Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The day had been spent as joyously as it could have. Perhaps it should have been the single greatest day in Vox’s life. The radio demon was ensnared in his grasp, reduced to a prisoner he could cart around and flaunt at his wish. And oh, did he flaunt. He shouted it from the rooftops, on every headline and billboard in hell. But, all excitement fades, and now, alone in the office with none other than his grinning quarry, without the initial rush of pride or screaming reporters or cheering crowds to distract himself, a very different feeling had wormed its way into him. 

Wrongness. 

He stared at the massive aquarium in front of him, trying to ignore the faint reflection beside him. The outline of a man, tied to a chair. In that blurry image, only one feature remained clear, unchanged. A bright grin. Out of the corner of his eye it languished, no matter how hard he tried to focus in on the water, on anything else. It was there. It was always, always there. It always had been. Just now, instead of being a taunt of his ruined mind, it was a tangible presence in the room, as real as the day he first gazed on it with wide, admiring eyes. He ran his hand down the glass, letting his claws leave gouges in its surface. He imagined it was skin beneath his fingertips, he imagined it was his skin. 

“Deep in thought, Vox?” That crackling, staticked voice chuckled from behind him. 

“You can say that.” He clicked his tongue, finally daring to turn his head and face him properly. He watched him cock his head, one ear flicking down quizzically. 

“First time?”

“Oh, shut your mouth.” He grimaced, sitting back down at his desk with a sigh, a hand pressed to his temple. Or, where his temple once was. It was difficult to tell with the lack of human features he now possessed. “You know, I’ve been wondering about something.” 

“I really am the star of that little brain of yours, hm?” Alastor chuckled, crossing his legs and leaning back in the seat he was tied to. “By all means, ask away. I’m at your disposal.”

He sneered back, taking in his casual demeanour. Now that the initial rush of excitement was over, for some reason, it didn’t feel like a victory. Not when he still had that stupid fucking smile on his face. Vox steepled his hands in front of him, trying to focus his gaze firmly on Alastor’s even when all it wished to do was drift. It was odd to think about, but this was the first time in over seventy years he was able to get a good in-person look at him, without being caught up in physical blows. 

Since that night. 

He cleared his throat, his voice coming out much rougher than he intended it to, tinted by the growing bitter taste in his throat. “The princess of hell and the radio demon. What a cozy alliance you’ve made, huh?”

Alastor laughed, tilting his head ever so slightly. “Mm, yes. Quite the character, isn’t she?”

“Why.”

“Why not? Don’t tell me my personal dealings get under your skin so much, Vox!”

“Don’t act stupid. You know exactly why it’s bothering me.”

“Mm… no, can’t say I do.” Alastor made a show of playing the fool. 

Vox might have believed it if he didn’t know any better. He always knew more than he let on. He always had some shit to say. It’s what made him so annoying. “Fucking spit it out.” He hissed through gritted teeth, claws digging into his armrest so hard he felt the metal nearly give beneath his force. And throughout it all, there sat Alastor, as poised and perfect as always, toothy grin flashing in the dim light. When Vox continued, his voice glitched just slightly. “What does Lucifer’s little brat have that I don’t?”

One of Alastor’s ears flicked, seeming almost caught off guard for a split second before that nauseating laugh filled the air again. “Oh, now you’re jealous of the princess? I must say, it is rather adorable, how pathetic you are under it all.”

The lights flickered, electricity crackling at Vox’s fingertips as he slammed a hand on his desk, shooting up out of his chair. “Pathetic?! You’re serious?!” He laughed, throwing out his arms in a grand gesture to the building around them. “Look around you, Al! The people love me, worship me! I’m the face of the biggest corporation in hell, and now, the face of the revolution. I have the ratings, the fame, the influence, the power, I have it all!”

“But not me.” Alastor’s grin flashed in the dark, but his voice, oddly enough, sounded much less boastful than usual. It was almost breathy. “You don’t have me. And that bothers you more than anything, doesn’t it?” 

Vox felt something collapse in his chest, like the power snapping out during a storm. The room went silent for a long, long moment. The clock ticked, the static sound humming off of Alastor felt like needles in his skin.  “Shut the fuck up.” He hissed through gritted teeth, leaning over the desk to snatch his collar, balling the fabric in his claws and yanking him closer so violently the chair he was tied to scratched the floor. 

“I’m right, aren’t I?” As always, he didn’t seem affected. He just laughed. He laughed, he laughed. He always laughed. “You don’t feel like you won, hm? You’re all hollow inside.” He tutted, his voice dripping with acid mockery. Vox felt nauseous. That disgusting, bitter, burning feeling that had been festering in his chest suddenly felt like it was crawling through his wires, raking its teeth all the way. He grabbed a fistful of his hair, and slammed it down onto the desk, filling the room with a sickening crack. 

Sickening? He wanted to slap himself for that thought. It was the most beautiful sound he had ever heard. 

He didn’t understand how empty it all felt when he pulled his head back up to see that same grin, those dark, narrow eyes staring up at him as blood streamed down his face. 

The edge of the desk had collided square with his forehead, leaving a large gash parting his skin. Some of it splattered, getting onto Vox’s hands. No satisfaction was found within him, even when he raised a hand to dig his thumb into the wound, and heard the low hiss of pain he tore from Alastor’s sorry throat. That burning feeling didn’t dissipate, it only grew stronger, brighter, until it blinded any last shred of pride within him. He grabbed Alastor’s chin and threw him back, his chair falling to the floor with him in it, his skull making another crack against the floor. 

“Who cares.” Vox moved around the desk, placing the heel of his boot on Alastor’s chest, looming over him. Even like this, broken, bleeding, bound… He didn’t look as though he’d lost. That smirk remained firmly in place, even when stained with his own blood. “You know what? It’s a blessing you were a fool. I can’t imagine having to wake up every day and look at your ugly mug.”

Alastor let out a half-laugh, half coughing fit, licking his own blood off his lips with a slow motion of his tongue. “Is that so? You know, lying never looked good on you, Vincent. Why don’t you–”

“Do not call me that!” He lifted his foot and brought it down hard on Alastor’s ribs, drawing another gasp from him. “You don’t get to call me that.”

For once, Alastor was silent, save for another stranded cough. Vox felt the urge to kick him in the face next, knock out a few teeth, force that smile off his stupid face. But instead, he pulled off, stepping back. “And to think you could’ve had all this.” He scoffed, gesturing to the grand room around him. 

He laughed. “What? A tacky little tower and a horde of leeches to kiss your boots? Darling, I assure you, I am not missing out on much!”

“Tacky?! I’ll show you ta–” Vox cut himself off, taking a deep, long breath. He was playing into his damn game again. He was always playing some sort of game. “You could have had it all. The key to the gates of hell. You could’ve been on the winning side, instead of slumming it with a bunch of lousy little nobodies. We both know you don’t believe in little miss Morningstar’s ‘red-emp-tion’.” He said that last word with a disgusted, mocking drawl. “So, what is it? What’s your game here? What’s the point?”

“Do I need to explain my every move?”

“You need to explain this one. Tell me why the high and mighty Alastor would waste his time on some tooth-rotting, childish crap like that.” He clicked his tongue. “Make me understand why you would waste yourself when you could have had me.”

Vox didn’t even realize his mistake until he saw Alastor’s brows raise, his grin widening like some lousy reporter that finally weasled a life-ruining line from him. 

“You? You?” He burst out laughing, loud and sharp. Vox didn’t know how it always managed to sting the same. “I could have had you, could I? Oh, how unfortunate. I am simply cursing my past self for being so foolish for losing such a prize—“

His boot collided with the side of his head, making it whip to the side. 

Crack. 

“You know, I like you much better quiet.” It came down on his neck, pressing into his throat. 

Crack.

“It really is too bad you never know when to shut your fucking mouth.” It came down just below his ribcage. 

Crack. 

He settled it on his chest once more, atop his rapid heart, and knelt down, grabbing Alastor’s hair and forcing him to meet his gaze. “You think I care that you wanted to go play house with little miss sunshine and rainbows? I don’t. You think I care that you rejected my offer? I don’t. You’re an outdated, pathetic nobody without even enough sense to know when he’s lost.”

Alastor chuckled. Blood now ran down his face in droves, rendering slick his ashy skin. It gathered on the floor below, sinking into the very foundation of everything Vox had built. It stained his hands, his perfectly polished cufflinks. He had dreamed of this moment, of seeing him bleed, seeing him broken before him. Why did it all feel so dull? 

“You still need me.” He whispered, low and dangerous, like a curse only Vox was permitted to hear. “Just like you did before. It really is sweet how much you think of me.”

Vox sneered, letting go of his hair. “We’ll see who’s needing who when I become what I’m meant to be.”

“Oh, please. Take over heaven? You’re more full of yourself than I remember. You barely even defeated me.” He shook his head, then tilted it to the side. “And you couldn’t even do it alone.”

Vox felt that familiar pit in his chest, that dropping of his heart. “Nothings ever good enough for you, is it?”

“Is that what you want? For things to be good enough for me?”

“Don’t put words in my mouth, you red bastard.”

“Am I? Because it sounds awfully like you want my approval.” He shifted in his restraints. “Admit it. You want my appreciation, don't you?”

“I want you to die.” 

Alastor chuckled. Vox restrained himself from throwing another punch.

Instead, he grabbed his chair to pull him off the floor and up to sit properly again, heaving a long sigh and leaning back against his desk. Alastor seemed a little surprised for a moment, then, he hummed in approval. 

“There we go. Now this is a much more civilized way to converse.” 

“Shut your mouth, or I’ll throw you on the floor again.”

He laughed, this one was low and rumbling, like the steady hum of a broken radio. “If you wanted to, you’d simply do it. I’m at your mercy, after all.”

“That’s right. You are.” Vox let his eyes rake over Alastor’s form. The blood on his face had begun to dry, caking to his skin in thick clumps. His hair was frazzled, sticking this way and that, frizzed up with the shocks he had endured earlier. And, no doubt, dark bruises were forming just beneath that cloak. Vox swallowed, gritting his teeth. “And don’t you forget it.”

“Hard to when it's plastered on every headline in hell. You really were always one for spectacle, aren’t you?”

“You don’t become the star of television by being quiet.” He rummaged under his desk, grabbing the bottle of whiskey Velvette had pawned off on him over a month ago. He’d been waiting for a special occasion to open it. He supposed this was as special of an occasion as ever, but somehow, he hesitated, staring at the label for a long, long moment. 

He knew the burn of it well. Once, it was accompanied with a very different warm sensation. The distant sounds of the bustling bar around them, the steady hum of staticky laughter at his side. His favorite shade of red would be there each time he turned his head, cracking an outdated, unfunny joke or listening to Vox talk about his master plans. 

He’d told that man everything. His true name, his goals, his past… He’d bragged for hours about his exploits back in life, and Alastor had been there, listening, a little gleam in his eye each time the details of another murder drawled off of Vox’s tongue. He had often thought of those moments. How had he not noticed that for every piece of himself he shared, he never even learned the nature of his sins. He had listened, but he never reciprocated. Had he ever ever enjoyed a single one of those nights at the bar? Were they really just a chore for him? Then, why? Why do it? Why waste his time entertaining a ‘weak’ newcomer? Just to rip the rug out from under him the moment he–

No. He didn’t feel a thing. He didn’t. feel. a. thing. He never did. 

He wondered how many more times he’d have to say that before it became true. 

He looked back at Alastor, whose gaze had not left him for a moment. He cocked his head, glancing at the bottle in his hand. “You know, it’s polite to offer your guest a drink.”

Vox laughed in disbelief. “Guest? You’re my prisoner! I should smash this thing over your thick skull, if anything.”

“And waste good liquor? Even you're not that stupid.” He leaned back, drawing a circle into the floor with the toe of his shoe. “For old times?”

Vox heaved a long, deep sigh, pulling out two glasses. “You know what? I need to finish this damn thing anyways.”

“Mhm, that’s the reason.”

“Shut it, or I’ll smash you against this desk again. And this time, I’ll take a couple teeth with me.” He poured an equal amount into both, paused, then poured a little more into his glass, holding the other out to Alastor. He stared at it blankly for a moment, his arms still firmly tied to the chair. Vox sighed, loosening one of the cables that bound him to let one of his hands free. 

He wrapped his hand around the glass slowly, but lingered there, his fingers so close to Vox’s he could almost feel the coldness radiating off of them. He met his gaze, giving him a quizzical look. Alastor just returned it with a lopsided grin, moving his hand up to brush just slightly against his. 

Vox convulsed back like he had been shocked, and Alastor laughed, taking a long swig of the whiskey. “I must say, this is quite the nostalgic little scene.”

“Uh huh.” He deadpanned, leaning back against the desk again and taking a sip of his own drink. “Real nostalgic.”

“And to think you were just a bright-eyed little newbie back then. Look what you’ve become!”

“Don’t fucking patronize me.” Vox clicked his tongue, darting a foot out to hook it around the leg of the rolling chair, pulling it towards him. “Might I remind you, you’re in my domain now.”

“Mm, yes. You were rather clear on that.” He barely reacted, taking another long sip and sighing in relief as the whiskey hit his tongue. “You do have a way of making yourself known, don’t you?”

“And what the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“Oh, nothing.” Alastor hummed in that little sing-song voice. He used the opportunity of having his hand free to wipe his face of as much blood as he could manage, then took another swig. “Just an observation.”

“...You’re working some kind of angle here. And I don’t like it.”

“Who, me? Oh, darling, you really do think so low of me. It is a shame, really. You once thought the world of me, didn’t you?”

Vox felt that now-familiar ache in his chest. 

“You know, I mean it.” His voice dripped with sickening sweetness. “You really have done well for yourself.”

Vox swallowed thickly, taking a quick sip of his whiskey. He suddenly wanted to chug the whole bottle. He needed that to even begin to deal with this. 

“Come now, don’t be shy! Where’s that boisterous little fellow I met all those years ago? Though, I guess you're not him anymore, hm? You’re stronger now. Smarter. More powerful than ever before.”

Vox’s frown deepened, and he turned away from him, sighing and taking another long swig. “Well, this has been a… very lovely chat, but you see, I have an extremely successful and trustworthy media empire to run, so–”

“I’m proud of you, Vox.”

The sound of shattering glass echoes off the walls, whiskey spilling out over the floor around Vox, staining his perfectly polished dress shoes. The air around him suddenly seemed heavy, suffocating, crushing his chest like he was buried alive. For a moment, it felt as though he wasn’t even able to breathe. The silence, the low hum of static, the crackle of electricity from Vox’s lips was all that permeated through the fog of his mind. When he spoke, it came out in a rough, glitched tone, a forced smile on his face. “What did you say?”

“I’m proud of you.” He repeated, with that same casual, smooth tone. “Admire you, even! After all, now that you have me in your snare, you’re the most powerful sinner in all of hell, aren’t you?’ His voice seemed to drop lower for a split second, grin growing impossibly wider. 

Vox felt like his wires were being snapped apart one by one. Why did he always seem to have such an effect on him? Nothing pissed him off more. Not even Val going on another one of his childish killing sprees. Not even Velvette picking fights with powerful possible allies. 

“Stop that.” He hissed out, kicking the broken glass to the side and leaning closer, circling his fingers into the fabric of Alastor’s well-tailored suit. “Just shut the fuck up already.”

“Ouh, hit a nerve there, didn’t I? It seems I found your weak spot.” He laughed, low and menacing, stabbing into Vox’s circuits. “Sweetheart, you are too obvious.”

That acid sort of anger bubbled up within him again, bile rising in his throat until it choked out his every catalogued insult. But his knees felt weak. His head was spinning. Decades of bottled up emotion. Of nights spent alone in bed, a thousand screens displaying the same smiling face. Of hours spent pacing his tower, looking down at the city below, wondering if he was being thought of too, and knowing he wasn’t. Days spent imagining what could have been, that bitter taste in his mouth remembering how it ended before it even began. All because of him. All because of the bastard before him. 

I'm proud of you.

Even a snake couldn’t spit words as ugly as those, as dripping with deceit. Every shape those lips took while forming those four little words was a mockery to everything Vox was, everything he had built, everything he had moved past. I’m proud of you. He said, after laughing in his face. I’m proud of you. He said, while tied to a chair, covered in thousands of cuts and bruises by his hand. I’m proud of you. He said, before-

Vox fell to his knees, arms wrapping around Alastor’s legs, face burying into his lap. He barely registered the figure he clung to tensing, so focused was he on the tearing feeling in his abdomen. He might as well have taken a scalpel and shoved it through his chest, ran it down to his navel, flayed him open like a lab frog and exposed the soft, fleshy core within. His claws dug into Alastor’s skin through the fabric of his pants, so hard they left gouges in their wake. But as blood bloomed around his fingers all he could do was shake. Shake, cling, kneel before his own captive. 

I’m proud of you. He didn’t say. He’d never say it again. In the midst of his sobs Vox heard the distinct sound of him downing the rest of the glass, placing it on the table. Then, the soft palm of his hand pressed against the back of Vox’s head. 

His lap was warm, but his hand was cold, barely a comfort. Still, its weight was possibly the most important little pressure Vox had ever felt. The memory of his laughter echoes in his head, as it so often did. It had burrowed its way so deep into his circuits he wouldn’t have been able to dig it out with any tool existing. It had corrupted his every system, a worming, fanged virus, gnawing at him a little each day. Only now did it reach his goal properly, chewing through his mechanical heart, releasing all that had been trapped within in one shameful tidal wave that left him sobbing into his lap.

He didn’t dare look up. He knew what fate awaited him. A smile, a laugh, mocking words drawled under hushed breath. Another ritual of humiliation, another reminder of what he could never, ever have. 

“Do you even know what we could’ve been?” Vox let out a loud, manic laugh, voice breaking with the tears he fought not to shed. “You fucking asshole. Do you know what you were to me?”

And he said nothing. Vox slowly looked up.

 All that faced him was that sickly yellow grin.

I’m proud of you. 

He had half the mind to beg to hear it again. 

“Oh, Vincent…” He purred, letting his hand stroke up the cold surface of his head with sickening gentleness. Then, he grabbed hold of his antennae, yanking on them hard. “You really are weak.”

Vox grit his teeth in pain, feeling that familiar, hot feeling of shame shoot through his every wire. “If you won’t answer why you’re prancing around in that little freakshow you call a hotel, answer me this.” He wiped his tears on his sleeve. He wanted to stand, but his legs failed him. He continued to look up at Alastor, at his face, shrouded in shadow, only his too-wide grin shining back down. “What were we, really?”

“What were we?” He repeated, giving another mocking little laugh. “That’s implying that we were anything in the first place.”

“Oh, is that how it is?” His voice came out strained, a forced laugh tearing from his throat. “We were nothing? We were nothing. All that time we spent, all those idiots we killed together, every night at the bar, just nothing, huh? So what was your angle? What was your goal? You always have some half-baked little plan behind that stupid grin. So tell me, why treat me like a friend if I was nothing to you?”

Silence fell over them for a moment. That smile on Alastor’s face twitched at the edges, his brows furrowing almost imperceptively. Perhaps it was wishful thinking to interpret that as a face of contemplation. Vox knew better than to trust anything about him. As quickly as it came, that contemplation was gone, replaced with his usual smug look.

“Can’t I take pity on a poor little new soul, no place to go?” He chuckled, shaking his head. “You were quite the pathetic sight, even back then.”

“Liar.” Vox hissed out, slowly rising to his feet. Alastor looked much better from his vantage point, that was for sure. Vox’s hands gripped the armrests tightly, almost bending the material beneath him. “You’re not capable of feeling pity.”

One of Alastor’s ears twitched. He leaned back as far as he could, but trapped between the chair and Vox, there was little place to go. “Perhaps I was simply enjoying the entertainment of listening to you talk about those silly hopes and dreams, knowing you’d never achieve them.”

“Well, how very unfortunate for you that I’ve gone on to become the biggest sensation in hell.” He grabbed one of Alastor’s tiny antlers, yanking his head backwards and revelling in the yelp of pain he let out. “And look at you. Nothing but the princess’s little attack dog. And now, you’re just a bitch on a leash. And that’s where you’ll stay.”

Before Alastor could respond, Vox released a sudden surge of electricity, making him tense up and arch off the chair. He slumped forward, his breaths coming out in short pants. Vox tilted his chin up, stealing one last look at that face, twisted in pain, but with that grin still firmly in place. 

And he felt more hollow than before.

He shoved the whole chair back, letting it roll across the room until it hit the glass of the aquarium. “Have fun languishing in here! Hope you can enjoy the… quality entertainment I have planned for you.”

A massive, dark shape formed in the water behind Alastor, before rows of razor sharp teeth became visible in the murk. Alastor turned to meet the one eye of Shok.Wav, separated only by the glass.

“Now I have to play babysitter for your little doggy?”

“Make any escape attempts and I’ll throw you into the tank. He loves the taste of venison.” Vox called from the doorway, before slamming it shut behind him. 

The moment he was alone again, it felt like everything hit him all at once, a tidal wave of embarrassment, of hatred, 

of excitement. 

He didn’t know which feeling he hated most as he leaned back against the door, staying there for a long moment until his head stopped spinning. That cheshire grin was burned into his mainframe as if made by some kind of branding iron, marking him as a slave to his stupid emotions. His desires. 

He wanted to storm back into the room, fists blazing. He wanted to break each of Alastor’s ribs one by one, feel every crack and crunch and pop under his hands as he tore him apart limb from limb. He looked down at his hand, at the thumb he had moments ago dug into Alastor’s wound. Even now, it felt as though he could feel it tearing beneath his touch, splitting apart at his command. As red as the flash of Alastor’s eyes.

He brought his hand up, and ran his tongue along his own skin, cleaning it of any trace of Alastor. 

As soon as the metallic taste hit his tongue, he let out a sound, and let his eyes flutter shut. He ran his finger along his lips, then dropped his hand, letting it hand limply at his side. He felt electricity crackling through him again, searing his flesh inside out. He pushed off the door, walking too quickly through the halls, heart pounding out of his chest. 

He was frustrated. More frustrated than ever before. His employees parted like the red sea before him, and those who didn’t got thrown into the nearest wall with a couple electrical burns to show for it. Vox made an internal note to fire those snivelling little demons in the morning. For now, he had better things to tend to. 

The door to his room swung open with such force it slammed into the wall with a loud crack. Vox pictured it was Alastor’s bones as he kicked it shut. He pictured it was Alastor’s limp body as he loosened his tie and threw it haphazardly to the side. He pictured it was Alastor’s face as he kicked it across the room. 

He pictured it was Alastor’s hands when he unbuttoned his dress pants. 

He heaved a long sigh, collapsing into his chair, bringing up a flurry of screens before him with a flick of his wrist. His eyes still stung with his earlier tears, his throat still burned with whiskey and blood. And, god, his boxers were still incredibly tight. 

He felt that familiar nausea in his gut. The burning shame rising up his throat like black bile, clawing its way to whatever shreds of sense were still left in his mind. Alastor’s face was emblazoned on every screen. Every angle, every expression, every position. He focused in on the one displaying footage of him with that archangel, on the ground, broken and bleeding, his chest split open and pouring blood onto the soil of hell. Vox let his eyes rake over his form with wild abandon now, taking in the sight. It felt different now that he knew what that blood tasted like. It felt different now that he had felt his form crumple beneath his boots, saw those eyes wince in pain under his manipulation. He leaned back in his seat, letting out a long breath as he moved his clothing to the side, exposing his cock. 

Images flashed behind his hooded eyes, flicking between the screens before him as his hand wrapped around his base. He didn’t bother to start slow, not when he was this worked up. He set an almost painful pace for himself, wracking his body with waves of sensation as his free hand snaked its way beneath his shirt, pulling the fabric off of his sweat-soaked skin. 

He tried to outpace the roiling, blooming shame in his chest, burning hot in his mind. Disgust fluttered in his stomach with each pang of arousal he felt. Getting off to his worst enemy was one thing, but jerking off to his image all alone in his room felt like a different level of pathetic. Anger flared at the thought of that stupid deer managing to worm his way into even his most private pleasures. It seemed that he had tainted every single facet of his life, in some way or another. Those seven years of him missing had done well to make him forget all about it. Hell, that golden span of being able to relax, to not think of him, to not have him corrupt his mind further… It was beautiful. He was able to focus on Voxtek without measuring its success to his. He was able to build his team without his voice in his ear, ‘no friends in hell. No friends in hell.’ 

He was happy. 

He was almost able to ignore that feeling, that image of what could have been. 

He slowed down his pace, clasping a hand over his mouth and biting down on his palm, hard. thoughts of Alastor, bloody and broken, had slowly begun to morph into very different thoughts entirely. 

How it would feel to have his face cracking to the side under his fist. 

How it would feel to have his hand firmly shake his, under the light of the bar. 

How it would sound to hear his cries of pain. 

How it would sound to hear him happily say the word ‘yes’, to meet his gaze as he accepted his proposition. 

How it would feel to be victorious. 

How it would feel to be partners. 

I’m proud of you, Vox.

A sob tore from his throat, no matter how hard he tried to stop it. His eyes welled up with tears, and he desperately blinked them back. He had sunk his teeth so deep into his palm he had drawn blood, but it tasted nothing like his.

All those years ago, he had fallen for a man. Something he never imagined he would have done. It was a sick feeling, a flaring hatred for his own feeble mind he had never before felt. But he had conquered that feeling. He had extended his hand with an open palm and an open heart, willing to try something terrifying, but new. It wasn’t just an acceptance of his desire, it was the first genuine proposition he have ever made in his life. It was the first time he wanted to reach out to someone not for personal gain, but for the simple, naive desire to be near them. It was the first time he ever felt those mythical butterflies in his gut, a kind of nervousness he never experienced in his life of murder and deceit. The first time he looked at another and saw them as of equal standing to himself. The first time he looked at another and saw a friend. 

Laughter echoed in his head. Broken with static, loud, spitting in the face of everything he pictured. 

He had thought that would be the end of his shame. But the burn of arousal currently in his gut suddenly felt more mocking than ever before, more revolting than that initial distaste for himself. Now, in the lonesomeness of his room, a man being the object of his desire was the last of his embarrassment. Hell, that seemed almost stupid to him now. No, this was a shame he could not conquer. A shame he could not move past, not as long as Alastor’s crescent smile remained fixed firmly in place, taunting him. Not as long as he was this weak. 

He wept openly now, tears rolling down his cheeks. He was close, and he cursed himself for being so. He wanted to scream. He wanted to break something. He wanted to feel something snap under his hands. He wanted to feel something die. One of the many screens displayed an image of Alastor in that stupid hotel. Was it just him, or did his trademark smile seem softer? Did his eyes look brighter? Did he look relaxed, comfortable, happy? 

He never looked that way when he was with him.

He brought himself to the absolute edge, then pushed off of it, finishing with a little sob. His hand was covered with it, replacing the blood from earlier with shame. It shook, dispelling all the screens. He didn’t want to see another glimpse of red for the rest of time. 

The room was dark, and silent. No low buzz of the radio, no glow of screens to keep himself distracted. It was just him, and all that he was. Without everything he could have had. Could have held close, to his chest. Could have shared a proper drink with, like so many years ago. Could have laughed with. Vox’s skin was burning hot, flushed with embarrassment and the lingering effects of arousal. The aftershocks of his orgasm were reminder after reminder of what he had done, of who had done this to him, and what they could have been together. Was there anything he could have done back then, that would have spared him from this fate? The logical part of him screamed that there wasn’t. Part of him clung to that thought, of an alternate world where he had everything he ever wanted. 

He curled up in on himself, and raked his claws down his face, hoping to erase any sign that tears had ever festered there.

Wrongness. What a word. It was the only one that fit.

Chapter Text

The door shut, and for the first time that day, Alastor was finally left alone. He would’ve breathed a sigh of relief, if it wasn’t for his current state. Instead, he slumped forward, letting the pained groan he’d been swallowing tumble from his lips. He licked the stray blood off of his lips, dry and flaking off his skin. Normally, the taste would comfort him, but he found no pleasure in blood that was his own. In fact, it just served to worsen his already foul mood. Somehow, no matter his plan, he always ended up on the humiliating end of the stick. 

But taste was the least of his worries when his body was racked with pains. A bootprint in his side, a gash in his forehead, claw marks all over his thighs. Damn noisebox. He rolled his shoulders back, feeling his spine crack. Sitting all day like this wasn’t good for the body. He supposed he was in some way fortunate that he died young, he couldn’t imagine how much worse this would feel if he had an older back. He shook out his hair, cursing the fact that he had re-bound his arms before leaving. At least he was alone, now. 

The whirr of machinery sounded behind him. Not completely alone. He leaned back, head tiling down to meet the massive, bright red gaze of Shok.Wav, its massive maw hanging open, revealing rows upon rows of razor sharp, metal teeth. 

“Got something to say?”

The shark said nothing, of course. Just blinked its one hexagonal eye. Alastor sighed, sitting back up properly. He looked down at his legs, fabric ripped just slightly by that pathetic idiot’s claws. It was like he could still feel him, clinging to his thighs like some sort of lost puppy, head buried in his lap, ruining his good trousers with his incessant tears. He had never looked more pitiful than he did then. Alastor almost felt sorry for him. But he was right, he wasn’t one to feel pity. 

Was he?

Vox had said a lot of things in that last little interaction, most of which Alastor had heard many times before spill from his mouth. But never had he come out and asked directly as to his motives, never had he been so… pathetic with it. Admittedly, as much as Alastor loved to call him such when he could… Well, Vox was many things, but he was not ‘pathetic’. A self-aggrandizing idiot, yes. A sentimental, weak-willed loudmouth, certainly. But pathetic? Not exactly. As far back as his memory stretched, Vox had been an imposing force in hell. He supposed he had his boundless charisma to thank for that, the denizens of hell were easy to fall for a strong voice and a nice smile. And, for a moment, way back when, Alastor truly thought he may be creeping up to even his level. Almost. No one in hell could ever truly reach his level, he’d ensured that long ago. But even then, he was a powerful companion to have. And an entertaining one, at that. It's why he had stuck around for so long. 

‘Why treat me like a friend if I was nothing to you?’

Friendship. What wrongness. A fool’s errand, a weakling’s solace. He’d played the upstanding young gentleman role for so long the word itself felt like meaningless gibberish to him. Part of the reason he made those decisions he did was to avoid the fate of ever having to work his way through a meaningless partnership to climb one more rung on the ladder. He thought Vox had felt the same way. The life he had detailed to him… it was one of manipulation, bid for power after bid for power, eliminating the competition until he was the only one on top. Alastor must admit, he had a fondness for those tales. But it is what made it so utterly jarring to suddenly be faced with an outstretched hand, a cunning smile, asking him to be partners. Alastor didn’t have partners, and he certainly didn’t waste time on friendship. 

Friendship. Is that what that was? What they had been doing? Alastor had never put a label on their interactions until that moment, when the label was firmly cemented as ‘enemy’. He would have been content to stay as they were, but he had to go and mess it all up, didn’t he? He lost an excellent source of entertainment all because of Vox’s weak little emotions. It truly was a tragedy, under it all. Alastor could admit to feeling disappointed for quite a while after that night. He’d instinctively turn in the direction the bar they frequented was, just to skid to a halt as he remembered what had happened. Even now, he felt the occasional twinge of pity for what could have been, if only Vox hadn’t pushed his luck. Perhaps they would still have nights spent leaning against the cracked brick wall of one bar or another, sharing a cigarette under an awning as rain poured down around them. Alastor thought he might enjoy that. 

But that look in Vox’s eyes… that outstretched hand…

What was that fool thinking? Even now, Alastor felt his heart drop at the memory, his stomach turning. He hated being looked at like that, more than anything in the world. Something told him that if he had accepted friendship, Vox would not be satisfied. Something tells him that he would have pursued further. And that would be a headache the likes of which hell had never seen before. 

He truly didn’t know the extent of Vox’s obsession with him. What he wanted, how far he would have been willing to go. Perhaps it was a blessing that he had the opportunity to cut it short when he did. Giving that poor little fellow false hope wouldn’t have been beneficial to his goals, not at all. But for once, it wasn’t his fault. Vox should have known that love was even more of a foolish endeavour than friendship was. Was love really what Vox felt for him? Alastor felt a sick feeling in his gut at the thought. That glimmer in Vox’s eyes that night, the smile… 

He sighed, shaking his head as if to restart it. Horrible night, that was. It really soured the mood to think about, even though the current mood was already near abysmal. He spun his chair around to look at the shark directly, lifting one of his legs to rest an ankle on his other. “Tell ya what, computer… shark, dog thing… if you have a moment, might you relay a message from me to your master?”

Silence. He clicked his tongue. It seemed that the only thing worse than Vox’s incessant chattering was the lack of it. He never thought he’d find himself missing it, but it did keep things from getting terribly boring. Alastor always loathed having nothing to do. 

“Tell him that it's getting lonely here.” He pushed himself closer to the glass, tapping it with the toe of his boot. “At least send some lackey I can berate.”

The shark closed its maw, shifting as if tilting its head. Then, it swam away, back into the depths of the large aquarium. Alastor sighed in slight disappointment, his ears twitching. Every little thing in this tower seemed to be out to irk him. He wondered if it was Vox’s design. He wondered how much his own image had popped into that head of his over these years. By the looks of it, it was quite a lot. Perhaps more than Alastor would have ever liked to know. 

He was startled out of his thoughts by the door opening, and the lanky form of Vox entering. He seemed more out of sorts than before. He was missing his bowtie, and the buttons of his suit seemed to be hastily redone, a couple in the wrong spots. Alastor cocked his head, watching him move across the floor. He wondered what could have possibly happened in that short amount of time to leave him looking like he’d fallen into a ditch.

“Back so soon? You must have missed me quite badly.” Alastor laughed, watching Vox cross the room and place his hands on the desk, facing away from him. “Or have you not had your fix of humiliating yourself? My lap is always open if you need to sob into it.”

“Don’t push it. Especially not when Shok.Wav’s hungry.” Vox seemed a little more disgruntled than usual, his usually so smooth voice rendered rough, his usually so steady hands shaking. It really was pitiful. 

“Mm… Well, I doubt I’d be a very appetizing meal.” Alastor laughed, leaning back in his seat. “Surely you must have him on a more nutritious meal plan than that?”

“That’s rich coming from a cannibal.”

He chuckled, letting his tongue run slowly along his teeth. “I’ll have you know it's not a bad diet. I’ve heard it's good for the figure.”

“Unfortunately, it’s clearly not good at making you any less annoying.” One of Vox’s wires wrapped around the leg of the chair, yanking it towards him so he was closer. Alastor let out a surprised breath, looking up at Vox’s face, the bright screen shining in the darkness of the room.

Red lines showed just under his mouth, giving off the impression of falling blood. The expression on his face was a neutral one, but also something deeper. His brows were furrowed, his eyes were narrowed. He looked at him, up and down, like he was trying to decipher the very nature of him, trying to uncover some secret part of him. For what? To find proper ammo? To find the last puzzle piece, so it all would make sense, once and for all? Alastor knew that look. He had given it to countless others in the past, just like any other killer. It was calculating, cold, and considering. And it was something he truly never thought would be directed his way. But, he supposed that in all of creation, the only being he ever would have thought would look at him that way was Vox. His obsession with him was far from a secret, even an outsider could figure it out with ease. But Alastor felt every little ripple effect from Vox’s fixation every day. Voxtek surveillance cameras always shifted in his direction. Drones would pause midair as he passed. And, of course, Vox would make his hatred known, both verbally and physically. 

“Now now, no need to get all up in arms. I’m just a poor, defenseless prisoner, you know.” Alastor leaned back as much as possible when Vox got into his face, shifting a little in his restraints. “You’re treating me bad enough as it is.”

“Treating you bad? That’s your concern with this whole… situation?”

“Come now, you can at least be polite enough to give me a towel, so I may wipe my face.” He tilted his head, giving him a good view of how dirty it was. “I must look positively dreadful right now.”

“Not a big change from usual.” Vox withdrew his wire, stepping away with his hands clasped behind his back. The leftmost wall was a large window, looking out over the boundless city below. Alastor tried to follow Vox’s gaze, but he seemed a little dazed, focused on nothing. “I think you’re fine just the way you are. All those wounds suit you.”

“You think so?”

“Yeah. Really matches your eyes.” 

He let out a scoff of laughter, shaking his head. “Well, then by all means. Cut me up some more. Perhaps the next punch will finally make you feel better about yourself.”

“Nah, a punch won’t be enough. I’ll slit your throat.” Vox laughed in turn, darting out a hand to grab one of the armrests on Alastor’s seat, yanking him to be by his side. “Look.”

Alastor raises his brows, glancing between Vox and the window. “Look at what, exactly?”

“Out. At everything.” He gestured vaguely to the city outside. Billboards flashed, demons bustled through the streets, the white glow of heaven in the sky above. “At everything I own.”

Alastor scoffed. “Having your little corporation doesn’t mean you own all of hell, you know. But it is so typical of you to think it does.”

“Oh, just you watch.” Vox placed both hands on the armrests, tilting his head and looking down at him with a slightly manic grin. “Every shred of territory that isn’t in my grasp? It will be. Every sinner that’s having doubts? They'll love me. And you will watch. You’ll watch every second of it. I’ll staple your eyes open if I have to.”

“I get the VIP seat? How very sweet. It seems you really do crave my approval, don’t you?” Alastor leaned in just slightly, lowering his voice. “If your last visit was any indication.”

Vox visibly cringed, pushing back Alastor’s chair. He laughed as it spun through the room, coming to a stop a few feet away. “Oh, are you embarrassed? You should be. That was quite the pathetic little display.”

He watched as he mumbled something under his breath, his teeth grit together in a snarl. Then, he made his way across the room, back to the desk.

“Nothing to say?” Alastor leaned back in his seat. “It seems you’re far more affected by me than you let on, hm? Why don’t you go on and say it, honestly… You want my pride, my favour. You want to be something to me, hm? My little friend?” He chuckled. “Tell me, are you really so pathetic you would do anything to please me? Sit and stay, go fetch, roll over?” The words felt too bitter on his tongue, but they rolled off easily. He expected Vox to deny it, to get defensive as he always did, but this time, oddly enough, he just continued doing what he was doing. He kicked to the side the shards of glass from earlier, kneeling down to rummage under the desk. Alastor felt a sudden jolt of dread, none of the thoughts of what he might have been looking for were pleasant ones. 

A scalpel? A hammer? A gun? Alastor strained to see, horrid anticipation running through him. It was so rare he felt fear, but pain wasn’t an emotion he particularly liked. Not at all. And he’d had quite enough of it that day. He braced himself, tensing as Vox finally stood up and turned to him, revealing…

A cloth?

Alastor blinked slowly. Somehow, that was the last thing he would have ever guessed. Vox approached slowly, cloth in hand, an indecipherable expression on his face. Alastor’s gaze nervously shifted between him and the cloth, that dread still lingering somewhat. He knew Vox could get creative if he needed to.

“That thing’s much too short to strangle me with.”

“I’m not going to strangle you, you idiot.” Vox scoffed, looming over Alastor. He flinched slightly when his hand took his chin, tilting it up. “Now quite squirming before I change my mind.”

The realization of what he was planning hit Alastor all at once. The soft surface of the cloth touched his face, and he realized that Vox had soaked it with something. Did he have that kind of foresight?

“Antisecptic? Really?”

“Whiskey.” Vox clarified, running the cloth over Alastor’s bloodied skin, mopping up each stain. 

“You know that’s far from the best disinfectant, yes?”

“You think I give a fuck if you’re disinfected?” Vox laughed, shaking his head. “I chose it not because it works, but because it hurts.”

Alastor barely had time to process that before Vox had pressed the cloth directly into his open wound. And, he was right. It stung, making his entire body freeze up. He scraped his foot against the ground, fidgeting to distract him from the pain. 

“You’re lucky I even give you this much.” The cloth moved lower, until Vox’s hand was practically cradling his cheek, his every touch oddly gentle despite the situation they were in. “God, I’m too benevolent for my own good.”

“Mm, yes. I feel so lucky right now.”

“Be grateful. I ruined a perfectly good cloth for you.” 

Alastor watched as he tucked the cloth, now soaked with whiskey and his blood, into his pocket. He raised his brows at the odd action, but didn’t comment on it. 

“Well now, now that that’s all sorted.” Vox whipped around, walking away with his arms spread wide in a grand gesture. “Enjoy your lodging for the night.”

“You truly are hospitable.”

“Never doubt it.” 

“And I suppose you’ll be sleeping comfortably tonight?”

“Like a baby.”

“Mhm…” Alastor watched him go, his hand wrapping around the doorknob. “Oh, one more thing.” 

“What now?” Vox paused, looking back with an irritated expression. 

“Throw out that cloth.” Alastor warned, voice low and dangerous. 

Silence passed between them for a moment, the air suddenly thick and heavy. Vox’s fingers seemed to spark with electricity, before he grinned, wide, laughing. “What do you think I am, exactly? Obviously it's going straight in the incinerator. I don’t need any part of you tainting my sleep tonight.”

“Good… I expected no less.” 

Vox left the room a little too quickly, leaving Alastor alone in the darkness once more. He sighed, turning his chair to face the window. The sting of whiskey still burned in his wound, leaving a lingering, fiery sensation along his split skin. He didn’t know what to make of it all, couldn’t even begin to process why Vox had even bothered to do such a thing. The touch on his cheek lingered almost as much as the pain did, and he didn’t even have the free hand to try and wipe it off, so he settled for shaking out his head. That did very, very little to help. 

Alastor was even more confused and conflicted than before. And he shuddered to think about what was going to happen to that cloth.

Chapter Text

The cloth was torturing him.

He had placed it on his bedside when he slept that night, and in the morning, he had left it balled up in his front pocket, and it seemed to weigh heavier and heavier as the hours ticked by. It wasn’t like him to be so self deprecating, but even he knew what kind of creep behaviour this was. Still, he couldn’t let go of it. And as he hurried through his duties he was just waiting for a chance to slip away and deal with the mounting frustration within him. He could catch faint hints of its scent periodically, and it drove him up the wall. 

Every time he felt it while fumbling for a pen or whatever else, it felt like a jolt running though his body. Images of Alastor from last night flashed through his mind, tormenting him like vengeful spirits. Him, on the ground, below his boots, looking up at him with wide eyes and blood streaming down his face… It was truly a shame it didn’t make him feel any better, but it did make him feel a little hot under the collar. When he was being talked at he'd let himself indulge in that fantasy… making him kneel, next. Making him be the one to sob into his enemy’s lap. Oh, wouldn’t that be a sight! Alastor crying? Was he even capable of such a thing? Vox wondered what it would take to draw some good tears out of him, maybe even a wail. Would his smile fade? Would he cling to him for comfort? Would he beg? Would he–

“So, I got all of our outfits planned for the grand reveal. I’d ask you what you think, but quite frankly, I couldn’t care le– Vox, are you even fucking listening to me?” Velvette jabbed a finger at him, and he startled out of his reverie, staring blankly at her finger for a moment as she poked his chest. 

“Seriously, what’s with you as of late? I swear, that tacky antlered cunt is some sort of virus to you.”

Vox blinked slowly, then forced out a laugh, placing a hand on her shoulder and squeezing a little too tightly. “Oh, Velvette! You and your exaggerations.”

“Exaggeration?!” She widened her eyes in offence, crossing her arms. “Every time he’s around you shut the fuck down like he messed with your signal or something. Say what you will, It’s giving obsessed.”

He pulled his hand off of her, gritting his teeth. “I am not obsessed.”

She raised her brows, unconvinced. “Exactly what an obsessed person would say.”

Vox groaned, scratching his claws down the side of his neck. Great, now both Val and Velvette were on his case? They always were on his case. 

You can’t do anything without your team.

He reached a hand into his pocket, curling it around the cloth. He put on a bright smile, moving around to place his arm around Velvette’s shoulders. “Tell you what, my dear. You’ve been doing such a good job with all this preparation, I think its due time for a break, no?”

“A break?! This close to the presentation? You must be out of your goddamn mind–”

He walked forward with her in tow, leading her to the doorway. “Seriously, all that stress is bad for your skin. Why don’t you go take a nice, long beauty rest. We’ll all be happier for it.”

Velvette tore away from him, whipping around to give him a glare. She looked like she was about to chew him out, probably to tell him to stay out of her business, but to Vox’s surprise, she swallowed her protests. A flash of… something, crossed her face, but it was gone before Vox could even process what it was. 

“You know what? Yeah, I will take a break.” She hissed out, every word dripping with venom. “You two can have fun floundering without me today.”

He watched her walk away, feeling the vitriol radiating off her with every step. He wondered, briefly, where the hell she was going, as the direction she was headed was primarily his domain. But he didn’t bother asking, not when he’d probably get his head bitten off if he even tried. He took a long sigh, fixing his bowtie. Part of him was already dreading the pain of having to go about planning that day without her eye for detail and trend literacy to spearhead the operation. 

He cringed at his own thoughts. He didn’t need her. Or Val. Or anyone. He was perfect just on his own. He was the leader of the vees. He would be the god of the new world. He captured the radio demon. 

Irritation sparked within him. He gripped the cloth in his pocket tighter. 

He tried to keep his mind off of it for the rest of the day. It was draining on him, that much was clear. Velvette had noticed it, and so had Valentino. Whenever they passed each other he’d be staring at him, but not in the way he usually was. It wasn’t lust behind his gaze, but something else. Concern? Vox scoffed at the thought. The last thing he needed was ‘concern’. Not when he was practically at the top of the world already. 

He tried not to think about the pang in his chest when he saw Velvette storm away, or when he saw Valentino narrow his eyes at him in suspicion. 

He certainly tried not to think about Alastor’s grin. 

When Vox got back to his private chambers, the first thing he did was shed his clothing. It had been feeling much too tight to his body ever since that little solo session he had earlier, sticking to his sweat-slicked skin. He glanced at his watch before he tore it off. 10:00 pm. God, he never felt this tired this early. He placed the watch on the table, and emptied the pockets of his pants before peeling the fabric off of his body. 

The cloth sat heavy in his hand.

He swallowed thickly, slowly stepping towards his bed. The cloth felt like some sort of shackle, tied to him, attached to him like nothing ever had before. He collapsed back, looking up at the ceiling with it clutched to his chest, taking long, shaky breaths. 

They say that sharks cannot resist a drop of blood in the water, that they can smell a mere drop for miles. Vox knew that was a bit of an exaggeration, but in that moment, it was the truest thing in all of hell. He could smell that cloth, whiskey mixed with the metallic tang of blood, and it made him want nothing more than to press it to his face, to his tongue, to shove it down his throat until he was drunk off of it. 

He was only a man.

He curled his claws into the cloth, feeling the fabric tear apart slightly under his touch. With that shaky hand he lifted it up to his face, hesitating for a moment, reconsidering, that burning crawl of shame working its way up his wires again before he finally pressed it down. 

It hit his lips. 

He moaned around it, eyes fluttering shut as he took a deep, long inhale. He let his tongue press against the fabric, a fluttering feeling blooming in his gut as the taste overtook him. It was different from any blood he had tasted before. Saltier, with an undeniable gamey undertone. It was a rich flavour, overpowering. Oddly enough, just like how he had imagined it for so long. Better, even. He let his teeth sink into it, biting down hard, his other hand slipping down lower for the second down that night. 

He grinded the cloth between his teeth, letting the taste of Alastor’s blood fully consume him from the inside out. He let himself groan without bothering to stifle it, briefly overriding the feelings of wrongness that had festered there. 

Those fantasies from earlier hit him full force. Whatever old, dead hope that had been rotting in his chest for almost seventy years felt suffocating, now. Too large for his own body. He’d pushed it so far down it joined his very soul, melded to it like some sort of parasite. It was disgusting, horrid, everything under the sun. But it was all Vox could think about. It was all he ever wanted to think about. And it shamed him to admit it. It shamed him more than anything else to say that he wanted that naive hope back. He wanted to feel as he did back then, in the newness of hell, when the radio was a cherished sound and not an agonizing, screeching reminder of what could have been right. 

What could have been his. 

Would his blood taste sweeter, if it was a given offering? If he had bared his throat to him of his own will? Did hatred poison the pleasure he could have felt, if only, fuck, If only Alastor wasn’t a fool. if only Vox had been stronger.

He almost slapped himself, redirecting his fantasies back to the bloody pulp on his office floor. Alastor, bruised and bleeding. Alastor, pleading for mercy. Alastor, with that stupid smirk wiped right off of his stupid face. Much better. 

Right as he traced down his thigh, a sharp knock at his door startled him out of it. He groaned for a very different reason this time, irritation rather than arousal. He slowly sat up, rubbing at the side of his head.

“Ugh… If you’re an employee, you’re fired.”

A little laugh. “Oh, I’m no employee.”

Valentino’s voice made his heart drop. He scrambled to hide the cloth, tossing it into one of the bedside tables and pulling the blanket up over his naked form. He knew Val of all people wouldn’t mind seeing him like this, he’d seen it countless times, after all. But it wasn’t what he was doing, but who he was doing it about that was the issue. After laying down facing away from the door, Vox called out. “Come in.”

Val stepped in with uncharacteristic quietness, leaning against the doorway. Vox made a show of being just about to go to sleep, sitting up and yawning. “Knocking is quite unlike you… something on your mind?” 

He met his gaze, and paused. That look in his eyes was a rather familiar one, and so was the slight upwards curve of his lips. He felt a slight pickup in his heartbeat. 

“Nevermind, don’t even say it.” Vox sighed, a slight smile forming on his face as he gestured for him to come closer. “C’mere, baby.”

“Oh, you’re too easy. At least make me feel like I’m accomplishing something by convincing you.”

“Don’t you like it when I’m forward? You certainly didn’t mind it last time.”

“Mm… well, I can’t say I hate it.” Val chuckled, getting onto Vox’s bed and crawling towards him, slowly. His robe was already half open, revealing the golden chain dangling at his chest, connecting his piercings together. Vox hooked a finger into it, pulling him closer. He felt a slight jolt of fear as his lips met his, hoping to any divinity that may still be willing to listen to someone like him that he wouldn’t taste the blood he had tainted himself with. Luckily, he didn’t mention it, so Vox assumed he hadn’t noticed. He pulled him into his lap, hands coming down to encircle his hips, feeling him groan into the kiss. When he pulled back, Val’s grin had grown even wider, and he was unfurling his robe, tossing it haphazardly to the floor along with Vox’s scattered clothing. 

“You seemed so stressed today.” Val tutted, trailing a hand up Vox’s body, making a walking motion with two of his fingers. “Why don’t you take that all out on me? It’s been so very long, you know…”

“Its been a day.” Vox chuckled, cocking his head a little teasingly. Exaggerating. Both his business partners loved to do that. 

“I know. That’s like, torture, or something.” Val waved his hand dismissively. “And besides, you didn’t even finish what you started last time. I don’t mind a bit of edging, but I don’t appreciate being run out on.”

Vox cringed at the memory. The moment he had heard Alastor’s voice, he had pushed Val off of him so violently he had fallen on the floor while he scrambled to put his clothes back on. He hadn’t even had the chance to feel bad about it until that moment. “Feeling neglected, are you?”

“Too neglected. That little deer has you in quite the chokehold, hm?” He raised his brows. Vox swallowed thickly. 

“What are you implying?”

“I’m just saying. You seem a little… how do you say… obsessed?”

“Obsessed?” Vox laughed, shaking his head. “I am not obsessed with Alastor.”

“Don’t get so defensive! You know I don’t care who you choose to stick your–”

“We’re not fucking, either.” Vox grabbed his chin, gripping it tightly in an attempt to shut him up. It backfired. Of course it did. All Val did in response was angle his head to bite his palm before pulling back. His hand trailed up Vox’s leg, coming to rest on his thigh. 

“Then what’s that on your face?”

Vox’s blood ran cold. He raised a hand to gingerly touch his lips, and sure enough, his thumb brushed away blood. His heart sank.

“You think I didn’t see that cloth sticking out of your pocket all day?”

“That was–” Vox coughed into his fist, flushing. “That was sticking out?”

“Like a sore thumb. You really aren’t subtle, aren’t you?”

“And how do you know it’s Alastor’s? Could be anyone’s.”

“Oh, please. Who else have you had time to torture? Do you really think I’m stupid? That blood is Alastor’s.” Val’s tone got darker, slightly more serious. “You’re still hung up on him, aren’t you?”

“Alastor?! You think I’m still– that I was ever–” He let out a loud, covering laugh. “I don’t care about Alastor. Fuck Alastor.”

Val raised his brows, crossing his arms with an unamused expression. “Yes, it does seem like you want to do that.”

“Do what? Fu– !” He paused as the implication of his words dawned on him. Colour flushed over his screen, and he quickly wiped at his face again, hoping to erase any last evidence that Alastor’s blood had ever stained it.  “ew, no.”

“...mhm. Sure.” He looked even more unconvinced than before. “Listen, Voxxie, I like a little degradation now and again, but one thing I'm not into is being lied to.”

“How is it a lie?! That hooved little bitch is nothing to me. Less than dirt beneath my shoes.”

“And that’s why you’re in your room, alone, naked, tonguing down day-old blood?” 

Shame. Boiling up in his chest, choking in his throat. The taste of that blood, mixed with the burn of whiskey, still lingered on his tongue, tingled on his lips, like some sort of infestation he couldn’t claw out no matter how hard he tried. 

Sometimes, the flare of humiliation bled into the fire of anger. They were often indistinguishable, or maybe, for Vox, they were wholly and entirely entwined, bouncing off of each other until all he could do was shock another employee, smash another mug into a million pieces, scream it out until the whole of hell knew his displeasure. He always prided himself on being a self-controlling man, someone who could keep a calm face no matter the acid spit at him, who could weasel his way out of any bait placed before him. Somehow, Alastor had managed to break even that part of him. He has stolen everything from him. His pride, his control, his sureness, even parts of his identity had been revealed at his hands. He had that uncanny ability to peel back all his layers one by one, even in his absence. Vox hated it. He hated him. More than anything, he hated him. 

Or perhaps he just hated how he affected him. 

But throughout it all, through every night spent pacing his room, through every knife thrown into a dartboard with Alastor’s face slapped onto it, through every fit of overboiling rage, Val had been there. He’d yanked the bottle from his hands when he was halfway through chugging it. He pulled him closer in the night when he woke up too-early, refusing to say what the dream was about even when they both knew. He listened to every rant, every mumble, every scream. And he let him take his anger out on him whenever he pleased. Vox had a sneaking suspicion that was why he came to his room that night. To take him into bed, make him forget all about the grinning form that seemed to lie around every corner. It would have worked, too. It would have made him feel better. He would have woken up the next morning much more lucid, much less destructive. Even if it was only a momentary band aid on a gaping head wound, it would have helped. 

It was really too bad he had to pry. He batted Val’s hand off of his hip, pushing away from him. “You know what? I don’t need to take this right now.” Vox threw the blanket off himself, standing up and walking across the room, putting some much needed distance between himself and Val. “Least of all from you.”

He heard him sigh, then the shifting of him as he stood up and stepped towards him. “Vox,” He spoke in a scolding tone. “I’m… worried about you.”

”Worried about me? Don’t be.”

”Come on now, don’t be a–”

“Get the fuck out of my room.” Vox’s voice came out much harsher than he intended. He whipped around, just in time to catch the sight of Val visibly flinching, his eyes wide in the most genuinely taken-aback expression Vox had ever seen on him. Silence passed between them for a moment, and part of Vox almost felt bad. But a greater part of him just wanted to be alone, and if this was what would have to happen to get that, so be it. “I’m serious.”

“You’re telling your lover to leave your room?”

“No, I’m telling my business partner to leave the room.” Vox corrected him, shooting him a glare over his shoulder. “And it would be rather unprofessional for you to decline, don’t you think?”

Val opened his mouth, then closed it again, stuttering something incoherent before narrowing his eyes and standing up tall, his wings twitching behind them. “Well, alright then!” He turned away, picking up his discarded clothing and throwing it back on before beelining for the door. “Since I’m such a bother, I’ll see myself out.”

That nagging guilt momentarily replaced that feeling of shame. Vox stepped forward, reaching out. “Val, wait–”

The door slammed shut. It was the single loudest sound Vox had ever heard, rattling throughout the room, settling into his chest like a weight. It was almost louder than the unfamiliar voiced scream frm outside moments later, as Val no doubt took the time to dismember some poor employee in response to all this. And while he listened to that angry yelling grow steadily more distant, Vox just stood there, staring blankly at it for a moment, half wondering if he should run out and drag him back. He could have used those hands to knead away the stress of the week. He could have fallen asleep with his head on his chest, just as he had done so many times before. But instead, he just stood, like some sort of fool. Vox wasn’t a fucking fool. He wasn’t weak. 

But he didn’t think so.

“Fuck!” He loudly cursed, slapping his hands over his face, covering his eyes and throwing his head back. He parted his fingers a crack, met with only the ceiling above, and the feeling of cold air against his very much still bare skin. He re-callibrated himself, resisting the urge to slam his fist into the wall as he collapsed back onto the bed. Cold, alone, without the warmth of blood or another body to comfort him. He didn’t even feel like getting off to the thought of Alastor getting his ribs caved in with a sledgehammer anymore. That’s how he knew it was bad. 

He didn’t know it was possible to be in an even worse mood than he already was in, but Val had somehow managed to up and do it. Lover. He scoffed at the thought. He didn’t make those kinds of attachments. 

‘There are no friends in hell, Vincent!’

The cloth was in the drawer next to the bed. That simple knowledge made an urge shoot down his spine, twitching through his fingers. He resisted it for a moment, if only just to see how long he could hold out. To test the strength of will he was rapidly losing by the day. 

A passing memory of Alastor flickered by in his mind. They were friends, then. Or, he thought they were. It felt so stupid, now. To look back on those times, every shred of joy he felt was now blanketed by a cover of bitterness, knowing what would become of it. He remembered that day he first heard his broadcast, low and smooth, crackling out of one of hell's many speakers. He was so new to hell, then. Still reeling from his untimely death, grappling with the fact that he would never see the world as he knew it again, uncertain about his future in the afterlife. Honestly, his first thought had been to kill him. It was what he was used to, after all. Dispose of those with more power, gather those with less, make it to the top by any means necessary. And what better way was there to get to the top of hell then to kill its strongest personality? He had imagined how he would do it each time he heard sinners whisper in fear about the great and mighty radio demon, but all plans died the moment he had met him in person. For once, he felt an odd kinship with another. He fell for each display of sadistic pleasure, each charming smile painted with blood and each crackle of his voice as he whispered a curse beneath his breath. He admired him, was inspired by him, driven more than ever to make it to the top, not just for his own ego this time, but also because he wanted little more than to stand by his side, and hear the most powerful man in hell proclaim him his equal. He wanted him to feel every ounce of admiration he had right back at him. He wanted to hear each praise roll off his lips, preferably while against his. He wanted it. He wanted him. In any way he chose to give himself to him. Any way but the one that ended up like this. 

‘I’m proud of you, Vox.’

He yanked the cabinet open so hard it nearly ripped apart from the rest of the drawer, and the cloth was in his hands faster than a bolt of lightning. He burned it, then. Flash after flash of blinding electricity filling his room until it was mere ash in his hands. He let it fall through his fingers, his breath coming out in short, ragged gasps. 

He didn’t know if he regretted it. He certainly regretted letting its remains taint his sheets. He’d blame it on cigarettes in the morning. No housekeeper would dare to question him on it. If he spoke it, it was truth. 

And the Radio Demon was nothing to him. Alastor was nothing to him. 

The ash felt like acid on his skin.

Chapter Text

When Alastor said he didn’t want to feel bored, this was far from what he had in mind. 

She was laying on Vox’s desk, one leg dangling over the side, one hand pinching the bridge of her nose as she muttered curses under her breath. She had slammed into the room like some sort of oncoming thunderstorm, no warning, not even a glance at Alastor, though he knew for a fact it was for him she came. It had almost been a minute minute of this now, and Alastor shifted in his seat, watching her grumble. 

“I must say, this is quite the unexpected visit. To what do I owe the pleasure, Miss…?” He trailed off, pausing as he made a show out of forgetting her name. He wasn’t too familiar with Velvette, her being a rather recent addition to hell and an even more recent addition to Vox’s little team, but he did know her name. All three of them were quite common ranting subjects at the hotel, after all. It was hard to escape. 

“What?! you know me!.” She snapped him a glare, sitting up a little too quickly. Alastor shrugged, cocking his head. 

“I assure you, I don’t.”

“My name is on almost every blog in hell?!”

“I don’t engage with that… modern nonsense.” 

“We fought with each other literally yesterday!”

“Mm, no, I can’t say I recall your name.” He leaned back, crossing one leg over the other. “You must have not left too strong of an impression.”

Her face fell further, and she sputtered out something incoherent, before flipping him off. “Oh, fuck you! I really don’t get what Vox sees in you, you’re just as much of an asshole as everyone says you are.”

“What sees in what now?”

“Shut the hell up.”

Silence passed over them for a moment, before Alastor spoke slowly. “So, what was your name?”

“Velvette. Don’t forget it this time.” She hissed out, collapsing down to lay on her back again. 

“So then, Velvette, come to keep me company in your boss’s absence? Really quite thoughtful of you, I must say.”

“Boss?!” That word seemed to catch a nerve. “Oh, you really are a little cunt.”

Alastor grinned, feeling a twinge of satisfaction. He didn’t even know it was possible, but this demon was even more easy to rile up than Vox was. Perhaps his little team came together based on their shared short temper. “Oh, my apologies. Did I misconstrue your little hierarchy? I was under the impression that Vox was the one calling the shots around here.”

She grimaced, narrowing his eyes at him before jabbing a finger in his direction. “Listen here. Vox may be the loudest, but he’s certainly not the boss.” 

“Oh, really? He was quite adamant that he was.”

That seemed to take her aback for a moment, and something flashed over her face. Hurt? Alastor couldn’t tell, but he was getting somewhere, and that was a good thing. 

“Is that so…? What else did he–” Velvette cut herself off, shooting up to sit on the edge of the desk. “Wait a minute, I know what the hell you’re doing!”

“What I’m doing? I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean.”

“The same thing you’ve been doing to Vox! You’re trying to fuck our whole operation up from the inside out, aren’t you?” She accused, nails digging into the edge of the desk. “Well, stop it. Those kinds of tricks might work on Vox, but I’m not that stupid.”

“Oh, you wound me! I have done no such thing.” Alastor laughed, shaking his head. “You share your boss’s paranoia, I will say that.”

“Listen here. I don’t know what you’re doing to Vox, but whatever it is, stop.” She crossed her arms, looking down at him with a warning glare. “This weird ‘thing’ of yours is really getting on my last nerve.”

“...Thing?” Alastor raised his brows, tilting his head to the side.

She didn’t acknowledge his confusion, continuing. “You two got history, don’t you?”

“Oh, we go way back.”

“I know that much. Val briefed me on it. Hell, even if he didn't, anyone with eyes could see that much.” She scoffed. “But I’m fuzzy on the details. Never bothered to ask. But, now that it’s making my business partner a pain in the ass to deal with, now I want to know.”

“Curious, are you? I assure you, my dear, there is nothing more to it. He asked, I answered. It’s not my fault he took it so personally.”

She narrowed her eyes in suspicion. “And you? How did you take it?”

“Me? Oh, I didn’t take it any which way.” He laughed, shaking his head. “I’m not the one who went on a seventy year revenge spree over a simple acquaintance. Weakness isn’t something I’m used to.”

“Weakness, huh?” She raised a brow. Then, grinned, a smug tint to her face. “But by the looks of it, he did quite the number on you.” She gestured at his face, and he wrinkled his nose in disgust at the thought of just how messy he must look in the moment. 

“What? You want a turn next? Carry out some revenge on your friend’s behalf?”

“As nice as it would be to knock you around some, I think you’re plenty humiliated as it is. Don’t need to waste my time on you.”

He raised his brows, mulling over this for a moment. He had been anticipating a fist or two that whole interaction, and he was still slightly disbelieving of her. “Is that so? Then why, pray tell, have you joined me this fine afternoon? Surely it's not because you find my company pleasant?”

“Oh, please. That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.” She scoffed, looking over at the window. “I’m just trying to understand why you have that grip over Vox.”

Alastor’s lips drew tight together. For once, he wasn’t entirely sure what to say. He knew of Vox’s obsession, of course he did, but to hear how much it was affecting him from one of his closest companions? Somehow, it felt different. “He is quite obsessed with me, isn’t he?”

“Right?! And he’s making it everyone else’s problem. Do you even know how he acts every time your name is even breathed in his general direction? It’s like he fucking short circuits.” She seemed genuinely upset, her teeth gnashed together. “He doesn’t have to be such a dick over his little crush.”

Alastor suddenly felt the urge to ask for more. Somehow, he wanted to know exactly what Vox was saying behind his back, how he was acting when he wasn't around. Was he really such a massive presence in his life, that he would risk his true friends over him? Instead, he just nodded, agreeing with her slowly. “He can be rather pathetic at times.”

“At a lot of times. Was he always like that?”

“Ever since we met.”

“Really, what an asshole.”

“Self-absorbed.”

“He’s being such a cunt. Prideful, meddling, snivelling…”

“An insecure sap.”

“Right? You get it!” She whipped her head around to grin at him. Then, seemingly realizing who she had just felt kinship with, she turned her nose up, crossing her arms. “It’s been getting worse ever since that last extermination. And it seems like your little stunt blew it out of the water.”

“I must say, I'm rather flattered to have such influence over him.”

“What the hell even happened to make him so damn attached? I know you rejected his offer, or whatever, but this is quite extreme even for that." She seemed much more calm than she did when she walked in. Alastor supposed he should be grateful. “He talks about you like you fuckin’ dumped him or something.”

“Well, I suppose that is a question best directed at him.”

She groaned, running a hand down her face. “The both of you are infuriating. Can’t tell if you’d be any less annoying if you were allies. Maybe it's a blessing that you hate each other.”

Alastor felt an odd jolt run through him at the sentiment. And it certainly wasn’t a pleasant one. He looked down at the cables binding him, already imagining the red gouges they’d leave on his skin. Alastor could see that Velvette was in just as much of a foul mood as he was. Her gaze was distant, her fingers tapping against her knee in a rhythm he didn’t recognize. The ache of drifting must have been getting to her.

Alastor wasn’t incapable of missing someone. But was ‘missing’ really the emotion he had been feeling? He hated that word. It left a terrible taste in his mouth. He didn’t ‘miss’ Vox. The mere idea was laughable. Especially not this current, more unfamiliar version. 

Had his refusal all those years ago really changed Vox so drastically? Permanently shifting something within him, or maybe, it simply revealed a nature of him that had been hidden away beforehand. Had the tendrils of his rejection really reached so far, curled tighter than the wires that bound him currently? They must have, for it to be presenting itself even now, the sting of it all rearing its ugly head each time his name was uttered. He wondered just how much Velvette had heard of him. Had he talked about him often? Or did he try and pretend like he didn’t exist, avoid him like the plague only to fall for his knees the moment he had become unavoidable.

It felt like Alastor could still feel the weight of his head in his lap, the hot feeling of his tears soaking through the fabric of his pants, the ting of his claws digging into his skin. 

It was weak. 

Disgusting. 

It disturbed something within him, like a single dislodged rock sending a whole mountain crumbling to the ground, and with it, Alastor’s peace of mind. It was like reliving that foul night, seeing Vincent’s face fall, again and again, his outstretched hand going limp at his side. 

If only Vox hadn’t said such a foolish thing. If only he’d been a little stronger, a little colder. They had such a good thing going. And he hadn’t found anyone else to drink with that was so entertaining, so charming. 

Alastor wasn’t incapable of missing someone. 

“Ugh, well, since I’m here, I might as well take back that bottle I gave him. Last thing I need right now is for him to start drinkin’ to forget.” Velvette hopped off of the desk, moving to rummage beneath it. 

“Wait– the whiskey?” Alastor raised his brows. 

“Yeah? How do you know about–” She paused, blinking at him slowly. Then, she shot back up, almost tearing her hair out. “Oh, that fucker!”

Alastor laughed as she stormed out of the room, leaning back in his seat. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, my dear!”

“Choke and die!”

Alastor took a long sigh as the door shut, shoulders slumping. He turned his chair around to face the window, looking down at hell below, then at heaven above. He knew that it wouldn’t be long until he would have to face Vox again, and now, he was dreading it for many more reasons than before. 

Dreading his expression. His voice. His inevitable touch. There was always touch involved when Vox was around. Ever since they first met it was a noticeable habit of his. His hands would always be on him in some way or another. On his shoulders from behind when he pitched a new plan, slung around his neck when he was too buzzed to properly stand, brushing against his hand when accepting an offered cigarette. It was some sort of power play for him, Alastor had once noted. He’d get into the personal space of anyone he was trying to swindle, both acting friendly, and making them uncomfortable, primed for accepting his propositions. But with Alastor? It never felt like a power thing, oddly enough. 

The red glow of Shok.Wav’s eye from the aquarium bathed the room, and he turned his head to meet its gaze. He wondered if Vox was watching though it, and if he was, what he was thinking. If it was only hatred he felt now, or if he still missed him too.

Chapter Text

Vox walked through the halls of Vee Tower. It was late, only a few overtime workers packing up their things. Vox would have been in bed by now. He needed the rest desperately, especially before tomorrow of all days. He ws looking forward to it, he must admit. Soon, his plan would be put into motion properly. Soon, he would take to the skies, and he– 

And Valentino. And Velvette. He reminded himself, before laughing under his breath. Who was he kidding? He was the face of the Vees, not them. He organized everything, not them. He’d be the one and only true god, not them. He was slowly creeping up to the top, his winning streak going on and on and on. It was like everything he touched turned to gold, and god, was he loving every single second of it. For the first time in the past week of emotional upheaval, Vox was in a genuinely good mood. And the only thing that could put him in an even better mood? Seeing Alastor’s smug grin fade when he sees just how good of a mood he is in. 

But when he actually got to the door, he paused. His hand hovered over the knob for a long moment, something within him screaming at him not to. Tomorrow was the big day, and what was he doing? Instead of preparing, he was wasting his time on some stupid deer? He sunk his teeth into the tip of his tongue just slightly, mulling over his options. 

He wasn’t going to deny that he wanted to see Alastor. Just as he always did before or after a major achievement. Just as he did when he started Voxtek, when he formed the Vees, when he rallied hell. He wanted Alastor at his side throughout it all. It was just unfortunate he had to be chained in place in order to actually be there. He clicked his tongue in irritation, just thinking about Alastor’s apathetic smile, his penchant for crushing whatever smidge of hope Vox dared to feel. He was a sadist in every sense of the word. He could see that gleam in his eye whenever Vox was on the verge of absolute insanity, whenever anyone broke down in front of him, actually. He’d seen him work enough to know that well.

It always made him wonder just what kind of man he was in life. To tell the truth, despite having told him almost everything about his own mortal run, Alastor barely ever said anything about his. He pretty much only knew the most obvious things, and what he managed to wring out of that one woman– Mi– Mim– Mimzy…? Yes, Mimzy was her name, that one time he found out that someone who knew the human Alastor was also in hell. She wasn’t exactly helpful. She basically only confirmed things he already knew– radio broadcaster, 1930s, died relatively young. She didn’t know much about his actual crimes outside of the fact that quite the grisly scene was discovered after his death, but he did find out how he actually died from her. He must admit, the stupid nature of it all was an endless source of amusement for him, and made that whole irritating interaction worth it. 

Shot. Mistaken for a deer. It was rather funny, but it also felt wrong. To even think of such a larger than life, powerful demon falling to a simple gunshot was almost unimaginable. He knew, logically, that he was once only a man, but part of him refused to accept it. He couldn’t even picture it. Alastor had long abandoned any humanity he may have possessed. He was a demon in every sense of the word, someone who belonged nowhere but the deepest pits of hell. Vox was certainly not a good man, he belonged down here as well, but Alastor felt more like he was moulded by hell itself rather than simply thrown down here. Vox wouldn’t be surprised if he turned out to be some ancient, undefeated evil. 

And he was about to just walk right in and mess with him. Again. Because at the end of the day, that oh-so-powerful sinner belonged to him. 

He tried to ignore that feeling of wrongness whenever he thought of the circumstances of his capture. 

Everything Vox touched turned to gold. But even Midas had his limits. Alastor was never truly his, not since he had rejected him all those years ago. Not since he had gutted Vincent Whittman, and left nothing but Vox in his wake. 

Vox took a long, deep breath. He shook out his head as if to reboot it, closing his eyes. He could feel the slight hum emanating off of Alastor even from out here. He could feel the pull of nearby technology ever since he manifested in hell, but Alastor’s frequency was always softer, more muffled. Yet when he tried to focus in on it, his head would always start to pound. His mind would feel fuzzy, like he had been drinking. It was equal parts disturbing and intoxicating, and it would get stronger the nearer he got. He steeled himself, enjoying the feeling of that frequency washing over him for a moment before finally, slowly pushing open the door. 

Alastor was in his chair, facing the aquarium, eye to eye with Shok.Wav. When he entered, all attention was turned to him, and the shark happily waved its tail before swimming away as if he was relieved from guarding duty. It put an even bigger smile on Vox’s face as he walked confidently to his desk, sitting down in his office chair. “Well well, I’m glad Shok.Wav found a new piece of entertainment.”

“A good listener, it is. Lacks in the responding department quite woefully, however.”

Vox laughed. “You just don’t know his tells. He’s actually very expressive.”

“I’m sure he is. Sharks stick with sharks, hm?” He cocked his head, leaning back in his seat. 

“And who do you stick with, huh?” Vox threw his legs up on the desk, trying to present the perfect image of confidence and power. “A bunch of ragtag nobodies and little princess Morningstar. You really have fallen so far.”

For once, that genuinely seemed to strike a bit of a nerve with Alastor, who visibly bristled. Vox felt a rush of victory at the delicious sight. 

“Meanwhile, look at me. Top of hell, media sensation, a god. Bet it hurts just a little, doesn’t it?”

Alastor laughed, rolling his shoulders back in as much of a stretch as he could manage in his restrained state. “It seems that no matter what you accomplish, you always have to try and rub it in my face. Still as desperate for my approval as ever, aren’t you? Like a puppy acting out to get its master’s attention. Sweetheart, I promise you, jealousy is the last thing I feel for your little situation.”

“Oh yeah? And what about me could possibly not be envy-worthy?”

“Mm… I don’t know… where should I start? You want it alphabetically, chronologically, ranked by importance… do you want it in ascending or descending order?”

“Oh, fuck off.”

Alastor looked down at his restraints, then at Vox. “Hm, no. afraid I can’t exactly do that.”

“Smartass.” He clicked his tongue, rising up from his desk. “You always got some shit to say.”

“Comes with the job description, darling. What was that you said before? You don’t become a star by being quiet?”

“Can’t imagine who would even bother to tune into your stupid broadcast. You’re the dullest, more irritating, most annoying–”

“And yet you came here tonight.” He chuckled triumphantly. “Some part in that flat little head of yours craves me, even if you won’t admit it. It really is quite sweet.”

Vox grimaced, grumbling under his breath. Why did he come here tonight? Talking to Alastor was the fastest way to ruin his stellar mood. But… like some sort of damn addiction, he always came back to this room. He had made it an almost nightly ritual in the past few weeks of Alastor’s capture, coming in, talking to him, kicking him around if he needed to. He hadn’t seen this much of him in… fuck, almost a century. He didn’t even want to lie anymore. He was both happy and irritated by it. He glanced at Alastor’s forehead. The wound he had created had almost closed, leaving an angry, dark red scab slashing just under his hairline. He relived, for a moment, the feeling of grabbing his hair, smashing him into that edge, hearing the loud bang of his skull against the wood, his whimper of pain, the warmth of blood on his hands… Sure, he felt empty afterwards. Sure, it only made him feel worse in the long run. But in that second, he had felt positively euphoric. More alive than he’d ever felt since that sweet run he had near his untimely end. 

“Really, Vox. I don’t know how you’ve managed to be even more pathetic than before, but you really know how to outdo yourself, hm? I must admit, it is rather entertaining to watch you flounder like a shark out of water.”

“Oh, I am sure it is. But you know something about sharks? They bite.” Vox’s cables shot out, dragging Alastor’s chair closer. Vox hopped over his desk, approaching.

His wires unfurled from Alastor’s midsection, instead sliding over his arms to curl around his wrists, yanking him out of the chair so he fell to his knees on the floor before Vox. His head snapped up, his signature grin slightly wobbly, fluffy ears pinned to the back of his head.

Vox stepped forward and grabbed his hair, pulling his head back to get an even better look at him. The sudden rush of euphoria upon meeting his wide eyes, seeing the flash of uncharacteristic fear that sparked within… Oh, Vox’s heart was racing. Pounding out of his chest, fluttering like a bird on a spit. He looked beautiful from this angle, something within him admitted. Blood red hair shining in the blue light of the screens around him, illuminating the glint of his teeth and the slight peak of his tongue where his mouth was slightly ajar. Red really did suit him. He tugged on the roots of his hair, watching his eyes wince shut in pain. 

“Oh, Alastor.” Vox’s voice was broken through with laughter, coming out too low, like a piece of glitching audio. “You really don’t know when you’ve lost, do you? It’s almost cute. If it wasn’t so pathetic.” As he spoke, he raised his hand, with his hair bunched up in his fist, higher and higher, making him let out choked little sounds of pain. He watched him grit his teeth together, face twisted in pain, before he let him go. 

He let out a long, gasping breath, hanging his head as his whole body slumped forward. Vox took the opportunity to place his boot between his shoulderblades, pushing him down until his chin scraped the floor, almost folding him in half. He held him there for a moment, before suddenly releasing, using his twining cables to puppeteer him up to stand, spinning him around and dropping him down into Vox’s arms, catching his hand and entwining their fingers. Blood and electricity roared in his ears, slamming through his veins as he maneuvered Alastor into a dance. 

“You can rejoice, though! Soon, you can be part of a new, better, brighter future! Just imagine it, me, at the top of heaven, you, chained to my side.”

He stepped forward, Alastor stepped back. Vox fully controlled the rhythm of their tango while Alastor stumbled, his legs almost giving out beneath him as he choked out another gasp. The cables were tight around his body, too tight, no doubt cutting into his flesh. Vox only pushed him further, dove deeper, pressed harder with wild abandon. Alastor let out another hiss of pain, glaring at Vox with a look of pure, unadulterated hatred.

How could Vox have ever felt empty, seeing him in pain?

“Do you see now? Do you even process what a stupid mistake you made?” Vox laughed, loud and manic. “What you could have had? You could have had it all. Heaven, hell, me! You could have shared my throne. We would have been unstoppable, the wrath of all creation!” He pulled Alastor closer, leaning in and dropping his voice to a low whisper. “You just had to fuck it all up.” 

He had stopped his dance, his hand tightening around Alastor’s, so hard his claws dug just slightly into his skin. He caught his breath, but Vox stood tall, a smile plastered on his face, taking in the delicious sight before him. His voice came out quieter now, but no less accusatory, no less biting. “Wouldn’t it have been good, to be mine?”

A pained, broken laugh rolled off Alastor’s lips. Vox felt a pang through his body. He had never been close enough to feel the rumble of his laugh, as if it was echoing throughout his body, and now, in Vox’s too. It seemed to rattle the very framework of him, the disturbing feeling only growing stronger when Alastor’s other hand came up to brace against Vox’s chest, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. That fluttering began again, like beating wings attempting to break free from his sternum. 

“You know what, Vox? It seems I was quite the fool, wasn’t I?”

Vox paused, for a moment not even believing what he was hearing. He waited for the inevitable follow up that would crush his soul, anticipating it. 

“I don’t regret saying no to your little proposal. I do much better working alone, you see.” Alastor tilted his head, glancing up and down briefly. “But… in regards to our relationship…”

Vox felt a wave of sudden panic rush through him. Whatever Alastor would say next, it would crush him, no matter which way it lent. If he told him he hated him from the start… or, worse, that he had liked him in some way this whole time… 

“Don’t.” Vox hissed, trying to pull away from Alastor’s hand, but he suddenly gripped him tightly, preventing any escape. Alastor’s eyes stared into his with a smoldering intensity, half lidded, brows furrowed deeply, smile too wide for what a relatively human face should hold. But it seemed oddly more uncomfortable rather than smug, like a defensive mask melded to his face. When he spoke again, his voice was more rough than usual, shot through with static. 

“You were always entertaining.” He spoke it like he was behind some sort of confessional booth, admitting to a grievous sin. “I liked that.”

A loud crack echoes off of the walls as Vox’s palm collided with Alastor’s cheek, leaving long, deep clawmarks in its wake. Alastor stood there, for a moment, head slumped down. 

Then, a chuckle. 

A laugh. 

A full blown cackle. 

Vox watched, a roll of nausea unfurling in his gut at the sight of Alastor throwing his head back, blood dripping from the gouges marring his face, staining the collar of his suit. That emptiness was back. 

That horrid, festering feeling of futileness, of hollowness. Of the knowledge that no matter how hard he slammed him into a wall or a desk, no matter how hard he punched and kicked and scratched and bit, no matter how much pain he could make Alastor feel, that smile would remain, ever unchanging, stitched into his face like some rotten doll. His hand, stained with his blood, shook, part of him wanting to crack open his ribs next. The only way that heart of his could possibly ache was if he sunk those claws into it, made him feel every ache he had caused Vox over these last years. But even then, it wouldn’t do anything. He’d smile. He’d smile. He’d smile and fucking laugh, and look him in the eye, saying something as stupid as ‘I liked that’.

“It really is a shame, Vox.” He met his gaze, his pupils dilated, ticking this way and that like the dials on a radio. “If you hadn’t been so desperate to slap a label on us… nothing would have needed to change.”

“That’s all you care about? Some stupid fucking label?” Vox hissed out, yanking his hand away from him. His cables wrapped around his arms, pulling him up until he was suspended midair before Vox, who brought his hand up to press against his throat, pressing down on both major veins and feeling the slight nervous bob of his adam’s apple against his palm. The blood running down his cheek painted his claws, rendering them slick with the very thing he had longed for and tasted and burnt to ash. “Was the thought of being friends with me so disgusting to you? Was I that disgusting to you?” 

Alastor let out a choked sound, wincing as Vox’s claws pressed further into his throat. Vox held it there for a long moment, before letting go of his neck, letting him gasp for air. “Answer me.”

“Something tells me you won’t believe me if I tell you the truth.” Alastor shifted a bit in his restraints, the cables snaking up from his waist to his chest. He hissed in pain as they slipped beneath his collar and ran along the edge of his wound, made by that archangel so long ago. The cable was gentle, just barely caressing the broken skin, but a very clear threat. “Answer me something first, Vox.”

“I’m the one asking the questions.”

“You’ll answer this one.” He said sternly, narrowing his eyes just slightly. His words sounded like a challenge, like he was attempting to confirm a long standing suspicion. “Would you have been content with a friendship?”

Silence. Vox retracted the cable that had been working his wound, drawing it back. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“Oh, don’t act dense.” Alastor leaned forward as much as the restraints would allow him. “Did you understand, back then, that I am not capable of such things? Would you have settled for friendship when your weak little feelings would inevitably meddle?”

“Feelings? Is that what you think I have for you? Feelings?!” Vox laughed in disbelief, his voice coming out distorted, dropping much too low. 

“Don’t kid yourself. We both know the extent of your obsession. Be honest with yourself for once, old pal, would you have taken a mile if I gave you that inch?”

Vox paused for a long, long moment. 

In all honesty, he had no idea.

What he remembered feeling for Alastor back then had been muddled with time, distorted in a funhouse mirror of hatred, and he would never be able to see them properly again. Memories are such fickle, shifting things, far from irrefutable evidence. And his had long been twisted into something unrecognizable. When he looked back, he would say that he never felt any sort of love or affection for Alastor. That he was just a means to an end, a possible powerful ally. But part of him, deep down, knew that wasn’t true. He admired Alastor.

As poisoned as his memory was, he could acknowledge the warm, fluttering feeling in his chest whenever he made his way to their regular bar. He could acknowledge the sheer giddiness he felt whenever he regarded him with what he thought was a proud smile. He could remember the jolt of excitement he felt each time his skin brushed up against his. 

He wanted him. 

He loved the Radio Demon.

He loved someone who would never, and could ever, love him back. Not in the way he wanted. But would he have been content, if he had accepted friendship? Would he be able to push past his feelings, if they had never festered into whatever they became? One thing was clear; He no longer loved him. What this was wasn’t love, and it hadn’t been for years. It was a mind-numbing, all-consuming obsession, left to rot in his heart until its decay spread out over his whole body. It was horrible, but it did prove, at least somehow, that his love was something that he could move past. And maybe, in another life… instead of this corrosive infatuation, that bursting, roaring inferno, that love could have simmered down to calm embers. Perhaps he could have…

“Yes. I would have been content. I would have taken you any way you chose to give yourself to me.” He spat the words out like they were hot coals on his tongue. “Goddamnit, I just wanted you. And I wanted you… to want me in turn.” His voice got uncharacteristically quiet, wavery. He didn’t even know what suddenly possessed him to speak like this, like some kind of sappy fool. But for a moment, he felt like he had done all those years ago, a star-struck newcomer longing for the admiration of one of the greats. He steeled himself, purposefully rendering his voice rough. “If only you weren’t an idiot.”

Silence fell over them. Alastor blinked slowly, processing this. Vox didn’t know what kind of answer he had expected, but whatever it was, he had clearly subverted it. He sighed, wringing his hands together and turning around to walk away from Alastor. “There. Are you satisfied?”

Nothing but a low, static hum emitted off of Alastor, filling the room with an incessant buzz. It seemed to glitch and distort, breaking. Vox didn’t know if he should have felt good about that sound, but all he felt was dread, and even more shame at the words he had foolishly let himself utter that day. He had said far too much, flayed open the part of his soul he swore he would never allow to see the light of day. He might as well have fed Alastor the exact ammo he needed to fuck with him with a silver spoon. 

“...No. I don’t believe I am satisfied. “ Alastor’s voice was tight, like every syllable was being forced out. Vox turned to face him, hands clasped behind his back. He spoke bitterly, repeating one of the same lines he had said the first day he had him in his grasp. 

“Nothing’s ever good enough for you, is it?”

I wasn’t good enough for you. 

“Mm… I was perfectly happy as we were. It was you who wanted more, if I recall. You who couldn’t get enough.”

Vox scoffed, using one of his cables to lift Alastor’s chin. “Always likely to blame me for everything. Well, I suppose I don’t have to put up with him for long. After all, all of hell is waiting patiently for some good breaking news.”

In a flash, Alastor was back in his seat, all the cables retracted besides the ones that bound his midsection. Vox approached slowly, putting a grin back on his face. “And you… my dear, get the VIP treatment. Isn’t that exciting?”

“You’re a fool, Vox.” Alastor sighed out, his voice more… disappointed than angered or distraught. 

Somehow that was worse. So much worse. It cut through Vox like a poisoned dagger, momentarily bringing back every shred of despair he had felt that night. He didn’t even know how many things he broke when he left that bar, how many sinners had to pull themselves together after facing his claws. He was such a calm, collected man. But he had lost it all that night. His dignity, his control, his soberness, and his pride. He vowed to show him just how wrong he truly was, just how stupid. He vowed to make the radio demon eat his words as he sobbed in that dirty alleyway, blood on his hands and liquor on his lips. And here he was, seventy years later, feeling like that old wound was being torn open stitch by stitch. And Alastor was there, throughout it all, that fucking smile on his face. 

“But hey, I’m glad I have a front row seat to watch it all go up in flames.” He shrugged, or tried to. He couldn’t do much of anything with how tightly he was bound. 

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you? It really is a shame that won’t be happening.” Vox laughed, stepping so close he was looming over Alastor, eyes trailing over his face, to the claw marks marring his cheek. He suddenly remembered that feel of his blood, and, god, it was so vivid on his tongue, so real he could have sworn he really was tasting it. He suddenly felt the urge to lean down, to run his tongue along his cheek, to taste him directly. He swallowed, instead, reaching out his hand to clean it off normally. He moved away, cleaning his claws off with his handkerchief. 

“Well then. Have a good night, Vox!” Alastor called out from behind him. “Hope those little dreams of grandeur finally make you feel better about yourself.”

Vox scoffed, but he didn’t respond. He got out of the room, and this time, he tossed the bloody handkerchief firmly away. He had had enough humiliation for one night. Hell, for a lifetime. He never wanted to see Alastor’s face again. He wanted to grab it, to hold it close. He wondered what it would feel like, to feel a proper, tender touch from him. He wondered what it would feel like to watch the light leave his eyes. 

He sighed, raking his claws down his own neck. The halls of Voxtek were uncharacteristically quiet with the late hour. No bustling employees, no distant screams from Valentino or Velvette, no mouthy reporters or running broadcasts. But it was far from calming. The emptiness of the halls made Vox feel small in comparison. And he hated, oh, there was nothing he hated more than feeling small. His every step seemed to echo off the walls, shadows flickering in every corner. 

It was the perfect time to think. Alastor’s words still rang in his mind, and the realizations it had stirred in himself even more so. Friendship. It's what he thought they had for so, so long. And it was good. He enjoyed those years, cherished them, even. Could they have had that for longer, if he didn’t get overzealous?

Could they have that again? 

He collapsed into bed, not even bothering to strip off his clothing. He’d worry about appearances in the morning. For now, all he wanted was to sleep and forget about Alastor. 

He dreaded the dreams he would have that night.

Chapter Text

It seemed so long ago now, when he had held his hand out to Alastor in a hopeful bid for his precious partnership. Vox had almost exploded with excitement when he was met with an enthusiastic agreement. He had hugged Alastor tight and spun around, pulling him out of the bar with a want he had never before displayed. Never had he felt such warmth, that flushed, blooming heat rising to his cheeks and falling to his chest, serving to cement the love he had for the strange demon he was now forever entwined with. 

But now, the room he was in was cold. But colder were the hands that ran along Vox’s body, pulling at his clothing, peeling it off his flushed, sweat-slicked skin. He leaned back in his lounge chair, letting them run down his now bare chest, those razor sharp claws only gently scraped over his ribs, never pressing in enough to break skin, though part of Vox really wished they did. They should claw open his sternum, tear out his heart, hold it tenderly in their loving grip. They already owned it, anyways. 

He had always owned it. 

Vox closed his eyes and tilted his head back, letting out a long sigh. He went almost boneless under the touch, and as it moved lower, he spread his legs wider unconsciously, letting that hand slip between them, brushing just barely against the surface of his thighs through the fabric of his pants. He allowed himself to open his eyes just a crack, his bleary vision focusing in on the shock of blood-red before him. 

Eyes, staring into his, roaming his body, glinting in the dim light of the lounge. They were narrowed, hungry, but not cruel. That gaze, in fact, seemed almost reverent. He’d seen that kind of look directed at him countless times. From adoring fans, followers, one night stands… But never from him. 

Alastor’s smile was soft, his head cocked to the side as regarded him. Vox let himself reach out, taking his chin in his palm, running his thumb over the softness of his cheek. And he leant into his touch so eagerly, their frequencies tuning together with barely any effort. 

They fit together so perfectly, Vox thought as he pulled him closer, dragging him into a long, lingering kiss, letting his tongue feel the sharp, jagged outline of those teeth. That humming feeling that always radiated off of Alastor was so close now, creating a pleasant buzz in every one of his circuits. When he pulled away, Vox’s hands moved to his shoulders, guiding him down to kneel in front of him. The sharp edge of his claw ran down Vox’s skin, tracing a line from his sternum to his naval. Any more pressure and it would have sliced him open. It would have been so very easy to gut him, then. But he didn’t. He only pressed down just a little at the base of his thigh, enough to break the skin. Alastor’s pupils seemed to dilate at the sight, leaning in to lick up the drop of blood that had ran down his inner leg. 

Vox shivered, entangling a hand in Alastor’s hair. He pulled at the roots just slightly, enough to guide his touch. He heard that chuckle from below him, lips against his thigh, then a bite. 

And another. 

And another. 

Each one a shock of pain, each one a mark on his body he would never forget. Those sharp teeth sunk into him with such ease, but were always followed up by a kiss, or a press of the tongue, soothing the wounds he would leave in his wake. Part of Vox wished he’d cut the pleasantries and just maul him properly. He tired of pretending, of hiding away under layers of polished suits and sickeningly sweet tones. He wanted the two of them to tear into each other. He wanted to see blood, not stained on his hands from another empty attempt to get revenge, but mixed together as they kissed, between their bodies as they embraced. He wanted pain, wrought upon him with gentle hands, with whispered words of praise following them. 

“Amazing, Vincent…” Alastor breathed out from beneath him, stroking over one of the many rings of teeth marks he had left on him. “You truly are a marvel, my dear.”

“I know.” He hummed, pulling Alastor’s head back so he could properly see him in this position. On his knees, pupils blown, hands reverent… He was gorgeous like this. He was beautiful when he was wanting him. “You see that now, right?”

“Clear as day. You’re perfect…” His voice was a low purr, and his touch moved higher up his thighs, brushing the now very obvious tent there. Vox’s hips bucked involuntarily, but Alastor immediately pulled away, chuckling under his breath. “Especially when you’re so eager.”

“Fucking tease.” He clicked his tongue, gripping his hair a little tighter. He used his hold to pull him closer to where he wanted him most, getting bolder and more demanding the longer this went on. Alastor’s face winced in pain, but his eyes narrowed, clear want glazed over his dilated pupils. 

He laughed, one of his claws hooking under the waistband of Vox’s boxers. “Impatient thing.” 

Vox’s breath hitched, but he lifted himself just enough to let him strip it off, tossing it to the side with the rest of Vox’s clothing. He was now completely bare, a shiver racking his body as the chilly air of the room hit his flushed skin. Then, the ice cold pad of Alastor’s pointer pressed against the base of his cock. 

Vox bit down on his tongue as that touch rolled all the way up to his tip, then back down, a featherlight trace that still managed to make something within Vox spark. He let out a long, drawn out curse below his breath, rocking up his hips into the frustrating feeling. Alastor’s low, rumbling chuckle against his thigh felt like a physical blow, striking him where it hurt the most. His whole body seemed to stutter when that finger suddenly stopped at his tip, tracing a slow circle around its brilliant blue surface. 

One of his cables shot out, wrapping around Alastor’s throat. It didn’t press down, it didn’t constrict, no, it was simply there as a warning, a reminder of what could happen if he didn’t behave. But he would behave. He would never leave Vox waited. He loved him. And when the plug tip of that cable lifted up his chin, that look in his hazy eyes all but confirmed it. 

“You really are insatiable. Can’t I take my time with this?”

“I bore of this foreplay. Just get to it already.”

“Come now, Vox–”

The tip of that cable came up to press against Alastor’s lips, shutting him up. He snickered, then, one of his hands came up to run along its wirey surface, and his long tongue slid out to taste the metal prongs of the plug. 

The reaction was instant. Vox’s entrie body lit up, electricity crackling through his every circuit. Alastor’s rbeath hitched as the static shock hit his throat and burnt his tongue, but it was far from enough to genuinely hurt him. In fact, by the way his eyes seemed to narrow, the way his hand finally wrapped fully around his cock… Vox suspected he enjoyed that feeling far more than he let on. 

He was enjoying Vox. His hands were so gentle, roaming his lower body like it was something properly precious. His smile was so soft, slightly wobbly as he began to stroke up and down the length of him. His eyes were glazed, looking into his with the kind of feral intensity one would expect from a beast. He was so good with him. He was so infatuated with him. He wanted him. 

And, deep down, that was the most pleasurable feeling of all. Not the feeling of his wire being caressed, not the feeling of his cock being palmed, but the blissful tidalwave that came with the idea of having the radio demon’s want. It was him who held Alastor’s unbridled admiration, his respect, his lust. He had it all. And to be wanted by the most powerful sinner in hell? That meant, in some way, that he saw him as an equal.

The thought made his head go momentarily blank. 

There was a ringing in his ears when he came to, far beyond the undercurrent of static he was used to hearing. The screech of a broken radio seemed to tear through his body as Alastor’s frequency overpowered his own, filling him with an unbearably cold, overtaking buzz. He felt fuzzy, almost intoxicated as Alastor’s tongue joined the fray, lapping at his tip while his hand pumped up and down the rest of him. Vox could already feel that tightening in his abdomen, each bead of precum that formed on his tip quickly being cleaned off. He could just imagine him swallowing it all next. Oh, wouldn’t that just be a sight? He doubted anything could be better than Alastor himself on his knees before him, but that might just do it. 

But he had far bigger plans for him. So that wire tightened around his throat, and pulled him off of his cock. That radio-like screech sounded again, like a cry of displeasure, and it probably would’ve hurt Vox’s hearing if he wasn’t so invested. 

“You beg me to bring you pleasure, then pull me off before I could complete my task?”

“First of all, I do not beg.” Vox retorted. He pulled him up, hands moving to encircle his waist. “I commanded you.”

One of Alastor’s ears flicked. “Mhm.”

“Hey, don’t look at me like that. You’re the one who listened.” Vox let himself grin, pulling Alastor closer. The lights in the room flickered, and Vox had to remind himself to calm just a little, knowing what happened the last time he overloaded his circuits. But with every inch closer he could feel himself starting to lose that control bit by bit. “Fuck, c’mere…”

And Alastor did. He rid himself of his overcoat, then his pants, eagerly slotting himself into his lap. They really did fit so perfectly together. They were pressed upa gainst each other, bare chest to bare chest, and Vox’s hands were running down his body as he leaned back, tracing down the fade where Alastor’s arms grew darker and darker, stopping to take his wrists and pull his hands up, guiding them to loop around his neck. Vox’s foot tapped rapidly against the floor, his body filled with static energy he needed to get out someway or another before he took it out on Alastor. Perhaps it would have been good to take it out of him, but after finally getting him in his grasp… the last thing he wanted was to break him.

Not much, anyway. 

Vox was so caught up in his own pleasure he had barely even registered Alastor pulling him in, pressing his lips firmly against his. He let out a strangled gasp, something within him snapping a wire as his eyes went momentarily wide. It took him a moment to recover, but when he did, he was practically crashing himself agiast Alastor, holding him like his life depended on it. When he finally did pull away, he was panting, claws curling into Alastor's soft hair. 

“I must say, Vincent. I’ve been craving you for quite some time now.” His voice was almost a purr, low and wanting. Another one of those shivers ran through his body, and he dug his claws into his hips, pulling him flush against him. Alastor’s cock was now pressed up against his, tip to tip, just as hard as he was. Somehow, the thought of Alastor getting off to him was even more arousing than getting off himself. 

But why wouldn’t he? Alastor wanted him. He always had. He’s never said no to him. That’s why they were partners. That’s why they were going to rule hell side by side, for the rest of their afterlives. He’d said yes then, beneath the glare of those bar lights, and now, he’d repeat it again and again. He’d scream it to the heavens if Vox had any say in it. He wanted all of creation to know just how his the radio demon was. 

He was here, with him. He was here because he wanted to be, on his lap, rutting his cock against his. Vox groaned with each rock of his hips, closing his eyes at the feeling. Alastor chuckled under his breath, one of his hands guiding Vox’s head to the side, leaving room for him to access his more sensitive areas. Vox tightened the wire he had sound his neck as his lips pressed against the side of his throat, followed by a sharp bite. Vox clasped a hand ove rhis mouth, stifling the moan that almost escaped him. He could feel Alastor’s grin widen against his neck, his hands moving lower just barely brush against the gills lining each side of his abdomen. Vox violently flinched, his body lurching as a surprised, distorted yelp tore from his throat, his antennae springing up. 

“You- you– y-y-y-y-” His voice glitched, violently buffering as he got hit with that wave of corruption. Alastor pulled his hands off those gills, tracing a fingertip up Vox’s chest and pressing against his sternum. Somehow, that touch seemed to reboot him, and he had one more full body shake, raising a fist to hit himself upside the head as he came back to.

“Don’t short circuit on me now! We wouldn’t want all of hell to end up right back in the dark again, do we?”

“Shut the fuck up. You know you can’t just do that with no warning.”

“You had ample warning. You were just a little too… how do you say? Lost in your own pleasure?” Alastor laughed, moving up to position himself over Vox’s cock. He fritzed, a downright embarassing whine tumbling from his lips. “Do I really have to announce my every move? My my, and here I thought you could keep up with me.”

“Alastor– fuck–”

“Why don’t you be silent now, as adorable as your voice is like this.” He laughed, and then, with agonizing slowness, he began to sink down onto his aching cock. “You look downright ravishing when you’re enjoying yourself, my dear.”

Alastor loved to torture him. Vox new that little fact well. Two more of his wires came up to snake around both of his thighs, pulling them apart wider so he could get a better ange within him. They also served to help Vox guide thos whips of his, needing them to move faster, needing them to just slam down again and again and take him already. He groaned his name again, almost like a prayer. This wasn’t right. Alastor was meant to be the one worshipping him. He was meant to be in control. But at the same time, nothing could have ever felt more right. Vox flipped them over easily, grabbing Alastor’s legs and pulling them up over his shoulders as he put a stop to that teasing act. 

Sounds escaped Vox with each thrust, his body practically shaking with need. Bot Alastor seemed to remain perfectly stoic as always, his smile shaky, but in place. His voice ragged, but calm. He seemed to almost be admiring this moment, more like a voyrur than an active participant, even though he was the one bringing his hands up Vox’s spine, raking his claws down his shoulderblades and pulling him ever closer. For once, Vox couldn’t even bring himself to care. He was too lost in this, too caught up in the utter bliss of Alastor’s body that he didn’t even register just how hungry that gaze of his was, how affectionate his smile was in the midst of his rough fucking. He cried out Alastor's name, speeding up even more. He, in turn, pulled Vox closer, whispering sweet words to him, praises, compliments, fuel for his ravenous ego. Vox’s screen glowed brighter and brighter, bathing Alastor in an encompassing blue light as he reached his peak within him finally, cumming with a loud cry. 

He collapsed down onto Alastor’s chest, whole body heaving with each ragged pant. He felt one of those cold hands on the back of his head, stroking down, keeping him against him with the utmost gentlemanly care. He could feel Alastor’s heartbeat against him, setting a slow, steady, calming pace. Vox slowly began to match that, coming down from his intense high. 

“I knew having you by my side was the right decision. You look so good next to me.” Vox hummed into Alastor’s chest, twirling a strand of his hair in his finger. He traced up Alastor’s wrist with his other hand, carefully lacing their fingers together, his hold tight but not cruel. “See how perfectly we fit together?”

Alastor laughed, low and breathy as he comfortably stretched out beneath him. “We make quite the pair, don’t we?”

Vox lifted his head with a bright smile, releasing his hair to cup his cheek, cradling his face in his hand. “The envy of all hell.”

“Why stop at hell?” Alastor tilted his head, a gleam in his eyes. “Why, with our combined power… I’d say we could take over heaven, next. What do you say? Ruling all of creation, together?” 

Vox felt a jolt of electricity run through him, his mind buzzing with giddy excitement. “Oh, god… That would be everything.”

“Excellent… I do hope you don’t mind sharing the throne?”

“Not when it’s you.”

Alastor let out a pleased hum, giving Vox’s hand a reassuring squeeze. “We’ll be unstoppable, 

you and I.

I’m proud of you, Vox.”

Vox woke up with a start, shooting out of his bed with his hand clutched in the sheets. His breath came out in short pants, a hand coming up to hold his pounding head. 

He felt like his head was filled with some sort of thick jelly, unable to recall anything but the electrical buzzes of pleasure still rolling over his skin. Why did he feel this way…? Did he dream? As his awareness slowly began to piece itself back together, he finally noticed the uncomfortable feeling he had down south. He froze, then slowly let his eyes move down. 

His sheets were ruined. 

“Fuck.” He hissed under his breath, collapsing back onto the bed with a loud thud. His hands clasped over his face, raking down the surface of his screen. The details of the dream were foggy at best, but shards of it pierced him more deeply than any actual memory. 

‘You truly are a marvel, my dear.’

‘We’ll be unstoppable, you and I.’

‘I’m proud of you, Vox.’

Fuck that guy. 

His heart thudded in his chest. 

Vox sighed, opening his eyes to stare up at the ceiling. As always, no solace could be found in the blank slates of his room. They didn’t have any piercing eyes, any outstretched claws, any smooth, staticky voice. And the only thing in this hellhole who did, wanted him dead. No, less than that. He did not care if he died or not. And that was so, so much worse. He’d sooner let Alastor tear off his head and throw it on a silver pike than grapple with the idea that seeing him in that sorry state would stir up feelings of just… nothing, within him. Would he at least feel the barest hint of pleasure at his downfall? Or, perhaps, would the last remaining shreds of his heart feel any pity? A twinge of regret?

Vox didn’t know. And that was so, so irritating. God, he was never like this back in life. He was no stranger to the occasional bout of lust, but he had never grown so infatuated with a single target. He had never felt so utterly consumed by another, let alone a man, that he would let hi unconscious mind craft a storyline so cruel and unusual. Was this why hell was a place of eternal suffering? Was his curse to be doomed to yearn for someone who was quite possibly the worst man alive? 

He didn't even notice the tears before they had dripped down onto his hands. He looked down at them, furrowing his brows. What the hell was wrong with him? This was the best day of his life. He'd captured Lucifer himself, he'd rallied almost all of hell, he was about to take down heaven, and Alastor was his.  

Just not in the way he wanted him to be. 

How did he want him to be his, anyway? Vox didn't even know himself. But he knew it wasn't 'love'. Not anymore. That ship had sailed long ago, the moment that first laugh echoed off the walls of the bar. But perhaps something else?  

Just, what they once were? No labels, no wanting more? They didn't even half to be allies. Vox just wanted to talk. Was that so much to ask? One more talk, one more laugh together while walking the streets of hell, one more shared glass of scotch, one more body torn apart between them. Just one more fucking talk. They could try to kill eachother after Vox felt whole again. Vox would do anything to feel that way again. If that meant begging... then so be it. He could swallow his pride for just one day to bring back an eternity's worth of what could have been. His tears flowed more freely now, and he grabbed his pillow, pulling it over his face. Shame burned hot on his cheeks, burned in his gut like hot coals. He hated this feeling. He hated being weak. 

When his head finally felt clear enough to think again, he wiped his tears and slowly rose out of bed, glancing at the clock. Dreams or not, today was the big day. The weapon is ready, the guest secured. He’d launch the first blow against heaven, and after that? He’d watch Alastor’s smug look fade as he witnessed his ascension into proper godhood. 

‘I do hope you don’t mind sharing the throne?’

Vox cursed under his breath, shaking his head as if to reboot it. Why did he have to dream like that? On that night, of all nights? It wasn’t uncommon for Alastor to make a guest appearance in his unconscious desires, but he had never had a vision so vivid, so real he could still feel the ghosts of his fingers running over his gills. That sight of perfection would stay with him for a long, long time. 

He glanced at the bed. How would he explain this one to whatever unfortunate employee had to clean it? A whiskey spill, maybe. Just a celebratory drink in bed, alone, before the day of his victory. Just like the ashes, they wouldn’t dare question him. If he said it, it was true. 

But what he dreamt? It would never be true. Even in a better world, where Alastor had accepted his offered hand. Unreality was such a strange thing. It teased him, letting him have a taste of true heaven just to rip it from him upon the first rays of morning light. But Alastor? He was the cruellest of all for inciting this. For turning Vincent Whittman into this abhorrent reacher, always trying, never grasping. 

He looked at himself in the mirror, now properly dressed. Some pathetic part of him wondered briefly if Alastor would like this outfit, and the rest imagined rendering it wet with his blood. He’d get something out of Alastor that day. Not a lover’s touch, but something much, much better. And Vox couldn’t wait another moment.

Chapter Text

It had been almost a week since that whole fiasco had been done and dealt with. In all honesty, Alastor was rather glad to have his hands washed of it. Though his spine did ache like the devil for quite a while. God, for a few days afterward even the thought of sitting down made him ill, but at least it gave him time to enjoy his regained freedom. And free he was, not just of the constriction of Vox’s many cables, but of all his chains, physical or not. For the first time in nearly a century, he was entirely his own. Nothing felt lighter. Nothing felt more perfect. 

But, perhaps, the high of this freedom had clouded his judgement just a bit. However, even after a week, that little feeling in the back of his mind wouldn’t rid itself, so maybe it wasn’t just the influence of his recent excitement. He wasn’t sure if he liked that thought. The thought that reminded him of the hollowness in his chest each time that name came up. 

Alastor leaned over his vanity, getting close to the mirror. Most of the injuries made by Vox’s hand had pretty much healed, but the faint mark just below his hairline was still visible in the light. He moved a hand up, running his fingertips over the closed wound. 

The memory of Vox’s hand, curling into his hair, without warning smashing his skull against the edge of the desk was vivid. Perhaps any regular person would find that as an ample reason to hate someone. But Alastor? He was far from a regular man. He thought of the toe of Vox’s boot colliding with the side of his head, with his ribs, on his sternum. He thought of Vox’s claws sinking into his throat, pressing into his windpipe. He thought of Vox’s grin while doing it all, wide with sick pleasure. 

What cruelty! What utter brutality he had displayed, stained as dark blood on his hands. Vox was unbearably good at what he did. He had the ability to harm, and the will to do it, all for his own gain. Alastor loved the colour red. And, god, it did look good on Vox. It suited him, complimented his features like a fashionable trinket. Even if that blood was his own, Alastor could appreciate the sight. It made him feel oddly nostalgic, even. How many times had he seen that lovely shade adorn his features, back when they were… What did he call it? ‘Friends’? The word still left a bad taste in Alastor’s mouth. But, he must admit, after spending so long in Vox’s company, he found himself actually missing those times properly. For a while, he had even respected Vox just as he dd back then, as another man who truly belonged in hell. Vox really was a demon, with every time he allowed Alastor a peak into the viciousness that lied within him, into the ferocity that reared its ugly head whenever he was challenged or questioned. 

It was all rather endearing. 

It was no secret that Alastor loved power. Vox was powerful, that was certain, but no matter how strong he had gotten, no matter how high he stood over him in that chair, he would still drop to his knees before him at the slightest word of his praise. Alastor always had the upper hand over him. Even when Vox was briefly the strongest sinner in hell, all he cared about was Alastor. And in all honesty, he couldn’t say he hated it. He even missed it. 

It felt almost like something was missing that past month. He never thought about how strangely empty everything could be without his incessant chattering of his voice from every television in the pentagram, but it felt like all of hell had been holding its breath, waiting for any news on the once ever present media overlord. The press had been working overtime, with Voxtek’s countless reporters swarming the networks with anything that might help salvage his reputation after that so-disastrous night. Vox himself had been lying low. It was so unlike him, but Alastor supposed he didn’t really have a choice, not with the firestorm hell had been. He wondered, for a moment, what he was doing now. Was he holed up in his office, drowning himself in sorrow? Was he tearing apart some poor employee in a fit of rage? Was he thinking of him, too? He could assume that this was all a rather large blow to his precious ego. Perhaps even larger than the one he himself had dealt all those years ago. Perhaps he would never see him again. Maybe the damage was too great, the toll too much to bear. Part of him liked that idea. At the very least, it would be a while before he rebuilt himself. Alastor could worry about it then, perhaps a month from now, when the silt he had stirred up had settled and the rancid feeling in his chest was finally clawed out.

He sighed, dropping his hand from that wound on his head, raking his claws down his face instead. He suddenly desperately felt the need for a drink. It was so rare he actually joined the other hotel fools at their little makeshift bar. Husker always did his best with what he had to work with, but even his expertise couldn’t make such cheap liquor up to par. Still, perhaps anything would do him some good, so he adjusted his hair to sit over that little wound, straightened his collar, and moved to the door.

The hotel had been so crowded since Charlie’s little victory, but the halls were quiet today. It was a Friday night, after all. The sinners that now resided here must be out for what they think will be their last night of indulgence. It was kind of endearing, in a way, just as much as it was pathetic. Alastor would enjoy seeing their relapses, and the look on her face as her hotel failed another soul. 

The lights in the main floor of the hotel were dim, illuminating the shapes of two figures at the bar. One was Husk, his thumb running along the edge of a glass in an almost zoned-out motion, his brows furrowed in an expression of thought. The other was that newer guest. Alastor hadn’t caught her name in all the chaos, but he did know of her fondness for that redeemed snake. She had her head buried in her hands, a half empty bottle of vodka within arms reach. Ah, of course. He had almost forgotten what an impact that feminine fellow had made on his departure. He had seemed to rattle the spirits of all of them, but especially the two before him. While he certainly couldn’t care less what his indentured do in their own free time, he had seen how close Husk in particular had gotten to him over the past few months. And now, a week later, they were still so torn up about it? So downcast, pathetically hunched over bottles of liquor, finding meager solace in one another?

Was this how Vox looked, all those years ago?

Alastor shook his head, bringing his attention back to the matter at hand. But the air in the room was downright gloomy, far from the distraction he needed. He felt a twinge of irritation, gripping his staff tighter. They wouldn’t even be able to entertain him for a mere couple minutes. They were far from Vox. Still, they would have to do. He waved away his annoyance and stepped up to the bar. 

“Now what’s with the long faces?” 

Husk lifted his head first, startled out of whatever trance he was in. His frown deepened, and he averted his gaze again. Gripping that glass so hard Alastor was surprised it didn’t break. He looked like he was about to say something, but the one-eyed woman spoke up in his stead. 

“Everybody’s just recoverin’ from… all that mess.” She admitted, grabbing the bottle and taking a long swig of it. More of a chug, really. “But it’s not like you know what fuckin’ emotion is.”

“Cherri.” Husk warned, shooting her a death glare. It seemed to be born more out of concern for her than anger. 

“Whaaaaaat? It’s true, isn’t it? That’s not offensive!” The woman– Cherri– seemed more than a little buzzed, the scent of liquor permeating the air like a broadcast. Husk cast a nervous glance at Alastor, who simply laughed, sitting himself down at the bar. Perhaps he should have taken it as an insult, but he must admit that it was rather amusing how willing she was to do it so directly. Most sinners wouldn’t dare. 

“Oh relax, Husker! I’m not going to hurt the poor dear.” He chuckled, gesturing to the glass in his hands. “Though I will say, Miss, you are sorely mistaken. I feel a great deal of emotion.”

Husk clicked his tongue in irritation, tail lashing as he began to prepare a drink, his usual. Cherri scoffed, raising her brow. “And which ones, huh? Sadism and assholery?”

“Exactly! You catch on quickly.” He nodded a thank you to Husk as he passed him the drink, taking a long sip. As expected, it was far from what he had been craving, but it did the job of burning his throat enough for the thoughts of Vox to quiet themselves.

There it was again. Vox. He took a longer swig. 

“Mm… gotta say…” Husk ran a hand down his face, his voice even rougher than usual. “You don’t seem as smug about all this as I thought you’d be.”

“Whatever do you mean?”

“I mean, your worst enemy is pretty much down in the dust, and you’re not broadcasting that shit all over hell?” 

Alastor let out something between a scoff and a laugh, entwining his fingers together and resting his elbows on the counter. “Worst enemy? What, you mean that noisy buffoon? Oh! I didn’t realize you were such a comedian, Husker!”

“Wait, what’s wrong with what he said?” Cherri jumped in, tilting her head curiously. 

“The problem, my dear, is that ‘worst enemy’ is far from the term I’d use to describe him.” He shook his head.  “More like an… Occasional thorn in my side. Akin to a fly, really. Why bother broadcasting something so trivial?”

“...uh-huh.” Husk gave him a sidelong glance, clearly skeptical. Something about the challenge irked Alastor, but he kept himself calm nonetheless. 

“Well, he clearly thought you were his biggest enemy.” 

“He’s dramatic that way. Certainly you must have learned by now not to trust anything that leaves his mouth, yes?”

“I dunno, nobody tries to go kamikaze over a simple rivalry.” She hummed in thought, running her thumb over the surface of the vodka bottle. “Seriously, what did you do to piss off that guy, anyway? If you asked me that shit seemed pretty damn personal.”

“What is it to me? What he chooses to spend his precious time on is, quite frankly, none of my business.” Alastor raised the glass to his lips once more.

“He’s back, y’know.”

Alastor almost choked on the whiskey, raising a hand to his throat. He’d swallowed too much at once, leaving him unable to speak. He took a moment to recover, then lifted his head, his smile a little too wobbly on his face. “I’m sorry, can you repeat that for me?”

Husk’s eyes glinted with triumph, but it was gone as quickly as it came. He leaned against the counter, tapping his fingers against it. “Oh, you haven’t heard? Word is he’d made himself a new body. Still layin’ low–”

“That pussy.” Cherri added, gritting her teeth in irritation. 

“--But it’s lookin’ to me like he might just try and make a grand comeback soon. Dunno how well that’s gonna go, though.”

“Yeah, his ratings are in the dust right now. I wonder how much video editing its gonna take to fix that shitshow.”

“A new body, hm?” Alastor leaned back, running his hand up and down the length of his staff in thought. “Interesting… Have you heard anything else?”

“Eh. Things’re pretty muddled right now. Hard to tell what’s right and what’s more media garbage.” Husk waved the thought away, picking at the edges of one of his claws. “Wouldn’t be surprised if he stays quiet for a while longer. That’s what I would do, at least.”

“It’d be the smartest decision, but let's not give him too much credit, yeah?” Cherri snickered. 

“Oh, yeah. Still the guy who almost blew half the pentagram sky high over his cru–” Husk cut himself off, casting a wide-eyed glance at Alastor before coughing into his fist and changing his tune. “Grudge.”

Alastor raised his brows, but didn’t comment on his obvious slip up. “So, he built himself a new body, then?”

“Apparently some Voxtek employee leaked it.”

“And his two henchmen? They’ve been rather chatty recently.”

The mention of the other Vees made the room suddenly colder. Husk’s ears pinned to the back of his head. Cherri’s lip pulled between her teeth. 

“...Haven’t heard them address anything yet. You know how the fuckin’ Vees are, if they don’t like the truth they just pretend it doesn’t exist.”

“Or they twist it.”

“Oh, like crazy. Anything to admit they’re just a trio of lousy pieces o–”

“Fools.” Alastor interrupted, hissing under his breath. “Utter fools.”

Husk and Cherri paused, both glancing at him in obvious confusion. Alastor wrinkled his nose, then downed the rest of the glass, letting the whiskey burn in the back of his throat as he stood from his seat.

“Well, this has been a rather productive conversation! I am honoured to have beheld such fine company this evening, but I’m afraid I must now depart.”

Neither of them stopped him, but he felt their gazes dig into his back as he made his way for the exit. He pushed open the door, into the cold air outside. 

A body. Vox had already built himself a body? If those rumours were to be believed, Alastor had a problem on his hands. A very big problem. He would have to face whatever was stirring within him much, much sooner than he thought, and he was not ready, not in the slightest. That ache in his chest flared up again, but it wasn’t the whiskey. No, this ache was cold, like a ravine had opened up where his sternum should be and swallowed what was left of his shrivelled heart. Flashes of memory passed through his mind. Each night in the bar, listening to Vincent’s excited voice. Each night in the chair, falling asleep to the sound of Vox’s rapid tapping on one of the many computers in his office. Each night past that almost-doomsday, hearing nothing but the cries of displeasure from the demons of hell over the man they so willingly wanted to follow into revolution. His voice used to be inescapable. Booming through the alleys of hell through one billboard or another. Alastor didn’t use any modern nonsense like ‘phones’, but he heard that voice every time Angel Dust scrolled himself into a stupor on the lounge chair, or when Vaggi obsessively watched the news again and again. He didn’t realize just how quiet the world was without it. 

A body. Yet he still refused to show his face. How laughably pathetic, for a man who loved nothing more than to hear himself praised. He wondered how he was even coping, with all this vitriol. The fellow he knew way back when couldn’t even function without an affirmation or two a day. He’d nip at his heels like a dog, turn to make sure Alastor were watching when he dazzled a crowd or brought a demon to their knees. He loved being looked at. He loved being adored, more than anything else in the world. His power was so great, but he himself was nothing without his supporters. 

He wondered how many sinners Vox needed to make up for the reassurance Alastor would never grant him. He wondered how many voices it took to even come close to what he could have had, if it was even possible. He even wondered, briefly, what kind of person Vox would have become if he had accepted his little proposition. 

Alastor conjectured that he’d likely be much happier. 

Weak. 

Cruel. 

Enrapturing. 

It had just begun to drizzle, rainwater settling into the cracked concrete beneath Alastor’s shoes as he weaved around a lightpost. There were very few sinners roaming the streets, he assumed most of them were holed up in some den of depravity or another, but the few stragglers that did litter the sidewalk hastily hid behind each other to avoid him. He was glad to see that hell was just about how it always was nowadays, but this time, the many flashing billboards weren’t emblazoned with Vox’s face. And, most strangely, the surveillance cameras he passed by didn’t follow him. 

He paused, planting his staff onto the ground and looking up at the red blinking light of the camera, painted with the signature Voxtek flare. Typically, those cameras would be following his every move, just as all that technology seemed to do. But this one? It remained stationary, staring ahead, as if he didn’t even exist. 

Almost every piece of technology in hell was an extension of Vox’s will. They were just as much created by him as they were an extension of him, as wholly his as the limbs he possessed (well, once possessed). So to say that them suddenly turning the other cheek at Alastor’s presence was odd… was an understatement. He furrowed his brows, leaning on his staff and bringing the other hand up to his chin. What exactly did this mean? Was it a purposeful decision on Vox’s part, to try to not pay attention to him? Or had he truly just forgotten? That wasn’t possible. Not when his infatuation had been so great he nearly doomed all of hell for it. 

He felt the sudden urge to get up there and tap at the lens, just to see if anybody was home. Would he even respond, or could he, in his sorry state? Alastor knew that Vox wouldn’t stay down for long. He never did. It was what made him so entertaining to watch, after all. But once he came back, in new flesh… Alastor couldn’t help but wonder if he would change. If he would still even want to be…

Eugh. Friends. What an utterly revolting thought. Did Husk put something stronger in that earlier drink? Alastor couldn’t think of another reason why that word would even pop into his head. He straightened himself, rolled his shoulders back, and resolved to just keep moving. A real stroll would do well to clear his muddled mind, and perhaps dispel these… irritating little thoughts he’d been having recently. 

“--Has there been any news on Vox yet?”

Alastor paused as an unfamiliar voice reached his ears, catching just a snippet of someone else’s conversation. He whipped his head around to see a group of demons coming around the corner. Alastor wasn’t typically one to eavesdrop, but intrigued, and maybe partially hoping they would reveal something he didn’t know yet, he immediately blended himself with the nearby shadows before they could notice him. 

“Vox?! Who gives a shit what happens to him?” One of the other demons in the group laughed. “Is he even considered an overlord anymore?”

“Technically. He still owns all those souls, ya know.”

“Doesn’t he have a new body now, though? He’s probably planning some kind of big comeback soon.”

“With how the other Vees are acting? I doubt it. They seem pretty pissed at him.”

“Shit, I would be too.”

The other Vees? Alastor’s ears perked up. The group stopped beneath the lightpost, and one demon, the most loudly-dressed of the group, leaned against it. 

“I don’t know, but to me it seems like Valentino’s calling the shots now.”

“I wonder if he and Velvette drew straws.”

A laugh. The noise grated on Alastor’s ears. 

“Even if they didn’t, I heard Vox is in over his head. Gone completely numb!”

A scoff from one of the others. “Numb? Vox? You can’t be serious. He’s gotta be plotting something!”

“No, seriously! Word is he’s gotten completely down or something.” The loudly-dressed demon grinned, as if the thought amused them. “Given up.”

Given up? Vox?! Alastor wanted to scoff at the idea. As weak and easy as he was, Vox was also persistent. He was driven to power more than a man on the verge of starvation could be drawn to food. For him to just throw in the towel was simply unthinkable, no matter how far he may have sunk. It’s what made him so entertaining to watch, all those years ago. If he had lost that trait… what was even his appeal? What was Vox without his drive, without his passion? He wasn’t Vox at all. And somehow, that thought was rather distressing to him. It felt like eating something foul– sick in his gut, rejected by his tongue. 

“Just like that?”

“That’s what people are saying! But I’ll believe it. After all, that guy was always weak.”

Alastor felt his grin twitch, but he remained still.

A few others in the group laughed, and one piped up. “I’d be careful saying that. You know overlords get when their egos are challenged.”

“I should know. I am an overlord, after all.”

Alastor paused. Overlord? This tiny little demon?! He almost wanted to laugh. He knew he wasn’t exactly up to date on all of the lesser overlords in hell, as there were so many who just barely passed the threshold to be considered one, but he thought the bar would be a little higher than this. Were him and Vox really lumped into the same category as them? Not only that, but they had the gall to speak of him as if he were the lesser one, as if he were weak? He’d never seen such blatant hubris, even as a sinner among sinners. 

The ‘overlord’s’ cohort laughed, before saying their goodbyes and making their exit. Alastor watched every second of it as the demon, now alone, sighed, scrambling under an awning and pulling out a (mostly dry) pack of cigarettes. He watched them fumble with a lighter clearly out of fluid, cursing under their breath. They were so distracted they didn’t even notice Alastor stepping out of his shadow until he was almost directly in front of him. The demon startled, fumbling with the box and almost dropping it before shoving it into their pocket. 

“Ah! My apologies, did I frighten you?” Alastor put on his regularly chipper voice, leaning in close. The demon went pale, like all the blood was drained from their face. Perhaps it soon would be. 

They stuttered out something incoherent, clearly caught off guard by the sight of the radio demon himself before them. “Sorry, can I help you?”

“You can, actually! You see, pardon me for eavesdropping, but I couldn’t help but overhear…”

The demon shrunk back, looking like they were about to bolt. Oh, he couldn’t have that. Alastor didn’t bother with any fancy powers or abilities. He far from needed them when dealing with a nobody like this. But he did take a moment to appreciate the expression on the demon’s face, twisted in fear, pathetically soaked by the pouring rain, wide eyes glinting under the soft yellow street light. He placed a fingertip on the demon’s chest almost reprimandingly. They moved like they were about to retaliate, run, something, but Alastor was far from having that. He dropped all pretense, tearing open the demon’s chest with one swift motion. 

The demon stumbled back, clutching at their wound, eyes fixed on him as he slowly approached. They attempted to whip around and run, but one of Alastor’s shadows caught their leg, making them fall face-first into the crumbling concrete below instead. He couldn’t help but laugh at the sight. It had been so long since he engaged in some self-indulgent fun like this, as caught up as he was in the hotel and Rosie’s incessant demands. When was the last time he hunted purely for his own desire? God, he didn’t remember, but nothing felt more freeing in the world. 

He dragged the demon’s body towards him, giving his staff a twirl before bringing it down right on their sternum. It gave way easily. The hand of his shadow curled into the collar of their shirt, pulling them up so they were suspended midair before Alastor. The demon was still conscious, but had unfortunately exhausted their lungs, or maybe the pain was too great for them to scream. Still, they grit their teeth, shaking as he moved closer, leaning in and pressing a hand against their smashed-in chest. 

“Apologies, my dear. But it is the price of cockiness, they say!” 

The demon opened their mouth to speak, however, nothing but a choked gurgle came out. Alastor hummed in response. 

“That’s funny! You were oh so chatty just before. Now tell me, what else do you have to say about Vox?”

Their eyes widened at the name, and they shrunk back as much as they could, voice wheezing and breathless.  “...What about him?”

“I’m simply curious, is all. That’s not a crime.” He tilted his head, stepping closer. “You mentioned something about ‘giving up', was it?”

“Ah– That’s just– just a rumour, you know… fuck–”

“Oh, please. Humour me! I want to know, did our very own media overlord finally do himself in for good?”

“I don’t know! That’s just what I heard–”

“And what else did you hear?” He dug his thumb into his wound, in a similar fashion to what was done to him just a few weeks before. “And who told you?”

“A– I don’t know! Some Voxtek employee online–!” The demon wheezed, trembling like a leaf. “They said… said they hadn’t seen him since that day with the angels. That he hasn’t even talked to anyone, so… That means he’s given up, right–?--”

Alastor tore the heart from the demon’s chest, watching as they let out one last cry. He released his shadow, letting them crumple to the ground in a bloody, rain-soaked heap, a pack of cigarettes falling from their pocket. Alastor knew that soon, that body would regenerate. All souls pull themselves back together eventually when angelic steel wasn’t involved, but due to the gruesomeness of this one it would probably take quite a while. Alastor didn’t know for sure. He’d never had to regenerate, of course. After all, what fool would dare challenge him? And who within hell could even win?

Vox almost did.

He let his gaze fall to his hand, where the heart of the demon lay clutched in his bloodstained claws. It had fallen completely limp, once beating, now just a dead hunk of flesh in his grasp. As dull and boring as the demon he had wrenched it out of. The buzz of excitement the whole situation brought on had completely enshrouded his judgement, but now that it was gone, he had the clear head to reflect. 

He wished he didn’t.

What was he thinking? Wasting his time on some lowly demon like this? He didn’t even manage to get any useful information out of it. He couldn’t deny it was good stress relief, but it would have been much better if it were someone of actual power, like the overlords he had slain in the past. He certainly wouldn’t broadcast this one. Picking off tablescraps was far from worth the trouble. 

But it wasn’t the killing that disturbed him. Far from it. It was what he felt at the demon’s words. He was far from a knight in shining armour, defending the honour of those he deemed worthy. And he had never reacted that way when any other demon spoke ill of Vox. Was something different about this one? Perhaps it was the brazenness, mixed with obvious cowardice. Weak, they said. Alastor scoffed at the thought. ‘Weak’ was a word one should only use if they were stronger than the person they were insulting. And that pathetic excuse of a demon was not stronger than Vox. And who was stronger than the media overlord, exactly…?

Alastor supposed that just left himself. 

He turned the heart over in his hands, running his thumb absentmindedly along the outside of one of the ventricles. Long ago, he had called that man weak. He had done so with no second thought, no remorse, and maybe more than enough alcohol in his system. He doesn’t regret it, not really. He regretted getting into that situation in the first place. He regretted losing the finest piece of entertainment he’d found since he crawled into this infernal hellhole. Vox wasn’t weak. Far from it. Not physically, at least. It was in his mind where the weakness lay– In the way he depended on others, the way he almost depended on him. But it wasn’t up to that foolish demon to decide that. 

He sunk his claws into the heart, furrowing his brows, looking out over the expanse of hell’s entertainment district. He thought back to that day just last week, where Vox had stood high upon that weapon, willing to destroy himself on the mere chance he’d take Alastor down with him. That was weakness, stacked on top of strength. But giving up…? Giving up? Vox, giving up? Vincent Whittman, of all demons in hell, giving up? Alastor wanted to laugh. 

It was always the most captivating part of him. It took a special kind of man to become so obsessed, for such a prideful man to be willing to throw himself and his reputation away just to harm another. That kind of man didn’t just ‘give up’. For beneath that polished suit and smooth voice was a violent soul, and a series of contradictions. Calculating but hot-headed. Self-absorbed yet insecure. Selfish yet team-oriented. It created such a delicious blend of depravity, a confusing mess of a show Alastor couldn’t help but want to tune into. He was entertainment in every sense of the word. And very intriguing. And now? That he had lost it all, that his own team had turned on him? He must be spiraling. He must be fully in the thick of his own mind, but he certainly didn’t just abandon it all like that irritating little pest had insinuated. 

If he called for him now, would he come?

He crushed the heart in his hand, feeling it cave under his touch, staining his forearm and further with more blood. Alastor didn’t like uncertainty. But he did love uncovering the truth. He did love digging into the minds of his fellow sinners, especially those as close to his level as Vox was. And he knew that itch wouldn’t go away until he tried. And, perhaps, he might get a proper drink out of it. 

He came to his decision. 

Alastor turned to the body beside him with a bit of a renewed mood. “Pardon me, my good sir! You won’t be needing these for a while.” He snatched the pack of cigarettes that had fallen from the downed demon’s pocket, tossing the heart next to the body unceremoniously. He took one last glance back at the demon before looking back at the surveillance camera mounted on the wall. 

It was now fixed directly onto him. Of course that fool couldn’t resist. 

Alastor chuckled, stepping closer. He knew what he must look like. Soaked by rain, covered in that lowlife’s blood. He hoped it would be drastic enough to lure him out of his little hiding spot. He waved at the camera, then pulled open the pack, taking out one of the cigarettes and placing it between his lips, a clear invitation. Then, he stepped over to the wall, twirling around to lean back against it, beneath the awning. Waiting. 

He would come. He always did. 

The watch on his wrist ticked.