybe, possibly, liked a boy who maybe, possibly, she offered her heart to (literally).

Alastor watched him quietly for a moment, debating whether to pounce or laugh. Then:

“Possibly,” he said.

Just that.

Vox blinked. “Possibly? POSSIBLY? That’s all you’re giving me?!”

“Well, I wouldn’t want to ruin the suspense.” Alastor flashed a too-wide grin. “Besides, you fainted last time. Hardly a flattering review of my technique. But then, what else could I expect from my first kiss?”

Vox slapped a hand over his screen with a groan. “I fainted because of the blood loss– wait, hold on. Your first kiss with… me? Or like… ever ever?”

Alastor gave him a flat, offended look. “Why would I have had any reason to kiss someone before?”

Vox’s pixelated blush flickered brighter. “Oh my god. I think I’m in heaven.”

He groaned into his hands, kicking his feet under the covers like a dramatic child. “Okay but for real, do you regret it? Or was it just, you know, heat of the moment? Blood everywhere, high drama, emotional breakdown?”

Alastor paused. Just a second.

Long enough that Vox’s heart rate spiked in panic.

“…I don’t regret it,” he said finally, voice low and uncharacteristically sincere, before promptly adding, “Yet.”

Vox’s head snapped up. “YET?!”

“Well, we’ll see how annoying you become now that you’re awake.”

Vox threw a pillow at him.

Chapter Text

“Thank you for coming on such short notice,” Carmilla said, gesturing sharply to the chairs across from her and Zestial.

Alastor and Vox sat down like two guilty schoolboys trying to look innocent.

“Of course,” Alastor purred, folding his hands neatly over his knee. “I suppose I speak for us both when I say we were most surprised. Whatever is this meeting concerning?” He tilted his head just enough to look charmingly clueless. Rosie’s phone call was staying a secret.

Vox leaned in with the same delighted confusion. “Yeah! What could the matter possibly be?” He mirrored Alastor’s head tilt, doing it a little too enthusiastically. “Wait… are you two thinking about entering the entertainment business? Because I can absolutely get you two cast in a killer action film.” 

Zestial cleared his throat.

“That shall not be needful. We are come to discourse upon thy recent… wedlock.”

Vox and Alastor froze for half a second, then Alastor brightened.

“Oh! That. Yes, terribly sorry, you two would’ve been invited, but it was such a small ceremony.” He said it with a little gesture.

Carmilla didn’t blink. “I’ll be direct,” she said, voice smooth as ice. “This is your only opportunity to explain yourselves before we pursue… other methods of intervention.”

“Oh my god… are you homophobic?” Vox gasped dramatically, clutching his chest. Maybe humor wasn't the best way through those two.

Carmilla stared at him as if he was the stupidest man alive. “What I gathered from speaking with Vox,” she continued, pointedly ignoring him, “is that he was unaware of the significance of Overlord marriages, entered the contract while intoxicated, and, frankly, demonstrated catastrophic judgment.” She turned her gaze onto Alastor like a predator sighting prey. “So I’ll address you directly. What is your end game?”

Alastor shot Vox a sharp sideways look: You spoke to Carmilla and didn’t tell me?!

Vox replied with a tiny shrug and the guiltiest Oopsie smile imaginable.

“Why, Miss Carmilla, whatever could give you the impression there ought to be an endgame?” Alastor finally replied, voice smooth as butter. “Can’t two hopeless sinners simply want to share their afterlife with each other?”

Carmilla’s expression did not flicker. “Spare me the charm.”

Before Alastor could offer a witty retort, Zestial leaned forward, his voice rolling through the room like distant thunder.

“I never have known thee to be a creature moved by affection Alastor. Mystery, yes. Guile, certainly. But sentiment?” His eyes narrowed. “Nay. Dost thou truly expect us to swallow such a tale?”

Even Vox flinched at the sound of it. Zestial’s presence had weight. The kind that pressed into bone.

“Come now,” Alastor chuckled lightly, though Vox could hear the strain beneath it. “You wound me, old sport! I assure you, I am as genuine as one could be.”

Zestial ignored him and rose without a sound, appearing behind them in a blur of shadow. His whispers crawled like cold fingers up Vox’s spine.

“Is it dominion thou seekest? The rule of Hell itself? Wouldst thou have us bend the knee?”

He leaned closer. “A union such as this is no trifling matter. Speak honestly. What lies within thy hearts?”

Vox hated the way his hands trembled. He shouldn’t be scared, he was an Overlord, damn it, yet Zestial’s presence felt like being a child, hiding in the covers while being convinced there is something in the closet. A deep, raw fear. 

Alastor stealthy squizzed Vox's hand to calm him down and exhaled, still wearing that polite, old-fashioned smile, though it had sharpened at the edges.

“Now listen here, friends,” he said, voice slipping into a smooth radio-host cadence, “I’ve no desire to ruffle any feathers. You both have my utmost admiration, why, you’re the very pillars of this fine underworld of ours.”

“As you may have noticed,” Alastor went on, “I haven’t been expanding my little corner of Hell with my usual speed this past year. You can thank this strapping fellow right here.” He gestured to Vox, whose smile was plastered on the screen with a pinch of nervousness.

“I’m quite satisfied with the reputation I’ve carved out. Never imagined I’d cross paths with a kindred spirit, especially in a place as delightfully cutthroat as this.” Alastor’s tone softened, just a fraction. “And when Vox and I had enough liquor to kill a horse, we may have gotten carried away with the moment.”

He leaned back, folding his hands neatly.

“It was nothing more than a drunken action, quite like a bawl with a fella twice as big as you or a spontaneous tattoo which you regret in the morning, which I guarantee I did. But as the contract is already in full and I'm not in the mood to lose half of my hard earned souls and power, I will have to trust Vox that he will manage to keep himself alive and not get in my way. But rest assured that there's nothing more than a deep friendship going on.” 

“You want us to believe,” Carmilla said slowly, each word sharpened like a blade, “that this entire… situation was nothing more than a drunken mistake, Alastor?”

Alastor opened his mouth with that too-wide smile, but Vox beat him to it.

“Miss Carmilla, if I may?” Vox slid forward in his chair, posture straight, expression polished to PR perfection. “I say this with the utmost respect, truly. Neither of us would dare insult your intelligence with a lie.”

Carmilla arched a brow, deeply unconvinced.

Vox pressed on, hands moving animatedly.

“What I can guarantee is this: I have zero interest in starting a war. I’m not the Overlord of weapons,” he gestured at Carmilla with a polite little nod, “that’s your department. My industry is technology. Entertainment. Innovation. We’ve been growing beautifully this past year, and frankly, I’m incredibly proud of what my company’s becoming.”

“I’ve known Alastor for a year now, and yes, he’s been a dear, dear friend, but would not throw away my reputation and my built brand for him.” (He would absolutely throw it all away for Alastor if pushed, but that’s neither here nor there.)

Alastor smiled, sensing the lie. Vox elbowed him discreetly.

“What I’m trying to say is this: the marriage was unexpected for both of us. And honestly?” Vox shrugged with a charming little grin. “I get why you’re suspicious. The big, scary Radio Demon and the new kid in the penthouse tier? Oh, I wouldn’t trust us either.”

Carmilla’s eyes narrowed. Zestial’s fingers drummed on the armrest.

“But let me assure you,” Vox added smoothly, hand over his chest, “there is nothing else going–”

He stopped talking when he realised Carmilla and Zestial were no longer looking at him but at something on the wall behind him.

He and Alastor turned their heads around, only to find Alastor's shadow attacking Vox’s shadow.

Wait. Not attacking. That creature was SMOOCHING his shadow over and over again while his shadow shot an electric current between its antennas, forming hearts. 

All four stared at the scene in silence, not being able to look away. Alastor’s ears flattened and his facial expression turned to something resembling disgust and embarrassment. 

On the other hand Vox was staring in shock, mouth slightly agape. Was his shadow actually answering to Alastor's? He didn't know this was possible. This is like the absolutely worst timing to find out about this. 

“You will stop that IMMEDIATELY, you wretched thing, or I’ll banish you until you learn some manners!” Alastor barked, sounding uncannily like an irate father scolding a toddler.

The shadow responded by blowing a wet raspberry before slinking into a corner, sulking like a grounded child.

Alastor slowly turned back toward Carmilla and Zestial. Both were staring at him with eyebrows raised.

Vox tried, tried so hard, not to laugh. It came out as a strangled cough, which immediately earned him the same withering glare the shadow had received.

Zestial finally spoke, his voice deep enough to vibrate the table.

“Methinks there be… unsettled spirits about thee, yet for all that, I judge not thy words to be false.”

Carmilla nodded. “We’ll be keeping our eyes on you two. For now, there isn’t sufficient evidence to pursue this further.”

She stood, smoothing her coat.

“And for the record,” she added sharply, “I can see you holding hands from here. We’re not blind.”

Alastor jolted as if stung. Only then did he realize his fingers were still wrapped around Vox’s from when he tried to calm the TV overlord down.

Both yanked their hands apart so fast they nearly smacked the table.

They muttered quick thanks for the meeting and hurried out.

“Wow. I genuinely thought I was about to shit my pants. I fully understand now why people would rather light themselves on fire than sit in a room alone with Zestial. I need a drink,” Vox announced the second they stepped outside.

“Oh, don’t be so theatrical,” Alastor hummed. “Are you telling me you’re more frightened of Zestial than of me?”

“Yes. Absolutely. One hundred percent,” Vox said without hesitation. “My entire life flashed before my eyes when he popped up behind me. I will be having nightmares until the end of time.”

“You wound me, dear. And here I thought what we had was special.” Alastor pressed a hand to his chest in mock heartbreak, but the look alone made Vox’s antennae spark.

“Don’t get me wrong, you’re still super scary,” Vox said, waving his hand dramatically. “But if I had to choose between being stuck in a room with Zestial or with you in full demon form, fangs, claws, eldritch nightmare and all… I’d choose you. Even if you decided to eat me alive.”

“Hm.” Alastor’s smirk sharpened. “I may just take you up on that.”

Vox glitched, his face lit bright blue. “Okay, yes, drink. Now. I feel like a main character in a horror movie… for the past twenty-four hours straight.” He paused, suddenly unsure. “Would you, um… maybe… care to join me? I’ve got excellent rye whiskey. And I swear I won’t ruin your Sazerac this time.”

He instantly regretted it. Was it too much? Too soon? Was he being clingy? Oh God, he was being clingy.

Alastor didn’t reply right away. Vox, internally, had already died twice.

Then, finally:

“One small drink couldn’t hurt. What’s the worst that could happen? We get married again?” A burst of laughter crackled through Alastor’s microphone.

“Oh my god, perfect!” Vox perked up. “I’ll get a taxi!”

“No need for that.” Alastor began summoning a portal with a cheerful flourish.

“NO NO NO–” Vox didn’t even get to finish. Alastor grabbed his arm and teleported them.

Vox dropped to his knees the moment they materialized in his apartment, gripping the carpet like it was the last stable surface in Hell.

“I hate you,” he groaned, swallowing back nausea. “If I didn’t feel like my insides were in a blender, I’d zap you into next Tuesday.”

“You always say the sweetest things,” Alastor replied, hands folded neatly behind his back as he surveyed the room. “Now, where is that drink you promised me, my dear?”

“I’m getting it, I’m getting it,” Vox muttered, dragging himself upright. “Make yourself at home.”

He staggered into the kitchen. Alastor, left alone, wandered the living room with a foxlike curiosity. His eyes immediately landed on the polished record player and the shelves of vinyl beside it.

He hummed approvingly at Louis Armstrong, nodded respectfully at Bessie Smith… then paused at a handful of records he didn’t recognize.

“Modern rubbish,” he declared, and pretended they didn’t exist.

He picked out Sinatra, set the vinyl on the turntable, and settled elegantly onto the couch, humming along as the record crackled to life.

Vox returned with two drinks: a Sazerac for Alastor and a martini for himself. He handed Alastor’s glass over and flopped down beside him, spreading his thighs far enough to take up the rest of the couch. 

Alastor took a sip.

“…Well,” he said slowly, “it is certainly an improvement over your last attempt.”

“That’s basically a compliment coming from you,” Vox said, tapping his foot to the music and letting out a long, exhausted sigh. The last day had felt like getting hit by a bus, and yet the silence between them was… weirdly comfortable. Cozy, even.

After a minute, Vox sat up with sudden excitement. “OH! That reminds me.” He trotted over to the record shelf. “I got a brand new album from Earth. I think you’re gonna love it.”

“I remain deeply skeptical of your taste,” Alastor sniffed.

“Oh please. Don’t pretend I didn’t catch you broadcasting half the songs I’ve shown you.”

“My, my,” Alastor purred. “So you do listen to my broadcasts. How romantic.”

“Shut up and listen,” Vox said, placing the vinyl on the turntable and moving back to sit next to him, this time closer, their shoulders brushing.

The song began:

Spring is here, spring is here

Life is skittles and life is beer…

Alastor raised a brow. “A jaunty little tune. Very saccharine.”

Vox just smirked. “Wait for it.”

But there's one thing that makes spring complete for me…

When we’re poisoning pigeons in the park.

Alastor froze. Then a smile spread slowly across his face.

“Oh,” he murmured, actually giggling. “Oh my. That is charming.”

They stayed like that , Alastor with his wicked grin, Vox laughing at every line as the song cheerfully detailed the murder of defenseless wildlife.

By track two, their glasses had refilled. By track three, Alastor was laughing openly. By track four, Vox was leaning against him, warm and relaxed which strangely Alastor didn't mind.

When the fifth track began, Vox shot upright.

“Oh, this one! This is my favorite on the whole album.”

He turned to Alastor and extended his hand.

“Care to dance?”

Alastor didn’t even pretend to hesitate. His fingers slid into Vox’s with a purr of satisfaction as Vox yanked him to his feet, both of them swaying for a moment, fighting gravity with their tipsy state.

“Why, is this our first dance, dear husband?” Alastor murmured, ears twitching with mischief.

Vox blushed a soft neon blue. “Shut up and dance.”

I ache for the touch of your lips, dear

But much more for the touch of your whips, dear

Vox didn’t ease into the tango, he attacked it.

He grabbed Alastor’s hand and shoulder and dragged him forward with a sharp, confident pull that made Alastor’s eyebrows shoot up.

The movement snapped them chest to chest, breath mingling, balance wobbling but somehow working.

Alastor followed Vox’s lead with a delighted, startled laugh.

He hadn’t expected this.

You can raise welts

Like nobody else

As we dance to the Masochism Tango

Vox spun Alastor out and snapped him back in one fluid motion and then dipped him dramatically.

Alastor genuinely thought he was about to be dropped on his skull.

Instead, Vox held him steady, strong grip, sharp grin, eyes glowing with pride and whiskey.

It was… disarming.

And infuriatingly attractive.

Let our love be a flame, not an ember

Say it′s me that you want to dismember

That was all the challenge Alastor needed.

He took over on the next beat.

His hand snapped around Vox’s waist, fingers digging just enough to make Vox’s breath hitch.

He pivoted sharply, forcing Vox into a spin that made him dizzy.

Vox stumbled, then caught himself, then grinned like he could devour Alastor whole.

Blacken my eye

Set fire to my tie

As we dance to the Masochism Tango

Vox hooked a leg up along Alastor’s hip with confidence, pulling himself backward in a dramatic dip that stole the breath from Alastor’s lungs.

The Radio Demon’s grin sharpened, delighted.

At your command

Before you here I stand

My heart is in my hand (yecch)

It's here that I must be

The lyrics hit a little too perfectly.

And Alastor relished it.

He wondered, with a curl of curiosity, what exactly Vox was thinking at this moment.

Your eyes cast a spell that bewitches

The last time, I needed twenty stitches

They circled each other, every step a controlled strike, every turn a test of dominance. In one breath Vox led; in the next, Alastor seized control. Their movements were sharp, elegant, brutal, echoes of their fight from last week, polished into choreography.

Neither broke eye contact. Neither could.

Bash in my brain

And make me scream with pain

Then kick me once again

And swear we′ll never part

They were close enough to feel each other’s breaths, close enough that Vox’s screen flickered every time Alastor exhaled against his cheek. Their heartbeats stumbled into the same rhythm; even their radio waves seemed to sync, humming in the same electric tension.

Hunter and prey, switching roles with every step, every spin.

I know full well

I′m underneath your spell

So, darling, if you smell

Something burning, it's my heart

Vox deliberately shocked Alastor’s palm in time with the beat, a playful zap that burned them just enough to sting.

Alastor’s answering smile was feral.

Vox’s was deranged.

Perfect.

Take your cigarette from its holder

And burn your initials in my shoulder

Fracture my spine

And swear that you′re mine

As we dance to the Masochism Tango

Alastor caught Vox by the waist, dipped him lower than before and followed him down, nose brushing the warm static of Vox’s neck.

Then he bit down.

Not enough to draw blood.

Just enough to make Vox gasp, shiver, and cling to him harder.

Just enough to promise that neither of them would forget this dance anytime soon.

When the song finally ended, Alastor seemed to snap back to reality. He pulled Vox up with him, both of them panting faintly, their faces flushed, one a bright red, the other a shimmering blue. For a long moment neither of them spoke. They stood close, too close, simply staring at each other.

It felt like that moment during their fight, the same charged stillness… yet somehow different. Heavier. Thicker. Maybe it was the alcohol hanging in the air but maybe it was something else entirely.

Vox didn’t dare to move. Nothing could be allowed to break this–

A telephone rang.

The shrill tone cut through the atmosphere. Vox nearly screamed. He actually might have, had Alastor not stepped back first.

Vox inhaled sharply, marched toward the phone with murderous intent, and snatched up the receiver.

“WHAT!?” he yelled.

Alastor couldn’t hear the reply, but watching him stand there, shoulders trembling with rage, was… admittedly entertaining.

“I do not give a shit,” Vox snarled into the phone. “And I will skin you alive for calling my personal home number over something this trivial. You shall be the cautionary tale for every other IDIOT who dares disturb me again.”

He slammed the handset down hard enough to rattle the table. When he turned back, Alastor was already summoning a portal.

“Thank you for the drinks,” Alastor said cheerfully. “And thank you for the dance, sweetheart. I haven't had a partner who could even attempt to keep up with me in ages.”

Vox knew better than to push his luck. So he simply lifted a hand and gave a soft, droopy little wave.

“Goodnight, Al.”

And with a grin sharp enough to cut glass, the deer stepped into the portal and vanished.

Chapter Text

The day before that, the magazine hit the streets like wildfire, and as always, the Overlords were the first to sniff out the drama.

In a dimly lit lounge filled with drifting smoke and the smell of burnt whiskey, one hooded Overlord slammed the paper down on the table.

“Holy shit, is this true? Alastor has gotten married!” he exclaimed.

The others immediately perked up, heads snapping toward him like gossip-starved vultures.

“To Rosie?”

“No!”

“Then who?” another asked, leaning in with a spark of dread.

“That new guy, TV-head.”

Maestro, sprawled lazily on a velvet couch, chimed in with theatrical flair.

“Word is their love is in the air.”

The hooded Overlord spun around dramatically, nearly tripping over his own cloak. “I heard Vox fucked him in the town square!”

“Either way, it’s seemin’ the Radio Demon isn't such a scare.” Maestro finished his drink.

Meanwhile, across town in a grimy alley stacked with stolen weapons, Prick stabbed the cover of the magazine with a knife. 

“I can't remember ever seeing power merge this fast.” He looked at the paper in disbelief. “With all his smarmy talk I thought Vox was gassed up.”

Hatchet, midway through throwing a knife toward Prick’s head, froze with perfect dramatic timing.

“Now he has charmed Alastor with flirtations.” He let the knife drop with a clatter. “Hell as we know it is through, they've shaken the foundations.”

Prick nodded grimly, the weight of the situation settling on him like a bad debt.

“Now that their marriage is expressed–”

“Who knows what moves those guys will make next?”

The day after the meeting with Carmilla and Zestial and right after wrapping up the morning broadcast he had delivered with breathtaking charisma (if he said so himself) Vox barely made it three steps off the studio stage before the inevitable happened.

A tidal wave of journalists descended on him.

Ah, journalists. His favorite carnivorous little piranhas. And they loved him back.

Why wouldn’t they? He was handsome, electrifying (literally) and he always had a quote ready that danced perfectly on that line between scandal and brilliance. And with the launch of the new VoxTek TV model coming up, any press was good press.

“Mister Vox! Mister Vox!”

One reporter, who looked like the stereotype of a journalist with suspenders, a crooked tie and a fedora that had seen better decades, shoved a microphone under Vox’s chin. Vox admired the dedication to the bit. 

“Are the rumors true?” the man blurted, voice trembling with either excitement or a caffeine overdose. “Are you and the Radio Demon married?”

Straight to the point.

Brave.

Or extremely stupid.

Vox felt his eye enlarge instinctively, hypnotic spirals briefly flaring to life before he stopped himself. No accidentally mind-wiping reporters today. Not until after lunch, anyway.

He smoothed his expression into his flawless media smile.

“Well now,” Vox purred, folding his. “Rumors certainly travel fast in this town, don’t they? Faster than the copper co-axial cables, even. And trust me, I know my cables.”

The reporter leaned in, nearly drooling. “So it is true? You and Alastor–”

Vox laughed. Beautifully. Deliberately. Like a man who absolutely knew the answer and absolutely wasn’t going to give it.

“Let’s not jump to conclusions,” he said, waving his hand. “You know how Hell is. Someone sneezes in Pentagram City and suddenly it’s a conspiracy. Someone walks down the street with another demon and suddenly, bam!” He clapped his hands. “Marriage.”

“But the photos–” the reporter insisted, shuffling through papers. “The witnesses– You're literally wearing a wedding band across your finger!”

“Ah yes!” Vox cut in brightly, hiding his hands behind his back. “A spectacular performance, wasn’t it? Pure theatrical genius. Speaking of performances, have you seen the latest features on the new VoxBox™? Crystal-clear reception, high definition screen, and now with even more channels! A real crowd pleaser.”

The reporter blinked. “That… didn’t answer my question.”

“Didn’t it?” Vox asked innocently. “Huh! Must be a reception issue. Happens sometimes with older equipment. You should upgrade.”

“So you deny the marriage?”

“I deny nothing!” Vox said with mock offense. “I simply believe the public should focus on what truly matters. Innovation, progress, and my absolutely stunning product line launching this Friday.”

The journalist started to sweat. “Sir, the citizens want clarity–”

“And they shall have it!” Vox declared grandly. “Tonight on 666 News, where I’ll personally address the situation.”

“Oh! So you'll confirm it?”

Vox smiled wider.

“I’ll address it.”

“Meaning–”

“Meaning you’ll have to tune in, won’t you?” Vox said, patting the reporter’s cheek like a proud father patting a disappointing child. “Exclusively on VoxTek TVs. Channel 66. Prime-time.”

The journalist sputtered. “But–!”

“Next question!” Vox called to the crowd, already turning his back and letting the cameras catch his best angle.

Behind him, the piranhas erupted into frenzy.

And Vox glided forward, already planning his second funeral once Alastor heard about this. 

“Heyyyyy, Al, my old pal, hey, hey, heyyy!”

Vox’s voice blasted through Alastor’s head like an unwelcome pop-up ad. Unfortunately, Alastor was in the middle of a fight with a particularly annoying minor Overlord.

“This is not a good time, Vox.”

He spat the words out just as the distraction allowed his opponent to land a shallow cut on his arm.

“OW! Hey! I felt that! What the hell are you doing?” Vox gasped dramatically, despite being perfectly safe wherever he was.

Alastor ignored him. He summoned his shadowy appendages, one of them latching onto the Overlord’s arm. With a sickening crack and a wet rip, the arm tore free and hit the pavement. Blood sprayed the alleyway; the sinner shrieked.

Ah. A beautiful symphony.

“What do you want, Vox?”

Alastor asked, now fully in control again as the dismembered Overlord continued trying (and failing miserably) to attack. Alastor kicked him square in the gut, hard enough that he coughed a spray of blood onto the wall.

“Soooo, um, okay, don’t be mad, but you know how that article came out about us being married?” Vox sounded like a man tiptoeing across a minefield.

“Yes, Vox. We literally had a meeting about this yesterday.” Alastor rolled his eyes, dodged a weak swing, and dragged his claws across the sinner’s back, sending him collapsing to the ground.

“Right, right, totally, I remember. Soooo… you’re cool with everyone knowing, orrrr…?” Vox stretched the last syllable out like he hoped it would carry him out of danger.

Alastor’s patience frayed.

“I would not say I’m fine, Vox. Ideally it won’t spread any further.”

He stepped toward his opponent and ended the fight decisively. His hand plunged through the sinner’s chest, pulling out a still-beating heart. He brought it to his mouth for a bite.

“Oh, didn't know you were eating, sorry for disturbing you. Bone apple tea, I guess.” Vox was surprised when he heard Alastor slurping. 

Alastor froze mid-bite.

“…A what?”

His form shrank back to normal as he slowly lowered the heart, eyes narrowing.

“Bone apple tea,” Vox repeated casually, with the confidence of a white man. “It’s French. For, y’know, enjoy your meal.”

There was a full three seconds where Alastor simply stared.

Then he broke.

He laughed, no, howled, with such force that he had to brace himself against the wall, wheezing. The dying Overlord, clutching his open chest cavity, stared up at him like he thought Alastor had finally snapped.

It took Alastor a moment to catch his breath.

“Oh my god, you absolute nitwit, if I didn’t enjoy your company, I would kill you right now for butchering French in my presence.”

On the other end, Vox made the most theatrical eye-roll imaginable.

“Well, glad you still think I’m funny. I hope you’ll still enjoy my company after I… address our marriage on live TV tonight,” Vox blurted, clearly trying to slip the bomb in while Alastor was still laughing.

“You will what?” Alastor’s laughter died instantly. His microphone cracked like a scratched vinyl record.

“I have a ton of journalists swarming me! People are asking questions! I have to control the narrative somehow, and Rosie still wants us to act all ‘lovey dovey.’ I can’t hide the ring forever, Al! I’m the face of TV! The face of entertainment!” Vox whined dramatically.

“I wouldn’t call you the face of entertainment,” Alastor countered smoothly, pulling out his microphone and draining the unconscious Overlord’s soul. “Everyone knows I’m the face of entertainment.”

“You’re the face of radio, and radio doesn’t have a face! People see me every day!” Vox snapped, instantly falling for the bait.

“You’re getting rather desperate with your image,” Alastor said breezily. “I noticed that billboard you installed solely so I can see your face from my window. You are not subtle, dear.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Vox replied in the most obviously-not-innocent tone imaginable.

He cleared his throat. “Anyway. I promised some journalists I’d address it. Better I do it myself than let people speculate forever.”

“I like when people speculate about me,” Alastor purred, stepping over a corpse as he exited the alley. “It keeps them appropriately frightened.”

“Well, there’s only so many reporters I can avoid,” Vox sighed. “So I have to say something, but first I wanted to check with you if, uh… it’s fine.”

“I doubt you can say anything worse than what that wretched magazine already printed,” Alastor growled, instantly irritated by the memory.

“Yeah, that’s true,” Vox muttered. “But I still wanted your consent or… whatever. I planned to just say yes, we’re married, VoxTek supports gay marriage, blah blah blah, then maybe advertise your radio show.”

“As if I need your advertisement.” Alastor rolled his eyes so hard it could be heard.

“I’m trying to be nice here!” Vox protested. “And I won’t go into detail. You have to leave people crumbs so they keep wanting more, y’know? If you want, you can join me live on air, it’d be kinda funny.”

“Over my dead body.” Alastor’s ears flattened in horror at the idea.

“Eh, worth a shot,” Vox sighed. “Anyway, tune in tonight if you wanna watch me talk about you.”

“I wouldn’t know how,” Alastor said primly. “I hate those picture boxes.”

“I KNOW YOU’RE LYING! I’ve heard you slip in references about my show! I know you keep a TV in that shadow realm of yours!” Vox shrieked.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Alastor echoed, now his turn to play innocent.

“Well… good to get your kind-of-consent on this. Go on with your day, I guess.” Vox exhaled, exhausted.

“Thank you, dear. Good luck with your broadcast! I do hope you won’t make a fool of yourself this time,” Alastor chirped.

“THIS TIME–” Vox began, but Alastor happily cut the signal.

CHANNEL 666 EVENING NEWS BROADCAST

The screen flickered, static snapping before Vox appeared in his classy vest, tie and the hat. His grin was so polished it could probably blind the damned.

“Good evening, Hell!” Vox chimed, waving cheerfully as sparkly graphics exploded behind him. “Welcome back to Channel 666, your number one source for news, entertainment, and my stunning face!”

Canned applause played.

“Let’s dive right into our top stories, shall we?” Vox shuffled some papers, even though he absolutely didn’t need them. “First up: Traffic in the Wrath Ring was at a standstill today due to a demon attempting to parallel park his chariot for six hours straight. Witnesses say the screams of frustration could be heard several blocks away, and honestly? I respect the commitment.”

He nodded thoughtfully.

A clip played of a demon repeatedly crashing into a lamppost while flipping off bystanders.

“Secondly, The Cannibal Town is on fire again. Not metaphorically, again Pepper Jack’s Taco Shack tried deep-frying an entire sinner, resulting in oil splashing over the whole kitchen staff, before starting a fire. Ouch. The owner is quoted saying, ‘I regret nothing.’ Firefighters disagree.

“And now,” Vox continued smoothly, “to address a tiny, teeny, minuscule, practically nonexistent rumor floating around Hell…”

The graphic “BREAKING NEWS” slammed onto the screen.

Cameras zoomed in. Then zoomed in again. Then once more for good measure.

Vox cleared his throat.

“Well, yes. The rumors are true. I, Vox, icon of the airwaves, sweetheart of the screens, technological titan of temptation, am indeed… married.”

The news ticker immediately flashed: BREAKING: VOX CONFIRMS MARRIAGE; DETAILS IMMEDIATELY UNCLEAR, POSSIBLY NONEXISTENT.

Vox raised his hand before anyone could even think of forming a question.

“Now, before you all start foaming at the mouth, let me assure you, I am perfectly fine. No spell, no blackmail, no mysterious radio frequencies were used to influence this union.”

A suspiciously long pause.

“Anyway!” he continued brightly. “As for the identity of my spouse, well… It’s really not that important. I mean, you know him, you love him, he eats souls on air, moving on.”

The camera operator audibly choked.

“Instead, let’s focus on what really matters: VoxTek continues to support diversity in marriage, self-expression, technological advancement, and of course, your unwavering dedication to me.”

A giant “VOXTEK PRIDE!” banner fell behind him with confetti cannons.

“Now, Hell,” Vox said, lacing his fingers together, “as a special treat to celebrate this… union… be sure to tune into our partner program, The Radio Demon's radio show! Broadcasting every night at… well, whenever he feels like it. VoxTek is not responsible for any lost souls, nightmares, haunted appliances, liquefied eyeballs or demonic contracts that may manifest without warning. Consult your doctor if you experience more than four hours of uncontrollable static.

He’s proud of that plug. He shouldn’t be.

Everything was going well. Smooth. Controlled. Professional. Until…

“And if my darl–”

He froze.

A micro-glitch.

The screen flickered.

The corner of his mouth twitched.

He started again, carefully.

“If my… uh… data charts, DATA charts, yes, are correct, public interest is at an all-time high!”

His screen glitched again, briefly flashing the word “DARLING♡” in neon pink before snapping back.

Vox’s eye widened a microscopic inch.

“ANYWAY! Moving on!”

He knocked over his mug, which spilled coffee across his desk. He ignored that.

“In entertainment news, uh, Hell’s Film Festival will be featuring seventy-three new indie films, all of which I predict will be terrible except the ones I personally financed.”

A spark shot from his fingers. He slapped the spot, smiling through clenched teeth.

“This has been tonight’s broadcast! Goodnight, Hell, and remember, trust us with your news!” 

The camera turned off.

He gave one last strained smile.

Chapter Text

“Holy shit, this is so good.” Vox shoveled another spoonful into his mouth, closing his eyes like he was experiencing divine revelation. A pleased, utterly indecent-sounding moan followed.

Alastor snorted. “Of course it’s good. You’re finally eating a proper meal instead of those quick, cheap abominations you dare classify as ‘food.’” He tasted his own serving, hm. Not his best masterpiece, but certainly acceptable. “Could you pass the salt, darling~?” The last word stretched in a mocking way.

Vox dropped his fork when he heard Alastor saying that, his screen turning a lighter shade of blue.

“I guess you've seen yesterday's disaster.” Vox looked away embarrassed.

“Perhaps.” Alastor had a full mocking smile on his face.

Vox decided to ignore that, hoping Alastor wouldn't bring it up again, so he went back to eating. But when he picked up his fork again, his fingertips sparked BZZT, a crack of electricity shooting through the utensil.

“OUCH!” Vox yelped, dropping the fork like it bit him. Across the table, Alastor visibly tensed, teeth clenching hard, because as usual, Vox’s electricity leapt through their magical bond and zapped him too. Again.

“Would you–” Alastor hissed through his teeth, rubbing his hand. “Please. Be so kind as to stop electrocuting yourself every spare second?” He gestured to the meal. “I am attempting to enjoy dinner.” The dinner he so graciously cooked after Vox announced, with no shame whatsoever, that he was going to order another pizza this week.

“It’s not that easy!” Vox threw his hands up. “It’s not my fault I suddenly gained the Radio Demon’s powers overnight! Do you have any idea what this feels like? It’s like plugging a toaster into a nuclear power plant!”

Alastor slowly raised a brow. “Hmm. So you are admitting you’re an oversized toaster.”

“Wha– NO!” Vox’s voice cracked in offense. “Ha. Ha. Hilarious, Al.” He glared daggers at him. “I just haven’t learned to control this yet! It takes time!” He jabbed his fork back into his food.

Alastor smirked, leaning his chin on his hand as he watched Vox continue eating more carefully than before.

“With your track record, I should hope you don’t burn this apartment down before dessert.”

“No promises,” Vox muttered, mouth full.

They continued eating, the room filled with the clink of utensils. Alastor watched Vox intently, which somehow made Vox’s power control worse. Every time Alastor’s eyes lingered too long, Vox’s fingers twitched like badly-wired light switches.

Finally, Alastor broke the silence.

“I’ve been wondering… how do your powers work?” he asked, tilting his head.

Vox perked up. “Uhm, well, you’ve seen most of it. I can shoot electricity, manipulate wires, turn into an electric stream, teleport, y’know, classic electricity stuff.” He said all of that with food still in his mouth. Tragic. Alastor pretended not to notice, but internally he was begging the heavens for table manners.

“I do recall,” Alastor said, swirling his fork, “you also possess that delightful… hypnosis trick, isn’t that so?”

Vox’s eye glitched immediately, pupil widening, faint hypnotic rings appearing before he jerked his head away.

“Yeah. Got that too,” he mumbled toward his plate.

“I haven’t seen much of it,” Alastor added calmly, almost too casually.

“Good,” Vox snapped. “I’ve been trying not to use it when I'm with you. I’m glad I’ve got some self-control left.” He tried to laugh, but it came out more pathetic.

“And why avoid it?” Alastor asked with a soft chuckle. “Scared you’ll accidentally make me do something scandalous?”

Vox nearly choked on mashed potatoes. “Yeah, I’m trying not to accidentally fry your brain like a cheap radio.”

Alastor gave a short, amused hum. “How thoughtful.”

“It is thoughtful!!” Vox raised his voice. “Do you know how stressful it is to look at someone and think, ‘Wow, I hope my face doesn’t accidentally ruin their life today’?”

“It sounds like it troubles you,” Alastor teased lightly. Too lightly. Almost… gently?

Vox squinted at him. “What’s with the tone? Are you dying? Did you eat something cursed? Some spoiled meat?”

Alastor sighed dramatically, as if Vox’s stupidity personally inconvenienced him.

“Vox, dear, I am merely saying you need instruction. Guidance. You’re flailing around like a toddler with a loaded shotgun.”

“Hey, that's not true!”

Alastor ignored the outburst. “If your powers are genuinely troubling you, and they clearly are, I can… assist. Supervise. Ensure you don’t turn yourself into a hazard every time you blink.”

Vox froze mid-bite, stunned.

“You… want to help me?”

“‘Want’ might be too strong a word,” Alastor corrected, waving his hand. “But if your incompetence continues unchecked, you will get yourself killed, and by that get me killed too.”

Vox blinked. Then blinked again.

“You mean… training? Like, actual training? With you? And not just you laughing at me every time I fail?”

“Oh, I’ll still laugh,” Alastor assured him. “I simply propose adding some structure.”

Vox stared, wide-eyed, his heart doing a weird little flip.

“…Thanks,” he muttered awkwardly. “Really.”

“Don’t make it sentimental,” Alastor warned.

Vox coughed into his hand to hide how flustered he was. “Okay, well, uh, if we’re doing this, you should at least know the risks. My hypnosis especially is… tricky. I’m trying hard not to use it around you.”

“Oh?” Alastor propped his chin on his hand, smirking.

“I don't want to accidentally hypnotize my… uh… my…”

He visibly struggled.

“…friend?” 

Vox still didn't know how to define their relationship. They may be married but it wasn't like a real marriage. They may have kissed once but he was sure that if he tried calling Alastor his “partner” he wouldn't survive the night. “Friend” is maybe the closest thing Alastor would accept. 

Alastor didn't comment on that.

“Well!” he announced. “Your hypnosis has never worked on me before, I doubt it will work now.”

Vox slammed his hands on the table.

“Thanks to YOU I got stronger! And I can’t control any of this yet!”

Alastor raised an eyebrow, amused.

“Are you implying you could charm me with your little spirals now?”

“I could!” Vox insisted.

“I doubt it.”

“You wanna bet!?”

Alastor gestured grandly. “By all means. Dazzle me.”

Vox inhaled, steeling himself.

“Fine. But if I accidentally break your brain or something, that’s on you.”

“Duly noted,” Alastor said, utterly unfazed.

Vox lifted his gaze.

His eye began to glow, rings spiraling, shimmering. And to both their shock, Alastor’s eyes went blank. His grin froze in place. Every muscle relaxed except his posture, which turned ramrod straight like a deer in the headlights.

“Holy shit, it worked,” Vox whispered. He kept the stare locked, his grin stretching wider and more feral by the second.

“Well well well,” Vox muttered, enjoying this far too much. “Since someone insisted I couldn’t do it…”

He cleared his throat.

“Stand up.”

Alastor obeyed instantly, rising like a Victorian ghost summoned at a séance.

Vox nearly cackled. “Okay, okay, this is incredible. I'm incredible.”

He leaned in.

“Meow for me.”

“Meow,” Alastor said in the softest, emptiest, most defeated little voice Vox had ever heard.

Vox slapped a hand over his mouth to keep from howling, his eye dangerously close to shutting.

“Oh my god, you’re so gonna kill me later,” Vox wheezed. Then, recovering, he pointed triumphantly. “Alright! Next command! Tell me I’m the funniest, coolest, smartest guy you know.”

Alastor’s smile twitched, just barely, like if he was trying to override his programming. The radio static thickened. His ears flattened. His fingers curled.

“You…” Alastor growled through clenched teeth.

“Are…”

The room lights flickered.

“…on thin ice, dear.”

His antlers grew, the room sinking into unnerving darkness.

Vox instantly threw himself behind his chair.

“WOW, look at that! You snapped out of it!” Vox said, peeking over the backrest. “No harm done! Nobody meowed twice! We’re good!”

Alastor’s antlers receded slowly as he exhaled through his nose. He sat back down, calmly retrieving his fork as though nothing had just occurred.

“Only because your technique is a catastrophe,” he said with a sniff. “No control. No precision. No strategy.”

Vox blinked. “Strategy? What, like a battle plan? It’s hypnosis, not chess!”

“It should be treated like chess,” Alastor said, stabbing his food with pointed judgment.

“You’re flailing your powers around with the instability of a ticking bomb.”

“That’s rich coming from Mr. ‘I Just Meowed On Command,’” Vox snapped.

“That was charity,” Alastor replied sharply. “You’re welcome.”

Vox snorted. He absolutely clocked the lie, but he also knew when poking it would end with him being flung through a wall. “So what’s the plan then? You teach me to fight here? I mean, it’s a little cramped, but honestly? Your apartment’s ugly enough that the damage might actually be an improvement.”

Alastor gasped like he’d been stabbed. “How dare you! This place is classy.”

“Sure,” Vox said, gesturing broadly. “If by classy you mean ‘vintage horror film where everyone dies horribly in the first ten minutes.’”

He wasn’t wrong. The apartment was very Alastor: elegant in the way a guillotine was elegant. Mounted animal heads lined the walls, their glassy eyes tracking movement. The furniture looked antique, expensive, and possibly soaked in blood at some point. Despite the roaring fireplace, the air had a bone-deep chill that made Vox shiver.

“You have no appreciation for aesthetics,” Alastor scoffed, standing and stalking closer. “So many lovely suits in your wardrobe, and you insist on wearing that vest.” He poked Vox in the chest with one clawed finger.

“Well, excuse me for experimenting with my look after I died,” Vox shot back, pointedly ignoring how close Alastor was now. “But yeah, weren’t you talking about training?”

Alastor’s smile sharpened. “Ah! Yes. I have just the perfect place.”

Before Vox could object, Alastor snapped his fingers.

The floor vanished.

They reappeared in a vast, murky swamp that stretched endlessly in every direction. Twisted trees loomed overhead, fog curled along the surface of black water, and something large splashed ominously somewhere far away.

Vox hit the ground hard.

Mud splattered up his vest, his pants, his everything.

“Oh my god,” Vox groaned, falling to his knees, leaning forward. “I’m going to puke. I shouldn’t have eaten. I definitely shouldn’t have eaten.”

“Stop being such a baby,” Alastor said cheerfully, tapping him on the back with his microphone.

Vox glared up at him, then scooped up a fistful of mud and hurled it.

It hit Alastor square in the chest.

For a moment, there was silence.

Alastor’s grin shrank, just a little. Enough to look almost like a frown. 

Then, without a word, shadowy tentacles erupted from the ground and shoved Vox straight back into the mud. 

“HEY!” Vox yelped as mud smeared everywhere. “HEY- STOP, OH MY GOD, AL, YOU ARE SO CHILDISH!”

“I’M childish?” Alastor snapped. “You threw mud at me! What are you, five years old?”

“wHaT aRe YoU, fIvE yEaRs oLd?” Vox mocked, immediately earning a direct hit to the face.

They stared at each other for a beat, both filthy, both furious. 

Then Alastor, still keeping eye contact, stepped forward.

Too close. Intentionally too close.

Vox froze, mud sliding down his screen, static popping softly along his antennae. Alastor said nothing, just leaned in, eyes gleaming, smile sharp and knowing. Their breaths mingled. The swamp went quiet. Vox’s processor short-circuited.

Oh.

Oh.

This is happening.

Vox’s eyes fluttered shut, instinct taking over, already bracing for– 

SPLOOSH.

A cold, heavy fist of mud slammed straight into his screen.

“SON OF A–!” Vox yelped as electricity crackled out of him in a reflexive zap, jolting straight up his own arms. He staggered back, slipping slightly, sparks snapping uselessly into the swamp.

Alastor burst out laughing.

Full-bodied, delighted laughter, the kind that echoed.

“Oh, we begin our training now, my dear,” Alastor said sweetly, flicking mud off his sleeve. “Lesson one: maintain your composure under pressure.”

Vox wiped at his face, leaving a streak instead of cleaning anything. His screen glowed an embarrassed, furious blue.

“I fucking hate you.”

“Splendid,” Alastor replied cheerfully. “Channel that.”

Shadowy tendrils snapped out and launched him backward, landing neatly on a higher mound of mud. 

“Lesson two,” he continued, voice light, “never take your eyes off your opponent.”

“Oh, I never take my eyes off you, baby,” Vox shot back, snapping into motion.

Wires shot from his back, yanking him upright and out of the muck. He wiped his screen clean with one hand, electricity crackling along his fingers as he dropped into a loose, ready stance. His grin was sharp now, confident, dangerous, alive.

Alastor’s smile widened.

There it is.

Vox lunged first, scooping mud mid-run and hurling it like a fastball. Alastor ducked effortlessly, the clump sailing over his antlers and splattering behind him.

“Too slow,” Alastor teased.

“Oh shut up!” Vox skidded sideways as a shadow-limbed swipe narrowly missed his legs, then retaliated by flinging mud blindly over his shoulder.

It almost hit Alastor but when Vox blinked the man vanished in front of him. 

“What-”

Alastor reappeared behind him, close again, hand brushing Vox’s waist just enough to be distracting before shoving him aside with a laugh. Vox stumbled, barely catching himself with a sparking wire.

“Focus,” Alastor purred near his ear. “You let me get inside your head.”

“You’re literally inside my personal space!” Vox snapped, spinning and flinging another fist of mud. Alastor twisted away, the clump grazing his cheek.

“Oh, progress!” Alastor beamed. “You didn’t electrocute yourself this time.”

Vox growled and charged again, electricity crackling brighter now, but steadier. Controlled.

Alastor noticed.

Good.

“Careful,” Alastor said lightly, dodging another throw and circling him. “You flare when you’re flustered. Breathe. Feel the current, don’t fight it.”

“Oh my god, are you flirting while coaching me?” Vox snapped, hurling mud with both hands.

Alastor laughed as he narrowly avoided it.

“Is it working?”

Vox’s face glitched blue.

“…Shut up.”

“Make me.”

That did it.

The ground around them crackled as more wires burst up from beneath the swamp. Alastor pivoted smoothly, skirts of his coat flicking mud everywhere, only to find Vox gone in a burst of electricity.

Static hissed behind him.

Before Alastor could fully turn, Vox reappeared at his side and yanked his arm with a cable, spinning him just enough to throw his balance off. Alastor caught himself at the last second, boots sliding in the muck… and a fresh wave of mud came flying straight at his face.

He ducked just in time, the sludge grazing past his ear.

The fight was never serious, no claws, no teeth. But it was about pride and both had way too much of it. 

Alastor barely had time to register the rising hum above him before instinct kicked in.

Aerial assault. Classic.

Vox dropped from above in a crackle of electricity, hurling mud downward like artillery. Alastor twisted aside at the last moment, the sludge splattering across his shoulder and his ear. 

This is going to be hell to clean.

With a snap of his fingers, shadows peeled off the swamp like living ink. Several shadowy figures rushed forward, immediately pelting the area with mud balls from every direction. The fog thickened, vision reduced to vague shapes and splashes.

Then…

“AH!”

Vox’s shout cut through the swamp.

Alastor froze.

His heart skipped, before logic caught up. He felt no pain. No backlash. Vox wasn’t hurt.

Still, he stepped forward cautiously.

“Vox?”

Through the mist, a silhouette appeared, kneeling in the mud, shoulders slumped, one hand braced against the ground.

Alastor frowned and moved closer.

“That was uncalled for, dear. If you’ve short-circuited yourself–”

Too late.

Vox looked up, grin splitting his screen wide, eyes practically glowing with triumph. In his raised hand sat the fattest, most aggressively wet mud ball yet.

“Gotcha.”

Alastor didn’t have time to dodge. The mud ball was already midair, destined for his face, when–

Reality yanked.

Both of them vanished, reappearing a split second later in Cannibal Town, specifically, sprawled across the immaculate floor of Rosie’s office.

They landed hard.

Mud everywhere. Clothes soaked. Hair, antlers, antennae, ruined. They looked less like Overlords and more like two men who had just lost a wrestling match to an alligator.

The mud ball Vox had thrown a heartbeat earlier completed its journey, splatting neatly against Rosie’s pristine shoe.

Silence.

Then…

“What in the name of Lucifer are you two doing?!”

Rosie’s voice cracked through the room like a rifle shot. She stood over them, hands on her hips and eyes sharp enough to kill a man.

Both Alastor and Vox looked up at her from the floor.

They had the exact same expression.

Guilty. Muddy. Caught.

“Look at you!” Rosie continued, pacing in tight, furious circles like a mother who’d just found mud tracked across her clean carpet. “Two Overlords. Covered head to toe in filth like some brats! Do either of you possess a shred of dignity? Self-respect? Common sense?”

She gestured sharply at the floor. “And on my rug! Do you have any idea how hard it is to get swamp muck out of handwoven silk?!”

Alastor opened his mouth, clearly preparing something clever, charming, and misleading.

Vox beat him to it.

“He started it.”

Alastor’s ears flattened instantly, shooting Vox a murderous look.

“I was merely,” Alastor said smoothly, hauling himself to his feet and attempting to brush off his coat, only to smear the mud further, “instructing our dear Vox in the delicate art of power control. An… immersive lesson. The attire suffered for the sake of education.”

Rosie stared at him.

Then at Vox.

Then at the floor.

“I am certain,” she said coldly, “that you can teach him without looking like you were both rolling with the hogs.”

Vox scrambled up as well, trying very hard to look composed despite mud dripping from his hat brim. “So! Uh. Mrs. Rosie. To what do we owe the pleasure of being violently kidnapped in the middle of our… lesson?”

Rosie slowly took a deep breath, like she was counting to ten in her head.

“I was going to congratulate you both on handling Carmilla and Zestial with surprising competence,” she said. “But clearly, that can wait.”

She snapped her fingers and pointed toward the door.

“Both of you. Out. Go shower before I personally hose you down like misbehaving dogs.”

Alastor and Vox exchanged a look, half offended, half resigned.

“…Fair,” Vox muttered.

“Yes, well,” Alastor sighed, summoning a portal. “One does hate to disappoint a lady.”

With matching grimaces (and matching flecks of mud) they vanished through an electrical current and a portal. 

One to Vox’s apartment bathroom.

One to Alastor’s.

Rosie looked down at her ruined shoe, clicked her tongue, but couldn't help herself from forming a tiny smile. 

Chapter Text

Vox, for once, was having an exceptionally good day.

Work was on schedule. No catastrophic explosions, no interns shredding wrong files, no lawsuits crawling out. The new TV model launch had gone spectacularly well, stocks were up, and the only thing he could reasonably complain about was that he hadn’t seen Alastor in a few days.

They were both busy, but they still talked sometimes through their signal, Alastor especially liked to just whisper dreadful jokes directly into his brain at the worst possible moments. Vox had muted himself twice during meetings already, shoulders shaking as he fought not to laugh in front of very serious executives.

Right now, he was seated behind his desk, flipping through a neat stack of résumés. He was even considering hiring a morning news anchor, something to take the edge off his workload. Growth. Responsibility. Maturity.

All of this while Alastor’s radio broadcast crackled pleasantly through the office speakers.

Music mixed with screams. That meant Alastor was in the middle of a fight.

Vox barely flinched anymore. Judging by the faint, small twinges he’d felt in the past fifteen minutes, nothing serious, Alastor was not only winning, but having a wonderful time doing it.

Vox leaned back in his chair, a smug expression on his face.

Honestly, marrying a demon who could solo entire Overlords without breaking a sweat had its perks. If Alastor ever lost a fight, Vox suspected he’d feel a lot more than a mild headache and a passing cramp. As it was, he could work uninterrupted while his husband committed unspeakable violence across town.

Still, Vox sighed wistfully. He wished he could see it.

Normally, fights like this were prime-time gold. Reporters tripped over themselves to film Overlords tearing each other apart. But even though he was captured in that milkshake photo, no one has managed to replicate that luck of getting him on camera. 

So Vox settled for listening.

And honestly? Alastor made it worth it.

“Ah, ah, now hold still, Doctor,” Alastor’s voice crooned through the speaker, warm and theatrical, like a game show host mid-monologue. “You’ll never learn proper bedside manners if you keep flailing about like that.”

There was a wet, unpleasant sound. Something cracked. Someone screamed.

Vox winced, then grinned.

“I must say,” Alastor continued cheerfully, “I expected more from an Overlord who specializes in healing. You’d think you’d have stitched up your own entrails by now.”

Another scream. Louder. Shorter.

“Oh dear,” Alastor sighed, mock-sympathetic. “That one’s going to leave a scar.”

The radio filled with the unmistakable sound of claws slicing through flesh, followed by a dramatic burst of static, as though Alastor himself were censoring the mess out of politeness.

Vox smiled to himself, utterly failing to refocus on the résumé in his hands. The paper might as well have been blank; his attention was glued to the radio.

“I must not have eaten enough apples,” Alastor’s voice chimed cheerfully through the speaker, “because it seems I simply can’t keep the doctor away!”

Cue uproarious audience laughter, followed immediately by a scream so wet and shrill Vox winced in sympathy.

“Did you hear about the gentleman whose entire left side was cut off?” Alastor continued, delighted. “He’s all right now!”

Another burst of laughter. A sharp SLASH. A scream that ended in a gurgle.

“Oh wow,” Alastor went on, sounding genuinely impressed, “what a beautiful liver! I suppose we could say I’ve de-livered it to you!”

Vox snorted despite himself. Gods, those jokes were atrocious. He adored them.

He tried briefly to skim the résumé again, but then Alastor kept going.

“You know, Doctor, I’ve been pondering something. If I were to steal someone’s heart… would I get cardiac arrested?”

There was a beat of silence. Then a horrible, choking scream cut off abruptly.

Vox’s grin widened. Yeah. That one definitely landed.

The broadcast shifted into that familiar rhythm, Alastor clearly dragging it out now, toying with his opponent. Vox could hear the scuffle in the background: heavy impacts, scraping claws, something metallic clattering across stone. Every so often, a sharp intake of breath or a pained grunt slipped through the static.

Alastor, meanwhile, sounded utterly unbothered.

Until…

Vox felt a small, sudden twinge in his own left side and hissed softly, hand flying to his ribs. Not enough to double him over, but enough to make him scowl.

As if on cue, Alastor’s voice dropped, the radio static thickening, warping around each syllable.

“Hmm. Still some fight left in you? How charming. That little needle didn't seem to do much though. But I do believe it’s time we wrapped things up.”

The sounds that followed were… indescribable. A rush of noise like wind through broken speakers, a distant, echoing scream that didn’t quite sound physical anymore, and then… silence. Heavy. Final.

Vox exhaled slowly, shoulders relaxing.

A moment later, Alastor’s voice returned, bright and buoyant as ever.

“And that concludes today’s program! Thank you, my lovely listeners, for tuning in. Do have yourselves a positively dreadful day!”

Vox didn’t hesitate for even half a second before patching into Alastor’s private frequency.

“Holy shit,” he said immediately, grinning despite himself, “those puns were criminal. I think you just committed several acts of violence against comedy.”

Alastor’s voice slid into his head, warm, rich, threaded with that familiar radio hum Vox pretended not to love.

“Ah, good afternoon to you too, my dear Vox,” Alastor replied brightly. “I’ll take that as confirmation you were listening.”

Vox leaned back in his chair, one foot hooked around the leg, spinning absently. 

“Kind of hard not to,” Vox said. “You’re the best narrator in the Seven Rings. Honestly? I’d rather listen to you describe a movie than actually watch it. Explosions, romance, horror, doesn’t matter. You make it sound better.” 

There was a pause. Just a fraction of a second. Vox imagined Alastor’s smile sharpening on the other end.

“Well,” Alastor purred, clearly pleased, “it’s about time you recognized true artistry. Maybe you have finally acquired a good taste?” 

Vox snorted. “Maybe you should acquire a better sense of humor.”

“Oh, don’t be coy,” Alastor said smoothly. “You adore my humor.” It was an easy thing to notice since Vox was quick to laughter every time Alastor made a corny joke. 

Vox rolled his eyes, heat flickering across his screen. “It’s like watching something so bad it loops back around to being good. Against my will.”

“Mmm. Of course it is.”

Vox let the silence stretch for a moment, just listening. Alastor’s signal had a presence to it, steady, confident, alive with energy. Vox always felt a little smaller next to it, in a way he didn’t hate. He found himself sitting up straighter, smiling without quite knowing why.

“So,” Vox said casually, like his pulse hadn’t just kicked up, “you got any plans this week? Voxtech’s sponsoring this new art gallery opening. Real classic stuff. Oil paintings. Drama. No modern garbage. Thought you might like it.”

“That does sound- sounds…”

Alastor cut himself off mid-sentence.

Vox was still smiling, half-leaning back in his chair, when the silence stretched just a second too long.

“…Al?” he prompted, light at first. “You alright there?”

A dull ache bloomed suddenly in Vox’s lower back, sharp and wrong, like he’d been shoved hard onto concrete. He hissed quietly and straightened.

“Al?”

No answer.

The static in the line thickened, uneven.

“Worry… not…” Alastor’s voice crackled back at last, slurred in a way Vox had never heard before. “I- I just… stumbled.”

That did not lessen his worry.

“Alastor,” Vox said, dropping the joking tone entirely, fingers tightening around the edge of his desk. “What’s going on?”

Silence again. Longer this time.

“Al?”

A faint sound came through, breathing, labored and distant.

Then, barely audible: “Vox… s’mthin’s… wrong–”

The line went dead.

Vox tried to reconnect and failed. He tried again. Static. Again, dead air.

His chest felt tight. Could this be a revenge for him tricking Alastor a few days back? He really hoped so but his gut was telling him otherwise.

Vox was already on his feet, chair screeching back as he bolted from his office.

“ETHAN!” he shouted down the corridor.

His assistant nearly materialized out of thin air, clipboard clutched to his chest. “Yes, sir?”

“I need eyes. Ears. Phones.” Vox was already moving, coat half-on. “Get the switchboard running hot, call every stringer, every informant, every reporter we’ve got from here to the outer districts. I want to know exactly where the Radio Demon’s fight went down. And get me a car!”

“Yes, sir!” Ethan spun on his heel and sprinted off, barking orders as he went.

Vox stopped short. A car would be too slow.

He turned sharply, sparks crawling along his fingers. “Forget the car,” he muttered. “I’ll beat the traffic.”

He tried catching Alastor's signal a few more times and when he got no response he appeared in the office, finding the place already in chaos, telephones ringing nonstop, assistants shouting into receivers, papers spread across desks.

“Any news?” Vox demanded the second he crossed the threshold.

Ethan ran up to him, breathless, clipboard thrust forward. “Yes, sir. Witnesses report the fight tore through Sixth and Seventh Avenue in the Doomsday District. Last confirmed sighting was Nightmare Street but once things escalated, most civilians went underground. No clear visuals after that.”

Vox nodded once, then turned to the wall-mounted rotary phone. Without hesitating, he pressed a hand to it and surged forward, his body dissolving into a streak of electric blue as he shot through the telephone lines.

The sensation was still unfamiliar, too fast, too loud, currents pulling at him from every direction like grasping hands. He clipped through junctions he didn’t recognize, sparks snapping along his frame as he fought to stay on course. For a terrifying second he thought he’d miscalculated entirely. 

Then he was spat back into reality.

Vox stumbled out onto the Doomsday District, shoes skidding against cracked asphalt as he caught himself on a bent streetlamp. He sucked in a breath, chest heaving, and immediately began scanning his surroundings.

Silence.

The street looked like it had been chewed up and spit out. Buildings stood half-collapsed, their facades torn open. Windows were shattered clear across the road, glass crunching under Vox’s steps. 

A battlefield.

And somewhere in it was Alastor.

Vox tried again to latch onto Alastor’s signal. He focused, reached outward through the static, through the hum of nearby power lines, through the radio noise still lingering in the air.

Nothing.

Panic crept in sharper now.

He cupped his hands around his mouth before he could talk himself out of it.

“ALASTOR?!”

The sound echoed down the street, bouncing off ruined buildings and disappearing into alleys that offered no answer. Vox winced. Yelling like that was a terrible idea, who knew what would come out and probably attack him if he got too much attention. He didn't have time for it. 

He zapped forward in short bursts, reappearing farther down the road, then again, peering into shattered storefronts and darkened side streets.

“ALASTOR?!” His voice cracked this time, frustration bleeding into fear. “This better not be a joke!”

Static flickered across his face. His heart was pounding hard enough that he could feel it in his ears (if he had any).

Nothing.

No smug reply. No radio crackle. No dry chuckle drifting out of the shadows.

Vox broke into a run, shoes splashing through puddles of something he didn’t want to identify, scanning every collapsed doorway and cratered wall like he might have missed a body lying just out of sight.

“Al–” He stopped himself, swallowing hard, then tried again, louder. “ALASTOR!”

After what felt like an eternity, Vox found the Doctor Overlord. 

His body was sprawled against a shattered wall, unrecognizable. His chest had been torn completely open, ribs snapped and jutting out, dark stains soaking into the brick beneath him. His skull had met the wall with enough force to crack both.

Even Vox, who wasn't a stranger to brutal murder, had to look away.

He swallowed hard and forced himself to keep moving.

Alastor couldn’t be far.

And he wasn’t.

Just a few feet away, collapsed against another wall, Alastor sat slumped in the mud and debris. One leg was bent awkwardly beneath him, his head tipped forward, microphone lying uselessly at his side. He looked… wrong. Still. Too still.

“Alastor,” Vox breathed, already dropping to his knees beside him. “Oh my god, Al, are you okay?”

No answer.

Vox’s chest tightened. He leaned in, listening, searching, there. Breathing. Shallow, uneven, but there. Relief hit him so hard his vision flickered.

He reached for Alastor’s hand.

It was hot. Unnaturally so.

Vox frowned and pressed the back of his palm to Alastor’s forehead. The moment he did, Alastor’s ears twitched weakly.

“Oh shit,” Vox muttered. “Yeah. That’s not good.”

Alastor was burning up.

That didn’t make sense. Hell didn’t have fevers like this. And even if it did, an Overlord, Alastor, should have healed something like that immediately. 

Panic clawed its way up Vox’s spine.

“Hey, hey, don’t you dare check out on me now,” he said, gripping Alastor’s arms, trying to pull him upright. Alastor barely reacted, his weight sagging heavily against Vox’s hold.

Vox cursed under his breath. He couldn’t zap them both and he hadn’t brought a car. 

He looked around the ruined street, mind racing, thoughts tripping over each other.

“Okay. Okay, don’t move,” he said quickly, lowering Alastor back against the wall as gently as he could manage. “I’ll be right back. I swear.”

He vanished in a crackle of static and reappeared inside the nearest surviving telephone booth, hands shaking as he fished coins from his pocket and fed them into the slot. The rotary dial felt painfully slow under his fingers.

The line clicked.

“You have reached VoxTek, trust us with your phone call! This is Mister Vox’s assistant, Eth–”

“Ethan,” Vox snapped, not bothering with pleasantries. “I need a car on Nightmare Street. Now. Make it drive until they see me standing there. Do not ask questions. Just go. Pronto.”

He hung up before Ethan could get a single word out.

A heartbeat later, Vox was back, kneeling in the mud beside Alastor as if he’d never left. His hands hovered uselessly for a second, fingers trembling, before he forced himself to act. He scanned Alastor’s body again, chest, shoulders, arms, searching for blood, torn fabric, anything. Nothing. No wounds. No visible reason. His stomach twisted painfully at the realization: if Alastor had been injured, Vox would have felt it. This was something else, something wrong in a way he couldn’t quantify or control.

“Come on… come on,” Vox muttered, voice tight, as though willing Alastor awake through sheer insistence.

Alastor stirred faintly then, leaning toward him without opening his eyes. Vox reacted instantly, sliding an arm behind his back and easing him into a better position. He sat down fully, pulling Alastor closer until his head rested in Vox’s lap. The weight felt terrifyingly fragile. Vox pressed the back of his hand to Alastor’s forehead again, far too hot. His screen dimmed slightly as panic threatened to overwhelm him. He replaced it with his cooler palm, earning a low, almost content sound from Alastor’s throat, and that small reaction nearly broke him.

“Yeah… okay. That’s good. Stay with me,” Vox whispered, more to himself than anything else.

Time stretched unbearably. Every distant sound made Vox’s head snap up, every second without movement gnawed at his nerves. When headlights finally cut through the fog and rubble, relief hit him so hard his knees almost buckled.

The car hadn’t even fully stopped before Vox was on his feet. He scooped Alastor up in one smooth motion, holding him close as if afraid he might slip away if he loosened his grip. Alastor wasn’t light. Tall, long-limbed, deceptively solid, but Vox barely registered the weight. The driver said something, probably a question, but Vox didn’t hear it. He gave a clipped direction and the car lurched forward, tires screaming as they tore through Pentagram City.

The whole ride, Alastor shifted restlessly, low sounds of discomfort slipping past his teeth. Vox leaned down, pressing his forehead, cool glass, against Alastor’s burning one, hoping it might help, even just a little. His hands tightened reflexively in Alastor’s coat, grounding himself through the contact.

When the car finally stopped, Vox carried Alastor inside without hesitation. Before crossing the threshold, he turned sharply to the driver. His screen got brighter, his hypnotic eye locking on.

“You will forget this drive,” Vox said flatly. “You will forget seeing the Radio Demon today.”

The driver nodded, dazed.

Only then did Vox step inside, Alastor still cradled in his arms, the door closing behind them with a heavy, final click.

Before laying Alastor down on the bed, Vox tugged his coat open and immediately froze.

Alastor was soaked through. Not from rain or mud this time, but sweat, clinging to him in dark patches, his shirt plastered to his skin, heat rolled off him in waves.

“Oh shit,” Vox muttered under his breath.

A cold shower? Was that what you did? Or would that make it worse? Vox had no idea. He hadn’t been properly sick since the forties, and even then it had barely slowed him down. He ran a corporation, a network, but this? This was completely outside his jurisdiction.

At the very least, Alastor couldn’t stay in those clothes.

Vox hesitated, fingers hovering, a dozen thoughts colliding at once. Alastor would absolutely have something to say about this once he woke up. The man was very fussy about his clothes, never showing up in less than a full covering suit. Vox could already hear the offended radio-static commentary.

“Sorry,” Vox murmured anyway, like that might somehow count.

He turned his head away (ridiculously polite given the circumstances) and worked quickly, removing Alastor’s shirt and trousers, leaving his undershirt and boxers intact. He rummaged through a drawer, grabbed the first clean-looking T-shirt and a pair of pajama pants, and dressed him with careful, slightly clumsy movements.

Once Alastor was settled into the bed, Vox exhaled shakily. He did look a little better. Less… trapped. But the heat was still there, alarming and wrong.

Vox pressed the back of his hand to Alastor’s forehead again.

Still burning.

“I don’t even know what normal is for you,” Vox muttered, frustration creeping into his voice. A thermometer would’ve been nice, assuming hell even had a standard for demon body temperature.

Instead, he grabbed a small rag, soaked it in cold water, wrung it out, and returned to the bedside. He dabbed Alastor’s forehead carefully, like he was afraid the wrong touch might shatter him.

His chest tightened.

He didn’t know what he was doing. He didn’t know how to fix this. He didn’t know if Alastor would wake up in an hour or not at all.

And the thought that if Alastor died, he’d die too, didn't even register. That was a problem for later. Right now, all he could see was Alastor, helpless in a way Vox had never seen before.

Alastor let out a small, uncomfortable grunt at the cool touch.

“Hey, hey,” Vox whispered instinctively, his voice softer than he meant it to be. Without thinking, he slid his fingers into Alastor’s hair, gently stroking it back, slow and grounding.

Alastor shifted, brow furrowing.

“Mm– mom,” he murmured.

The word hit Vox like a punch to the chest.

No radio filter. Just a broken, sleepy sound, stripped of bravado and menace.

“Maman..? Ayoù t’es?” His voice was so small, so hurt. 

Vox went completely still, staring down at him, heart pounding so loud he was sure it could be heard. He didn't understand what Alastor was saying but that still broke his heart.

“…Okay,” Vox whispered after a moment, swallowing hard. “Okay. I’ve got you.”

He kept dabbing the cloth against Alastor’s forehead, kept running his fingers through his hair, slow and steady. Gradually, Alastor’s breathing evened out, the tension in his body easing just a fraction.

He should call someone. He should get a doctor. But the thought alone made his chest tighten.

If word got out that the Radio Demon was down, truly down, Hell would erupt. Old enemies would crawl out of the cracks, opportunists would circle like vultures, and Vox could already hear the headlines screaming themselves into existence. He didn’t trust anyone in his company to keep their mouths shut. Not with news like this.

When Alastor finally slipped into a deeper sleep, no murmurs, no strained breaths, just the faint rise and fall of his chest, Vox slowly stood up. His legs felt unsteady as he crossed the room to the phone, staring at it for a long moment before lifting the receiver.

There was only one person he trusted with this.

The line clicked.

“This is Rosie,” came the warm, polished voice on the other end. “How may I assist you?”

“Rosie, it’s Vox.”

The confidence that usually wrapped every word he spoke was gone, stripped away and replaced with raw urgency. “Something happened to Alastor. He fought the Doctor Overlord, he won, but I think the bastard injected something into him. He’s burning up, Rosie. High fever. I found him collapsed in the street and I- I don’t know what to do.”

The words tumbled out in a breathless rush before he could stop them.

“Oh, my dear,” Rosie said gently, not raising her voice even an inch. “First things first, breathe. You have him with you now, yes?”

“Yes. Yes, he’s at my apartment,” Vox answered, dragging in a shaky breath. “He’s in my bed. I’ve got a cool cloth on his forehead, trying to keep the fever down.”

“Good,” Rosie replied, calm and composed, as though she were discussing afternoon tea rather than a poisoned Overlord. “Has he spoken at all?”

“No,” Vox said after a beat. “Just… restless. Some sounds in his sleep.”

“I see.” There was a thoughtful pause. “I’m afraid I’m no doctor myself, darling, but I do know someone. Small, discreet, and very capable. They’ll examine him thoroughly and won’t whisper a word of this to anyone.”

Vox exhaled, some of the crushing weight finally loosening from his chest.

“Stay with him,” Rosie continued smoothly. “Keep him comfortable. You’re doing everything right. I’ll send help immediately.”

“Thank you,” Vox said quietly. He hadn’t realized how badly he needed to hear that.

He returned to the bedroom and knelt beside the bed again. For a long moment, he did nothing but watch Alastor breathe. The flush in his face hadn’t faded. Vox searched for any sign, better or worse, he didn’t care which, he just needed something to hold on to.

Time slipped by unnoticed until a sharp knock snapped him out of it.

Vox straightened immediately. That had to be Rosie’s contact.

He moved to the door and checked the peephole.

…Oh.

On the other side stood a very small sinner. Very small. Wild, flaming red hair, one eye, a frilly white apron, and an expression vibrating with manic enthusiasm as she bounced slightly on her heels.

Vox hesitated.

Then he opened the door.

Before he could say a single word, the tiny demon shot past him like a bullet.

“HI!! I’M NIFFTY!!” she chirped, already halfway across the apartment. “I heard there’s a sick bad boy somewhere in here and OH BOY do I love bad boys!”

“What– HEY!” Vox spun around, alarm flaring, just in time to see her dart straight into his bedroom.

She jumped onto the bed, right next to Alastor.

Vox was moving before his brain caught up, panic surging hot and sharp. Every instinct screamed protect.

“HEY! WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING?”

His hypnotic eye flared instinctively.

Niffty did not even blink.

Instead, she produced a thermometer from absolutely nowhere and shoved it into Alastor’s mouth with enthusiasm.

“Ooooh yeah, he’s toasty! Like, fresh-out-of-the-oven toasty!” she said cheerfully. “Wow! You could cook an egg on this guy! Maybe two!”

Vox stared at her, stunned.

“We gotta air this place out, it’s way too stuffy in here!” Niffty continued, already zooming away. She threw open a window, nearly tore the curtains down in the process, then gasped. “WOW, it’s so dusty! When was the last time you vacuumed? These curtains are wrinkled! Wrinkles are the devil, you know!”

She was everywhere at once, scurrying like a squirrel on her third cup of coffee. She grabbed the rag from Alastor’s forehead, darted into the bathroom, soaked it in cold water, wrung it out and was back in seconds, gently placing it down again.

“There we go! Nice and cool!” she muttered, already circling the bed. 

Vox stood frozen at the foot of the bed, watching the scene unfold like a bad sitcom he hadn’t agreed to star in. He wasn’t sure whether he should feel relieved that someone seemed to know what they were doing or deeply offended that this someone was tearing through his apartment.

“Where do you keep your Tylenol?” Niffty suddenly popped up right beside him.

Vox jumped. Actually jumped.

“Jesus!” His screen flickered for half a second. “Uh, Tylenol. Bathroom. Third cabinet. I think.”

Why hadn’t he thought of that? He still got headaches sometimes and paracetamol worked just fine on him despite the whole… TV-for-a-head thing. Of course he owned some.

Niffty vanished and reappeared seconds later with a full glass of water and two pills. Before Vox could process what was happening, she had already wrangled Alastor upright with alarming efficiency, supporting his shoulders while guiding the glass to his lips.

“Drink, bad boy! Swallow, swallow, yes, like that!”

Somehow, Alastor complied, half-conscious and obedient in a way Vox had never seen before.

“Is he… is he going to be okay?” Vox asked quietly, the bravado gone from his voice. He hated how small it sounded.

“No idea! I'm not a doctor!” Niffty replied cheerfully, already sprinting toward the kitchen.

Vox stared after her, utterly stunned.

Who the fuck had Rosie sent him?

Before he could demand answers, Niffty skidded back into view, hands on her hips, glaring at the kitchen.

“You have no food,” she announced accusingly. “How am I supposed to make soup like this?”

“Soup?” Vox echoed, brain lagging behind the conversation.

“Soup for when the bad boy wakes up!” She beamed, as if this were obvious. “He needs vitamins! And salt! And love!”

“I, uh, I have instant noodles?” Vox offered, unsure if this was a confession or a plea.

Niffty gasped. “Absolutely not.”

And then she was gone.

Vox stood there for a moment, blinking at the empty doorway. He exhaled slowly, pressing his fingers to where the bridge of his nose would be.

He turned back to the bed. Alastor hadn’t moved, still flushed, still far too warm but breathing. That counted for something.

A minute later, Niffty burst back in, hauling a grocery bag twice her size. It hit the counter with a thud, and she immediately started unpacking without acknowledging Vox’s existence at all.

He took that as his cue to step away.

Vox made a quick call to his office, voice changed to professional, rescheduling meetings, delegating work, making sure the machine kept running without him. Responsibility didn’t stop just because his world was quietly falling apart.

When he returned to the bedroom, Alastor had shifted onto his side. One ear laid flat against the pillow, the other standing upright, twitching faintly.

Vox stopped in the doorway. Something in his chest loosened, just a fraction.

A small smile crept onto his screen before he could stop it. He didn’t even bother scolding himself for it.

Alastor, the terror of Hell, feared and revered by Overlords alike… looked strangely, unfairly adorable like this.

For a fleeting, treacherous second, Vox considered taking a picture.

Just one. As a tiny, petty trophy for the emotional catastrophe this day had turned into.

He reasoned that in Alastor’s current state, the radio static might be low enough for a clean shot. No distortion. Just… him. Vulnerable. Quiet. Real.

Which was exactly why it felt a little cruel.

…But also, Vox decided, he had earned something after nearly losing his mind, sprinting through half of Pentagram City, and successfully not collapsing and breaking down. That alone deserved a reward.

So he crept into the living room like a thief in his own home and retrieved his Polaroid camera from a drawer. He padded back in, paused, hesitated and then snapped the photo before his conscience could catch up.

The picture slid out with a soft whirr.

To Vox’s delight (and mild disbelief) it came out perfectly. No static. No distortion. Alastor lay there peaceful, hair loose, ears relaxed, face softened by sleep instead of menace. He looked almost… harmless.

Vox grinned like a kid on Christmas morning, immediately shoving the photo somewhere no one would find, in his shark Encyclopedia.

Satisfied, he returned to the bedroom and dragged a chair over, sitting beside the bed. He didn’t touch Alastor now, just watched him, listening to the faint clatter of Niffty chopping vegetables in the kitchen.

If luck was on his side, Alastor would wake up soon.

Vox tried to distract himself with the newspaper, flipping to the crossword like it had personally insulted him. 

It was useless.

He kept glancing up anyway. Checking Alastor’s color. His breathing. The heat beneath Vox’s fingers when he dared to touch his forehead again.

Eventually the fever eased. Alastor’s skin cooled, just enough to let Vox breathe properly for the first time since Alastor's signal disappeared.

That Doctor Overlord should consider himself extraordinarily fortunate that his soul was currently trapped somewhere inside Alastor’s shadowy hellscape. Because if Vox ever got his hands on him personally, the results would make tonight’s fight look merciful.

Hours later, long after Niffty had finished the soup, lectured Vox for ten full minutes about hydration, and vanished just as chaotically as she arrived, Alastor woke up. 

“Hhggh… Vox…?”

The sound hit him like a lightning bolt.

Vox jerked upright so fast the chair nearly toppled over.

“Oh Jesus Christ, Alastor, you’re awake!” He was on his knees instantly, leaning over the bed, panic and relief tangling hard. “How do you feel? Are you okay? Are you thirsty? Hungry? In pain? Do you want water? Soup? I have soup–”

“Vox,” Alastor murmured, voice low and tired, stripped entirely of its radio filter. “Calm down.”

That alone nearly broke him.

“Why,” Alastor continued, blinking slowly, “are you in my bedroom?”

Vox snorted despite himself, biting his lip to stop a smile. “Yeah, uh. Funny thing about that. You’re actually in my bedroom.”

Alastor’s ears flattened immediately as he attempted to sit up, then paused, clearly dizzy. He glanced down at the unfamiliar clothes, then around the room, then back at Vox with an expression that hovered somewhere between confusion and deep existential offense.

Vox softened his voice instinctively. “What’s the last thing you remember?”

Alastor frowned. “I was fighting that irritating Doctor Overlord. I won.” A pause. “…Obviously.” His brows knit together. “And then… nothing.”

Vox exhaled slowly. “He injected you with something. You collapsed mid our conversation. I spent a while tearing apart the Doomsday District looking for you.” His voice wobbled despite his best effort. “You scared the absolute hell out of me.”

Alastor let out a tired huff and fell back against the pillows. “That explains why I feel like I’ve been run over by a truck. Several times.”

“Yeah,” Vox said softly. “You were burning up.”

There was a brief silence before Vox added, gentler now, “Do you want water? Soup? Niffty made soup.”

Alastor cracked one eye open. “Who… is Niffty?”

“Rosie sent her,” Vox explained. “She’s… small. Loud. Moves like she’s powered entirely by caffeine and chaos. You’d probably find her charming in a deeply unsettling way.”

Alastor’s ears twitched at the mention of Rosie, something so small Vox wouldn't have noticed if he didn't stare at them. “You contacted her?”

Vox scratched the back of his TV-head, suddenly shy. “Yeah. I didn’t know what else to do. I thought you might–” He stopped himself. “I was worried.”

Alastor looked at him for a long moment, then murmured, “You shouldn’t have been.”

“Tell me that when you’re not one bad moment away from the obituary section,” Vox muttered, standing. “I’ll get the soup.”

Alastor hesitated, then reached out, fingers brushing Vox’s pant leg before he seemed to realize what he was doing and pulled back.

“…Perhaps not now,” he said quietly. “But…” a pause, careful, deliberate “you may stay. If you wish.”

Vox raised an eyebrow.

“You can even… continue talking,” Alastor added, eyes already drooping. “Your rambling is… tolerable.”

Vox huffed a laugh and sat back down. “It’s my bedroom, asshole.”

But he stayed.

And because Alastor was clearly half-asleep again and because Vox suspected it may help him fall asleep faster, he started talking.

“While you were out, I, uh– ” Vox cleared his throat, settling back into the chair, voice lowering into something steady and continuous. “I tried to finish the crossword in today’s paper. Big mistake. Absolute scam. They expect people to know that the end of a shoelace is called an aglet. An aglet, Al. Who knows that? Who wakes up in the morning and thinks, yes, today I will remember niche shoelace anatomy?”

He shifted slightly, the chair creaking softly. “Anyway, I stared at it for about… an hour? Two? Long enough to start suspecting the puzzle editor has a personal vendetta against me. I filled in three words out of twelve and one of them was wrong, so honestly I think I deserve partial credit.”

Vox glanced at Alastor’s face, lowering his voice when he saw his breathing even out. “Made me think, though, newspapers are underrated. Very tactile. Reliable. Might be worth investing in. Classy, timeless. Can’t imagine anything ever fully replacing them.”

He huffed a quiet, tired laugh. “Niffty had to buy like the whole isle of vegetables to cook the soup. It smells… aggressive. In a nutritious way. You can have it later. No rush. You’re allowed to rest. I’ll just…” he waved a vague hand, even though Alastor’s eyes were closed, “...keep talking.”

His voice drifted on, unfocused, warm. “I could complain about the crossword some more. Or the fact that my bed is currently occupied by a radio demon who nearly gave me a heart attack. Or how unfair it is that you look this peaceful after all that.” Softer now. “Honestly, you’re lucky I’m such a generous host.”

Alastor’s breathing deepened, the tension finally melting from his face, telling that he had fallen asleep.

Vox noticed and kept talking anyway.

When Alastor woke again, his head felt a little clearer and the first thing he noticed was a glass of water waiting on the bedside table. He managed a few careful sips before his gaze drifted lower.

Vox was there.

Half of the TV Demon was slumped awkwardly on a chair, the other half stretched across the edge of the bed beside him, fast asleep. His screen turned off, a soft, steady static humming under his breath.

Normally, Alastor would’ve recoiled at anyone invading his space like this. But he was exhausted, and to his mild horror, he found the sound… comforting.

He knew if he left Vox like that they would both wake up with back pains, so with a quiet huff, he reached down and gently tugged at Vox’s pant leg, inch by inch, until Vox slid fully onto the bed with an undignified little flop. Somewhere in his sleep, Vox shifted closer, instinctively rolling onto his side and loosely hooking an arm around Alastor’s waist, his heavy TV-head pressing against Alastor’s shoulder.

Alastor froze.

…Then, slowly, he exhaled.

He told himself that it was only because he was unwell, staring at the ceiling. Just a temporary weakness. 

Vox’s static softened, like a satisfied sigh.

Alastor closed his eyes, carefully allowing the hold to remain, and let sleep claim him again.