Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Alastor hummed a tune to himself as he strolled along the mismatched cobblestones of the entertainment district. He tucked his microphone under his elbow as he made his way back to the Cannibal District. He'd had a good hunt; the alphas in the Entertainment District were poor excuses for their designation, but they did make for easy prey. One hint of his scent and they all came running to him. It was hardly a challenge, but it was quite filling. 

He would have to add Edison to his shrinking list of Overlords to star in his broadcasts. The man had no interest in protecting the fairer sex that fell within his territory, not if they came running like that if they smelt an omega. Alastor huffed in irritation. It really was no way to run a district. Why more Overlords couldn't install manners into their residents like Rosie is beyond him. 

Still, seeing who would claw their way up to owning the Entertainment District if he toppled the longstanding ruler would be comical. It would be quite amusing to see them all struggle, and if the new Overlord wasn't any better than the last? Why, Alastor would be pleased as punch to kill them and start the whole event over again. 

He's mulling over the timing and the easiest place to snatch Edison when he hears the growl. His heels click to a stop, and he tilts his head to follow the sound. His ears twitch, listening closely as he hears a hissed out, "Don't touch me!" 

Well, he may have room for one more snack for the road or perhaps a gift for Rosie. Alastor grins and sets out down the alley. A few steps in, and there's already a sour smell of rotting brine permeating the air that can only belong to a distressed omega. His nose crinkles in distaste. There's a barely perceptible charge of electricity. How odd. Well, whoever the unfortunate soul is, they must be quite unlucky. Through their overwhelming scent, Alastor can smell their pheromones, and the poor thing still smells freshly arrived. 

Really, it's just bad taste to pick on those newly fallen to Hell, hardly sporting at all. 

Alastor rounds the corner and pauses. Eight sinners, a mix of alphas and betas, are crowded into the tail end of the side street. The three closest to the end of the alley are all hellhounds, and the others are a mix of sinner demons with various forms. He slips into the shadows to watch and time his entrance. 

"Stay still!" The dark gray hellhound snaps his paw out and yanks the omega's arm up. Alastor bristles at the alpha command and feels his antlers beginning to grow on instinct. 

The newly fallen sinner reels back and shouts, "I said don't touch me!" Static tinges through the voice and Alastor feels the fur on the back of his neck stand on end. 

The hellhound releases the sinner and steps back. He looks dazed. Alastor blinks. He's never met another omega who could fight off an alpha command, let alone do whatever that was. How interesting! 

The omega sinner pants and stands up to their full height. Their skin is the color of iron and they are dressed in a torn baby blue blazer, a long omega skirt covers their ankles. The style is quite familiar to Alastor and similar to what he had worn while living. It was disappointing to know that not much had changed for omegas since he was alive, not even the style. That’s when Alastor notices the sinner’s face. It's the most remarkable thing; shaped like a strange glowing box. It was like nothing he'd seen in all his years in Hell. 

Light flickered through the box and Alastor could make out the grimace on the other omega's face. The Picture Box took a breath, their eyes darting between the pack of sinners gathered in the alley. It was clear the poor dear was looking for an escape route and Alastor almost felt inspired to give them one, except the other sinner was so unexpected that Alastor couldn't help but wonder what they would do next. 

"Hey,  now don't be like that fresh meat." A new voice from the crowd pipes up, "We just want to show you the ropes." The rest of the group rumbles a laugh and Alastor lets out a low hiss of their own. He can't wait to sink his teeth into these curs. 

"Oh, wow ! You want to help me?" The omega says, pitching their voice low and sweet; a lure if he's ever seen one. It's a familiar trick Alastor has used himself.  His pulse quickens in recognition. The omega before him is a wolf in sheep's clothing. 

"Yeah, we'll help you right out," the same demon says with a snicker, "Give you some lessons, loosen you right up and show you where you belong. You just need to stay nice and still. Can you do that pretty thing ?" A crab demon wandered closer and is attempting to cage the omega in, resting one of its orange claws under the box-like screen to tilt it upwards. Alastor holds his breath as he sees wide, innocent eyes blink on the omega's screen. 

"Well…" the omega says softly, their fingers trailing up along the demon's claw. They're crowding in now and Alastor materializes himself from the shadows behind the group while they focus on their prey. "I'd like to believe you, but I just don't think I could trust any lessons from someone with rocks for brains." 

Then the crab demon is screaming. The alley is awash in blue light and the other demon lands with a thunk on the concrete. The smell is not dissimilar to what Alastor remembers of crawfish boils and he feels his mouth water.  The omega sinner turns towards the rest of the crowd, who are frozen in place, their eyes snapping between what they assumed to be an easy mark and their dead comrade. 

"How hard is it to follow simple instructions?" The omega pants, "I said don't touch me." 

"You fucking bitch!" 

And then all Hell -Hah- breaks loose. The betas and alphas rush forward, and a cacophony of clashing scents ensues as the alphas vie for dominance and submission. Alastor uses a shadow to cover his nose from the unpleasantness and sees the other omega wobble before they swipe their claws at the face of the closest hellhound. 

Gleaming red blood coats the Picture Box's blue talons as they weave around the crowd, lashing out with sparks, claws, and teeth where they can. It's precise and it's vicious. He's never seen another omega respond with such violence before. His ears are perked up in interest as he watches the show. Alastor uses his shadow tendrils to pick at the stragglers at the back of the pack. One of the hellhounds makes a particularly satisfying pop when Alastor squeezes a little too tightly. 

Soon enough, just the omegas were left standing with delightful carnage at their feet. Alastor felt practically giddy with excitement. He had to admit the other omega looked quite lovely, covered in blood. It was a pretty sight, even if they looked to be on their last leg. 

"Fucking alphas," his boxhead says, looking down in displeasure at their ruined dress suit, "Do I need to gut you too, or do you get the message?" 

Alastor's grin only widens at the snarl in the omega's voice. They're so feisty, how fun! 

"No, not me, my good fellow. Nothing of the sort. I merely heard the ruckus and am ever so displeased by alphas with no manners." Alastor looks them up and down now that he's closer. The sinner has little sparks dancing across their fingers, but they're swaying back and forth on their feet, barely upright.

"Oh, good. I owe you one then." With that, the sinner's screen cuts to black, and they crumple to the ground like a puppet with cut strings. Alastor catches them with his tentacles before they can smash their strange face on the concrete. 

"Well, my dear, what should I do with you now?" 

The sinner comes to with a spike of static that makes Alastor's fur stand on end all the way from the kitchen. What a strange creature this omega is. In all his time in Hell, Alastor hasn't encountered another sinner who could tap into frequencies. Yet, here was one in his den, and another omega at that! 

Alastor sticks his head out of the kitchen doorway. The boxheaded sinner jolts off the couch and sends themself sprawling out on Alastor's den carpet.

"Ah, you're awake then," Alastor says, not bothering to hide his amusement as he watches the sinner try to roll themself over on the carpet. Alastor turns down his pot to a low simmer and dries his hands on his apron before he steps fully into the den. His new acquaintance is still thrashing around on the ground trying to right themselves. It's quite the amusing sight.  

" Fuck shit! YOU! What did you do? Where am I, you sick fuck ?" The sinner says, managing to tilt their heavy head back enough to roll their knees under them. 

Alastor tilts his head as the omega attempts to shriek at him through the angry blats of static. "I would have thought that would be obvious. You're on my couch, my dear!"

"I can see that! Why? What do you want from me?"

They are such a suspicious little thing. "Did you want me to leave you in that foul-smelling alley? Can't an omega help a fellow omega in a pinch?" 

"This is hell," the boxhead says flatly. Ah, so they were aware of that at least. "I may not have been here for long, but I know no one does anything out of the goodness of their heart." 

"Indeed," Alastor's nose twitches, "I can practically smell the vitality on you! Now, where are my manners? Alastor, my dear, it's a pleasure to be meeting you, quite the pleasure!" Alastor sticks out his hand. 

"Vox." The other sinner eyes his hand suspiciously but doesn't take it. Alastor's grin and pep don't falter. Suspicion was practically the currency in Hell after all. 

"And what exactly are you?" Alastor reaches out to tap his fingers along the wood paneling on Vox's head, but his fingers are smacked away. Alastor is intrigued as small blue sparks fizzle to life from Vox's claws. 

Vox scowls, "Is that supposed to be some kind of joke? You think I haven't had enough people come over to comment on me having a stupid television for a head!"

"Television," Alastor rolls the new word across his tongue. It certainly has a ring to it. It's not quite as nice a word as radio, but it's still intriguing. He pats Vox's head again, despite the hisses, and is rewarded with more sparks between the other's antennas. The static in the air makes his hair fluff up, and he attempts to smooth it down, amused, "My, my, the living world must be spinning on in such a strange direction to make a thing like you. What exactly does this television do, my dear? Is it like the talkies?"

Vox gapes at him, "The talkies —You don't know? How long have you been down here?"

Alastor waves a hand nonplussed, "A few decades give or take. You'll find time, and the living world doesn't mean quite so much down here." 

Vox closes their mouth and tilts their head to the side, or rather attempts to, before the weight of their head pulls them back down onto the couch. Alastor laughs. The whole thing was rather adorable as Vox fights to move himself back into the sitting position. Their scent becomes stronger and slightly sharper in embarrassment. 

" Shut up ! I'm still getting used to this stupid thing!" Alastor chuckles louder as Vox slams their fist against their head in anger. 

"Now none of that, my dear," Alastor says, directing his shadow to pull Vox's hand away before the other sinner can continue the self-inflicted violence,  "you'll find no sinner is ever happy with their new form, that is rather the point, though over time some do come to appreciate the perks!" Alastor smiles wide to show off his very sharp teeth. 

Vox watches closely, and Alastor doesn't miss how the other's throat bobs as they gulp. Alastor falls into his armchair and kicks one of his legs over the other. "So, my good man—you are a man?"

"What? Yes, of course, what kind of question is that?" Vox asks with wide eyes. This whole interaction has thrown him off kilter, and Alastor can't say he's not enjoying the other omega's vibrant expressions and reactions. 

Alastor rolls his eyes, "Well, you know what they say about assumptions, my dear fellow! It never does one any good to presume in Hell." 

"Then are you a man, too?" Vox asks uncertainly, and Alastor's grin widens at how quickly the other is picking up Hell's customs. 

"Indeed, I'm quite the gentleman, even! Hah!" Alastor lets a filter of audience laughter out of his microphone. Now tell me, how long have you been down here, and what have you been doing to attract so many alphas so quickly? I simply must know your trick with the voice!" 

"My voice?" Vox asks, the sound popping with a pleasing undercurrent of static that Alastor had never heard in any other demon's voice but his own. He leans in closer. 

"Why yes! However, did you order those alphas about? Quite the entertaining display." 

"I, uh, just did?" 

Alastor gives him a flat, unimpressed look, "Care to elaborate, my dear?" 

"I don't know!" Vox throws his hands up, "I just did it!"

Interesting. The ability must be innate, something with his new form or powers. They'll have to experiment. If the ability is replicable, he can think of some very amusing ways to use a skill like that. 

"Well, my dear, it's obvious you're new in town, and rather fresh smelling, so what will you be doing with yourself?" 

"I don't know." 

Alastor lets out a canned laugh from his microphone, "What are you, a broken record? You said that already." 

Vox growls at him, and oh look, at that spark crawling its way up his antenna. How cute! New sinners were far more fun. Regular Hell denizens never seemed to have a spine once they knew who he was. He wondered how Vox would react when he finally had enough context about his reputation to piece it all together. It would no doubt be delightful given this fellow's funny head. 

"I just found out I'm in Hell, and I have this," Vox gestures at his screen. “Fucking television for a head forever, apparently. So I haven't exactly had the time to come up with a twelve-step plan yet. Give me a break." 

Alastor grinned, "So you need to figure out a place to stay then."

Vox snorts, "Yeah, sure, more like I need some divine intervention, but yeah, figuring out where I'm sleeping probably wouldn't hurt. 

"Excellent! That should work itself right out then. Keep me entertained and you can stay. Deal?" 

Vox blanches his screen, fading from a pale blue to a light gray, "Entertained-?"

"Oh, nothing like you're thinking of. I have no interest in any of the urges of the baser instincts." Alastor waves a hand, his lips curling in disgust, and Vox's shoulders relax slightly, "No, you just keep being your charming Picture Box self, and I'm sure we will get along just fine."

"So, I get to stay here as long as you find me funny? Is that it?" 

"Entertaining, but yes. I'll let you stay here with me and not do anything untoward. Is it a deal then?" Alastor sticks his hand out in anticipation. 

Vox eyes his hand suspiciously, smart fellow. Had he already come across dealmakers? It would be a shame if he didn't take it. A nice verbal agreement kept things so tidy. Alastor liked to give himself a bit of insurance, even for something as small as this; it was always good to be clear up front. And collecting little favors later on never hurt, at least not him. No, a nice binding verbal agreement would keep everything clear. Especially, with a sinner as fresh as Vox, who had no idea what he should even be asking for. 

"Seems like you're not getting much out of it."

"Au contraire, my friend, you're new here, so you've yet to realize how dull Hell can truly be, but with time, you'll understand how valuable a currency entertainment is. Now let's shake on it."

Vox reaches out and shakes his hand. 

Vox has been in Hell for less than two weeks, and if the Picture Box is to be believed, with Alastor for most of that time. In the passing days, his Picture Box has grown more timid, skittish almost as he paced around the house, trying to take up little chores until Alastor shoos him away. It was a far cry from that confident demon in the alleyway who ordered alphas around without a thought. 

It's a shame, and it's hardly entertaining. Alastor is perfectly capable of doing his dishes. If he didn't feel like it, then Niffty would be delighted to do them for him. 

No, he needed to shake Vox out of this funk and he knows just the thing for it! Why, a nice stroll around Hell would do them both nicely. Alastor could even pick up a fresh sinner to take home for their meal. Yes, that's the ticket! 

"Vox, pal, come join me for a walk," Alastor calls.

Vox pokes his head out of the guest bedroom, "A walk? It's getting dark out. Are you sure that's the best idea?"

"Of course, it's a wonderful night for a walk. The skies are clear of acid rain, and the pentagram looks especially bright tonight." Alastor says, stepping his hooves into his shoes and swinging his cane up and around to rest in the crook of his arm. 

Vox's expression still looks doubtful, but he's left his room and is slowly making his way towards his oversized shoes. They really ought to take care of that soon. Vox's wardrobe—or rather, his lack of one—made him look like the hobo he no longer was. 

"Aren't you worried that an alpha might try to…" Vox trails off as he plays with the laces on his shoes. His unfinished statement is clear enough and hilarious to consider. 

"Oh, haha, what a funny man," Alastor cackles as he wipes a tear from his eye, "Is that why you've been so shy lately. Did you catch the hunkers?"

"The hunkers?" Vox asks, his screen flipping to grey before returning to its usual blue. 

"Yes, it's this ridiculous set of instincts certain sinners get when faced with the blatant reality of Hell that says if they keep their head low and hide, nothing bad will happen to them. It's complete nonsense, of course!" 

Static flickers on Vox's screen again and his scent blurs. The air takes on a salty tinge as Vox lets his discomfort show. It's so interesting how many ways this poor man can project himself. He practically screams his every emotion. They'd have to work on that if his Picture Box was going to survive long without him. 

"Now then," Alastor laces their arms together and pulls Vox out the front door, "Let's get you out into the world!"

A few days later, Vox comes down to breakfast and says, "Al, uh, do you have anything I could wear?"

Alastor flicks his ears and stares at him, waiting for the explanation. Vox shuffles back and forth, "I'd like to shower… and uh, wash my clothes, but I don't have anything to change into."

"Ah, what a poor host I've been," Alastor says, only the clothes on his back to his name, what a predicament for his Picture Box! "We'll have to plan a trip to the tailor today." 

"But, I don't have any money," Vox protests. 

"It's no matter," Alastor waves off his concerns. To be perfectly honest, Alastor seldom pays for things. Between duping old-fashioned alphas into making his purchases for him and eating particularly annoying clerks, he rarely pays for things outside of Cannibal Town. That's not to say he never does. There are a handful of well-run businesses he doesn't mind supporting, and of course, he would never play his games in Rosie's territory, but what is a little more sin and vice in Hell? "Besides, it would hardly be fitting to leave such a pretty omega in such a state." 

Alastor watches in amusement as Vox's screen tints a faint purple at the compliment, "I just… you've been so kind and I haven't been able to do anything for you!" 

"I'm quite sure you will pay all of my favors back and more once you have your feet under you! You truly have no idea how refreshing your presence is, Picture Box, why it's like a breath of fresh air." 

Vox frowns; he doesn't truly understand yet, since his stay in Hell has been so short, and Vox had the good luck to run into him so soon after his fall. But, he's a quick learner, and Alastor doesn't doubt he'll soon put two and two together to realize exactly how few omegas are in Hell, and how only a fraction of those have the backbone and power to do something with it. 

"I'll find a way to pay you back. You can keep a list—"

"Yes, yes, we can sort out all the minutiae later if you so desire, but I think breakfast now and then a visit to my tailor. After that, who knows? Let's see where the day takes us!"

Vox still has that stubborn look on his face that tells Alastor he's about to argue the point, but to his surprise, Vox merely lets out a long sigh and trails after him towards the kitchen, "Fine. But, do you think… no, it's stupid," Vox says, tugging on one of his antennae. A newly developed nervous tick Alastor would like to nip in the bud. It wouldn't do for the omega to project his moods further, not when their scents were already such a disadvantage most of the time. 

"Do speak up, Vox, I can hardly hear you when you mumble," Alastor says, not even bothering to turn as he makes his way to the stove and begins cracking eggs into the frying pan. 

"Do you think I could get a suit like yours?" Alastor's eyes widen and he whips his head around one hundred and eighty degrees with a crack to stare at Vox. 

Vox gulps, and a little bolt of electricity jumps between his antennas. His scent takes on a deeper briney smell as he nervously rambles, "It's just I've always wanted to wear one, and my parents and then my alpha, they never let me. And all of the Hollywood stars looked so handsome in their suits, and you look so handsome and you're an omega too and I just thought if you could wear them, then maybe I could too ?" Vox finishes his voice practically a squeak of static by the end of the sentence. 

"Why, my dear Vox," Alastor practically purrs as he turns the rest of his body around and twists the dial on the stove top down, "You simply must now. I've never had the chance to suit shop with another omega before."

"Oh," Vox says, flustering his screen, taking on that lovely lavender hue again, “Me neither.” 

Alastor chuckles and lets his own sweeter scent out in reassurance as he flips the eggs onto a plate and holds it out. "Now eat up, the daylight is already nearly 9 a.m! We’re burning daylight and we've so much to do!"

"Are you sure this is okay?" Vox says nervously for the third time as they walk through the tailor's shop. He runs his blue claws against all the blazers they pass and keeps glancing at the omega section. 

Alastor frowns as he follows Vox's gaze to the dresses. Alastor still has dresses, a few of which he was quite fond of that Rosie made him, but he only wears them when he’s in a specific mood, certainly not to please any knotheaded alpha. He'd thrown off dresses, as many omegas had in the roaring twenties,  and decided not to look back in his living days, but in his death, he found that there were particular styles he rather enjoyed upon occasion. 

"It's Hell, dear, wearing clothes you like is hardly the worst depravity you will find down here." 

"Yes, but you're, you know…" Vox gestures at him, and Alastor tilts his head, wondering where his new friend is going with all of this, "You! The big, scary Radio Demon! No one's going to say anything about what you wear." 

"And they won't say anything about what you wear, either, my dear! Not if they want to keep all of their limbs. So choose whatever you like." 

Alastor sees his eyes linger on the blue pinstripe suit with its flared coattails and shoulder pads. It certainly isn't to Alastor's taste or style, but this isn't about him. This is about what Vox wants and breaking decades of ingrained programming about what he can and cannot wear as an omega. 

"Go on, try it on," Alastor says from where he's settled on a bench. Vox's eyes widen, and he shakes his head, going for a much more conservative button-up with a high collar. Alastor sighs. This may be more of a challenge than he'd anticipated. While Vox is distracted, he plucks the blue suit off the shelf and adds it to Vox's pile while he isn't looking. 

Vox is still filtering about the dressing room, too anxious to step out and show the world what he looks like. Alastor sighs, debating whether a challenge or coaxing will be more effective in luring the other demon out. He settles on words of encouragement, while he had no problem throwing off society's expectations even in life, he has a sense that Vox, despite his streak for violence, may have spent his life in a gilded cage. He is ever so curious what the other omega had done to fall to Hell. An intriguing mystery for a later time. 

"Vox, dear, we haven't got all day. Now, why don't you come out and show off your smile?" 

There's more shuffling and some mumbled cursing from behind the red curtain. "I can't." 

"Why ever not?"

"I know I look stupid," the television says, his red eyes cast downward and his screen dim as he steps out. The suit is rather well fitted already, and the only places Alastor can see that may need to be taken in are the shoulders as Vox is rather petite. The blue pinstripes match Vox's screen rather well; only one obvious thing is missing. 

"You look perfectly handsome, my dear." Vox's face tinges purple at the praise. 

A small nervous smile lights up Vox's screen quite literally, "You think so?" 

"Of course, there's only one thing that would make it better," Alastor stands, grabs a red bowtie very similar to his off the table, and walks over to Vox. With deft hands, he laces the tie around his neck and pulls the bow into existence, straightening it, "Look, now it's perfect!" 

Vox looks at the outfit in the mirror with wonder, like he's seen the world in a whole new light. He does a little spin, and the coat tails rustle. "It doesn't flare out at all."  

"Yes, much different than a dress or an omega suit. Now try on the rest. You have a whole wardrobe to put together!" Alastor shoos him back towards the dressing room with an easy grin. 

They leave the shop with three perfectly tailored suits,  not a single skirt in sight, and a soft smile on the silly Picture Box's screen. 

"Come on, dear, big day ahead of us!" Alastor calls from the doorway, his fingers tapping impatiently on his microphone as he waits for Vox. His Picture Box really could stand to be more of an early riser. 

Alastor raises an eye as he sees Vox come down the steps in his favorite blue pinstriped suit. Personally, Alastor would have picked something a little darker or more red to wear for today, making it easier to clean the bloodstains off, but who was he to judge if Vox wanted to look dapper for their first hunt? It was a momentous occasion! They would have to celebrate with champagne after the sinner was processed and ready for dinner. 

As always, Alastor loops his arm around Vox's so his Picture Box doesn't get lost, and he portals them across the pentagram to the Doomsday District. The alphas were always much bulkier here; with all their running and fighting, it was much more muscle mass for much less work. 

An explosion flashes behind them, and Vox jumps at the sound, gluing himself closer to Alastor's side. Alastor hums and sniffs the air. The tangy smell of blood permeates everything, even overriding the musky scent of a few rutting alphas. 

Ah, nothing quite like the smell of violence in the morning. A jazzy number swings to life from his microphone.  

"Alastor, where are we? I thought you said we were going hunting." Vox is looking uncertainly around them, "I was expecting a lot more trees." 

"Yes, we are going hunting for some alphas." 

" Alphas! I thought you said you didn't do sex ." Vox's voice jumps up an octave as he whispers the last word, like a scandalized schoolgirl. Alastor grins in delight at Vox's confusion. Oh, his sweet Picture Box.  

"Quite right you are. It's not that kind of hunting, think of the other kind only with fewer guns and more claws," Alastor says jovially, pulling Vox along until he sees the first sign of movement. His ears flicker as the scent grows stronger. One alpha all by himself, recently wounded. Easy pickings! "Look, I've found dinner!" 

Alastor twists his neck around one hundred and eighty degrees with a crack. The alpha that thought he was sneaking up on them freezes in place. He's a lizard sinner with bright orange and yellow scales. Very eye-catching, as was the scent he was now trying to overpower them with. Licorice. How perfectly awful. 

"What are two omegas like you doing in a place like this?" The alpha grinned sharply. 

Hmm, Alastor hadn't gotten to experiment much with reptilian sinners. Many of them kept closer to Zeezi's territory, and picking off another Overlord's claimed souls was considered poor taste. He would have to try some of his Mother's gator recipes and see if they would work with lizards. 

"Oh, merely doing some light hunting," Alastor says cheerily. 

The lizard sinner's grin falters, rolling into confusion, "Hunting?"

Alastor uncoils himself from Vox's clinginess and splays out his claws. Letting his grin and antlers grow, " Hunting. " He repeats. Alastor shifts into a shadow, racing forward and reforming to plunge his hand into the other sinner's chest.

He holds the sinner's still beating heart, appreciating the delicious waves of fear that roll off the other sinner. His licorice scent turns bitter and ashy as he dies. 

Alastor pulls his hand back with a squelch, taking the heart with him as rib bones crack to make way. The lizard sinner remains standing frozen for a few minutes longer before his eyes grow dark and he crashes to the ground. 

The heart is still warm in his hands and Alastor hums to himself as he places it in a sack as a treat for later. Hearts were always particularly delicious if cooked right. Alastor licks his hand, cleaning the blood off as he turns back to Vox. 

"One down! I think we'll only need a few more! I know I was a bit hasty with this one, but you can take care of the next one." 

"These are other sinners," Vox says, looking over at the dead body in shell shock. His signal and scent fluctuated wildly. 

"Yes, they are!" 

"Have we been eating people?" Vox asks, horrified. 

"We live in Cannibal Town, my dear," Alastor responds, uncertain about where his friend's unease was coming from. 

"Yes, but I thought that was just to keep with the theme of hell, not that everyone was a cannibal," Vox flushes, and Alastor can't help but chuckle at the naivete. "Shut up! You never explained how Hell's geography worked!" 

"To answer your original question, my dear, I have been eating people. You have been eating a variety of hellish creatures." 

"Oh, oh, that's good. I don't know what… that's really good," Vox's signal eases back out, and his smell returns to ozone.  

"Of course, if you want to try a bite," Alastor offers the bag with the heart. Vox vigorously shakes his head no. 

"No, thank you, I think I'm good. Please don't make me eat that." 

"Don't worry, I won't force you to partake." Alastor chuckles. More for him, "Would you be a good helper and give me a hand to lift this fellow. We need to hang him up to drain; coagulated blood is dreadful!" 

Vox fidgets beside him as Alastor raps twice in quick succession on Rosie's front door. He's wearing the lovely dark pinstripe suit with the navy vest, and he keeps playing with his cufflinks. Alastor's permanent grin twitches higher; he knew Vox would love it even if he was skittish about the initial purchase. 

Alastor relaxes, resting his hands on the top of his microphone. He picks up the rhythmic clicking of heels on hardwood as Rosie comes to the door. It opens with a small creak, and the warm, heady scent of slightly rotten roses washes out over the porch. His nose flares at the familiar alpha scent, and he leans forward, pressing a kiss to her cheek. 

"Rosie, how lovely to see you, my dear! You look quite well today."

"Alastor, you flatterer!" Rosie says with a laugh as she slaps his shoulder, "Come in, come in! And who is this fine fellow?" Her black eyes snap to Vox, who is halfway to hiding behind him. 

Alastor steps to the side, making his Picture Box come front and center for Rosie's inspection. Alastor raises his head proudly as he looks over the other omega before wrapping a reassuring arm around his shoulders when he notices his scent turns more salty than usual. "This is Vox!" 

"Oh, Alastor, how have you managed to keep such a charming thing all to yourself?" Rosie asks, covering what he knows to be a grin behind her hand. Alastor tolerates her teasing as she eyes Vox up and down. 

"So how long have you been down here, hun? You're still smelling a little fresh." 

"A few months. I've been staying with Alastor since the first couple of weeks." 

"Alastor, you dog!"  

"Yes, Rosie, we have much to catch up on, including my new omega friend. But I do believe that's a better conversation to have inside, perhaps over some tea?" He offers as he pushes Rosie back into her home; she rarely gets this excitable. Vox is trailing along behind them like a puppy. 

"Of course, of course, why I was just so surprised I forgot my manners! What kind of tea do you take, Vox?"

"Uh, Earl Grey?" He asks uncertainly, his antenna sparking as he glances at Alastor for reassurance. Alastor hums but keeps moving to the side to ensure Vox can't hide behind him like a child trying to duck behind his mother's skirts. 

"Yes, I have some. Alastor, the usual?" 

He nods and leads Vox to the parlor while Rosie heads to the kitchen. A few minutes later, she returns with a tray containing three teacups and some thumb cookies. 

Rosie places a cup with deep brown tea in front of Vox before placing a cup filled with red liquid in front of Alastor. Oh, there was nothing quite like blood orange blossom tea. 

Vox glances questioningly at him before returning to the tray with the finger cookies: "Is this...?"

"It's perfectly vegetarian, my dear," Alastor reassures and Vox reaches a hand out and delicately takes a cookie between his blue claws and begins to nibble at it. He truly should try to cut back on his sweet tooth; then again, with his head, who knows if it was possible for a Picture Box to get cavities? 

"Why, I could just eat you up?" Rosie coos as she watches Vox. Alastor feels his hackles rise and his ears go back, pinned against his hair. 

"There will be none of that," Alastor bites out. Vox was his and he had no intention of sharing with anyone, not even Rosie. Rosie raises an eyebrow at him as she sips her tea. "Why Vox is against cannibalism!" Alastor redirects his behavior into a joke. 

His old friend gives him a discerning look, and Alastor knows he will be in for a game of twenty questions when he's next alone with her. For now, Vox's presence prevents an interrogation. Perhaps he will invite Vox to continue to join them and avoid the questioning altogether. 

"Against cannibalism? Such a shame, I'm surprised Alastor would take you home if you're so against the lifestyle." 

Vox flushes and looks down into his cup. "I only learned about that recently, " he mutters. 

Alastor cackles. That had been a delightful hunt, but Vox's naivety had only added to the entertainment. "I'm afraid my Picture Box friend, as charming as he is, is still a bit too innocent."

"Hey! It's not my fault. That's never a question I thought to ask anyone before." 

"My friend here thought your lovely town was named only to keep within the theme of hell."

Vox's screen floods with soft crackling static as Rosie joins in the laughter. "No—that's— I," Vox tries to defend himself before slinking down in his seat and crossing his arms to pout like a child. Alastor supposes Vox has had enough teasing for the moment; he doesn't want him to overheat and make himself faint. 

"It's quite all right, dear. We meant nothing by it. I know you are quite fearsome in your own way." Alastor reaches over and pats Vox lightly on the shoulder, letting his sweeter scent roll off of him to calm the other omega. The instant Vox breathed it in, the static lessens, though his pout only shrank marginally. 

"So, tell me what a sweet thing like you did to end up down here? It's rare we get omegas." Rosie asks with a glint for gossip in her eye, her eyes lingering on where Alastor touched Vox. 

Vox frowns into his teacup, "But Alastor is down here too."

"And I'm quite glad for his company, but he killed thirty-two—"

"Thirty-five actually," Alastor chimes in. 

"Oh, apologies, I always mix the numbers up, thirty-five alphas and betas, to make his way along down here. So what got you sent off to the eternal flames?" 

Alastor's ears perk up at this topic. During their time together, Vox had said many things about how he worked as a secretary. Eventually, he was a news anchor in a studio, but he'd never mentioned his sins or death. Alastor always loved to hear death stories! 

Vox grumbles something into the tablecloth before he sits up, "I… may have locked the doors and lit the studio on fire with all of the executives and lead actors in the building."

Alastor raises his eyebrows. That was quite an extreme reaction for his otherwise cautious and level-headed friend. 

"Oh my," Rosie says, covering her smile. 

"They deserved it!" 

"I'm sure they did, my dear, but whatever did they do?"

Vox's mouth twists into an angry grimace, "The producer tried to get me to sleep with him. Said it was the only way I would ever make it and become the next hot thing, that I wasn't pretty or smart enough to do it on my own when I did all of their jobs. They passed me by again and tried to give my news spot to this alpha upstart straight out of college. He still had his fucking pup fat; he looked like he could barely spring a knot." Vox gnashed his teeth together on his screen. The wound to Vox's pride had not healed with his death. Not that Alastor blamed him. Why, Vox's actions seemed entirely reasonable to him. Alastor would have done it differently, adding more bloodshed, but the end result would have been the same. 

Art by Shiveagit

"Hah, you certainly showed them the next hot thing," Alastor chuckles. 

"Exactly." Vox says, showing his wide, shark-like grin, "And if I find any of them joined me down here, I wouldn't be opposed to showing them again." 

Vindictive. Alastor felt his heart speed up; he quite liked that in a friend. 

"Well, with a story like that, you'll certainly fit right in down here in Cannibal Town. Why, half of the omegas in my part of town ate their husbands to get out of a bad marriage!" 

Vox's screen dims, and he looks a bit peckish at the comment. For a moment, Alastor thinks he might say something rude about their lifestyle, but instead he says, "Well, who wouldn't? No body, no crime, right? I hope they didn't get sick from the taste of bad meat." 

Rosie chuckles and Alastor relaxes. This was going swimmingly. The conversation drifts after that as they nibble at their cookies and sip their tea. Vox is his usual charming self and the afternoon passes pleasantly. 

As the red sun begins to set below the Pentagram, Alastor stands, brushing crumbs off his suit. "Thank you for the lovely company as always, my dear, but I'm afraid Vox and I had best be off. It's nearly dinner time." Vox follows his lead and rises, politely pushing his chair in. 

"Oh, would you look at the time?" Rosie says, glancing at the clock. Well, let me get you a good cut of thigh before you go. It's fresh, and I know you'll love it! I can't let you go home empty-handed." 

"That sounds lovely, Rosie." 

Rosie smiles at him before bustling off to the kitchen and coming back with a brown paper parcel tied neatly with a white thread. She shows them both to the door. "Lovely meeting you, Vox. You let me know if Ol' Alastor here gives you a hard time."

"Oh, he would never," Vox says, his antenna bobbing as he shakes his head. 

Rosie laughs, "Well, you just let me know if that changes, hon. " She pats him on the shoulder before turning to give Alastor a quick hug. She gives him a quick squeeze and whispers into his ear, "Now, Alastor, take good care of your omega."

"Of course I will, was that ever in doubt-" he pauses as Rosie's eyes sparkle. She gives him a wide grin like a cat that got the canary as he registers Rosie's exact words. 

Oh. That is not what he meant! Vox is— Alastor opens his mouth to correct her, but she's already pushing him out the door. 

"Now, don't be strangers, Alastor. I won't have you keeping Vox all to yourself and depriving me of some lovely company." 

"I'm thinking about getting a job." Vox declares over breakfast one morning. 

Alastor’s ears twitch as he looks up from his paper. “Whatever for?” 

Vox still had a lot to learn about Hell. He was also an unmated omega, which presented unique dangers. Alastor isn't sure he likes this development. 

“To do something! To learn the ropes. I had a job when I was alive even if it was shitty. Why shouldn’t I  get one down here?”

Alastor blinks slowly. Not sure he’s fully understanding. “Why ever would you want one, when you can do as you please?” 

“You have a radio show,” Vox points out. 

“That’s pleasure, hardly work at all,” Alastor says, lowering the paper and giving Vox his full attention. 

“Maybe I want to find some pleasure too,” Vox says as he taps his claws on the tablecloth. Ah, well Alastor can’t argue with that. He’d lived a life excess and delighted in his own style of depravity and bloodlust. 

“If you think something as menial as a job will give you that,” Alastor dismisses and returns to his paper. The idea itches at him all day. Why would one want to spend eternity working for anyone? Alastor couldn't even begin to fathom. It's not that he didn't provide for his little Picture Box quite well. But alas, if Vox spent any more time pacing Alastor's house, he would wear through the floorboards, so when Vox finally stepped out in the afternoon, Alastor couldn't dull his shine, and off Vox went in his suit. 

Was Alastor nervous? Of course not! He didn't spend an extra half hour at home in case Vox returned a nervous wreck from his first outing in Hell alone since Alastor found him. That would be ridiculous! Nonsensical, especially since Alastor slipped his personified shadow into Vox's on the way out the door. 

Alastor had far better things to do as he made his list of favors and checked it twice. It was the time of year when Alastor would check on his contracts. It never was wise to let his contractees out with too long a leash. When left on their own for too long sinners tended to get ideas and why that was far too messy. It was never fun to add a soul he already owned to his broadcasts; that was just tacky! 

Still, soul business was rather private between an Overlord and their thralls. So it was for the best; Vox was distracted by his job hunt, and Alastor would leave him alone. Well, mostly alone, one could never be too careful in Hell after all! 

His afternoon moved quickly after that; he portalled to the first name on his list and most of them cowered and gave him his due when he asked, or he passed on a reminder with a smile that had them smelling of wondrous fear. Alastor could disappear into the shadows and go on to his next victim appointment. He was making good time; if he managed to keep up this speed, he would only have three more days of visits, practically a new record for how many souls he now had at his beck and call. 

Alastor scratched another name off his list and was about to enter the shadows when he felt a definite tug in his chest. Alastor froze, his ears flicking up, alert as the sensation pulled again. He feels a flicker of urgency in his bond with Shadow. That was unusual and could mean nothing good. 

He narrows his red eyes. What had Vox managed to get himself into this time? 

"I'm afraid, I'll have to cut our business short, my friend," Alastor says with a false sense of joviality as he stands smoothing out his suit, while the centipede sinner in front of him shakes. 

Alastor allows himself to fade into the shadows following the familiar pull of his doppelganger as he pops out into an alley on the outskirts of Cannibal Town. While the shadow and him were connected, he couldn't pick up on more than the briefest sensations when his shadow was so far from him. It was a useful spy, but more detailed information would have to wait until they merged back together. 

He frowns. Vox certainly hadn't made it far in his search for a job, but Cannibal Town was perfectly safe for Vox. After all, he was friends with both Rosie and the Radio Demon himself. The sinners of Cannibal Town were far too polite to pose a risk to Vox. 

He felt the pull on his chest again and he follows it. He finds Vox pinned up to the wall hissing and kicking at a sinner that appeared to be made of rubber tires. Ah, that would pose a problem for his friend, and likely give Alastor indigestion. Alastor registers another sinner in a tacky Union Jack suit snickering. Clearly, they were not locals. 

"Well, well, well, this looks like quite the quagmire whatever is happening here, pal?" His pupils spread and his antlers grow, his neck cracking and bending unnaturally under their weight. 

Teaching Vox self-defense would be at the top of his list as soon as he returned home. Obviously, Vox couldn't be trusted not to play the damsel at every given opportunity. Alastor couldn't have all of Hell thinking Vox was easy pickings, not when he'd had to wait nearly thirty years to finally have an omega friend. 

The screams are music to his ears as the tire sinner startles back, dropping Vox in the process as it tries to wheel away. Alastor snarls in response and sends out one of his tentacles to pierce through its thick skin. He watches in approval as the sinner seems to deflate. 

"Radio shit!" Says the other troublemaker, dressed in perfectly gaudy clothing. England’s flag is stencilled over a truly awful white jumpsuit. A flat guitar that's been mangled without its base to resonate with is thrown over his shoulder, and scratches along its bridge are scratched, showing that the care is far from present on the poor instrument. 

"That's no way to treat an instrument," Alastor chastises. The sinner scoffs and hikes the guitar off his shoulder, holding it like an axe. 

"Well, since you like singing so much, I'll have to have you on my show." With a swish of his hand, the poor soul drops into a writhing mass of shadows. Alastor inspects his work with a smile before moving closer to his housemate. "Vox, must I always come to your rescue?" Alastor asks with a sigh. 

Vox's screen dims and he looks down embarrassed, his blue claws rubbing the elbows of his sweater. "They caught me off guard. I wasn’t ready for rubber. How did you know I needed help anyway?" 

"I had suspicions about leaving you on your own." Alastor snaps his finger and his shadow peels off from Vox's, giving Vox a smile and a little wave. "Surely you've noticed him around the house before." 

"I thought I was seeing things. Sentient shadow isn't typically the conclusion you jump to!" Vox says, a bit frazzled, as the shadow winds its way around him, trilling happily and rubbing its face into his screen. Vox flushes purple, and his screen fills with static. 

" Behave ," Alastor says pointedly. His shadow chitters at him and leans closer to Vox. Alastor rolls his eyes and focuses on the two sinners he can feel fleeing in terror in his portal. He hadn’t damaged either of them too badly, nothing that should regenerate in a few hours, which gives Alastor plenty of time to write some jokes at their expense and make an appropriate musical selection to go with his baritone. 

Perhaps the day wouldn't be a complete wash after all. Alastor hums and snaps his fingers to create a portal. He steps closer and has one hoof inside, only to notice that Vox wasn't following. 

"Come now, I have a show to broadcast, and I'm sure you'll want front-row seats!"

"A show?" Vox asks as Alastor steps closer and loops their arms together, kicking the moaning soon-to-be dead sinner that moans from inside the portal before stepping through. 

"A broadcast! Surely you've heard the titillating soundwaves from the radios all across Hell!"  

"I've heard your radio show before, you play lots of Ella Fitzgerald." 

"Why, it's her right! She's one of the greats!" Vox's response doesn't truly answer what Alastor is most concerned about from his house guest, but Vox had taken the cannibalism in stride, so surely this wouldn't be a bridge too far. 

Alastor portals Vox back to their house, letting his shadow take away tonight's guest stars and get him situated at the studio. He has half a mind to bring Vox along and let him watch the show live… but, well, a man did need his own space, and Alastor had never let another soul leave his station. Perhaps… perhaps he might bring Vox along in a few decades, but now it was too soon to let Vox so close. 

Alastor adjusts the dials on the cathedral radio in the parlor. Vox wraps himself up in the knitted throw blanket on the couch, looking quite cozy. Alastor's ear flicks, and part of him wants to join Vox. To curl into his soft static and ozone scent. Alastor clamps the instinctive omega down, ignoring it as he opens a portal, "Now, do be sure to tell me what you think, Vox. I want to hear all about it when I get back." 

Vox murmurs an affirmation over his tea mug and Alastor steps into the darkness. His mind was already refocusing on which knife would be best for the evening's entertainment. 

Alastor carefully tunes into the familiar frequency of his personal radio and feels for Vox's warm buzzing nearby. There he is. The electronic waves emanating from him are calm as ever. It makes Alastor's grin widen as he leans over his victim and flays his skin down to the bone. The screaming is so delicious as it broadcasts to all of Pride. 

Alastor feels Vox lean in closer to the radio instead of flinching back in fear. His Picture Box was too perfect. 

Vox is fidgeting in his seat at the bar; he keeps glancing up around the room and glaring whenever he finds an alpha looking at them. Normally, Alastor would be amused at the oddly aggressive behavior, but his Picture Box has been in a particularly sulky mood for the last several days, and this outing has clearly done nothing for his mood. When the beta waiter comes back around to refill their glasses, Vox hisses at him.  

"That's quite enough of that," Alastor says, using his shadow to pin Vox to his side of the bench before he can snap his teeth at the waiter. Vox's right eye swirls in a black and red pattern. The waiter warily replaces their empty whiskey glasses before quickly scurrying away as fast as he can.  

"Let me go," Vox begins to twist, fighting against his shadow. Alastor frowns and lets out a displeased hiss that instantly has Vox stilling before he lets out a low keening whimper. It's so out of character for Vox that Alastor damn near chokes on his drink as every alpha in the bar swivels towards them. 

Alastor lets his rotten scent roll out around the bar, increasing his crackle of static to show he's displeased as any alpha with two brain cells quickly realizes their life is forfeit if they think about approaching the pair of omegas in the corner booth. Then Alastor raises his nose and sniffs the humid, smoke-filled air, leaning closer to Vox to get a read of his scent. It smells strongly of ozone and the ocean, Vox's usual scent, but a hint of unusual sweetness was buried under all of that. It rather reminded him of salt water taffy. 

"Vox, my dear, I believe you are in pre-heat." 

Vox blanches, "No, there's no way." 

"Have you had a heat since falling to hell?" 

"No… but I thought that didn't happen down here. It's not like we can have kids and you haven't had a heat either." Vox says his eyes grow wide in horror as he clutches onto the not-quite-nothingness of shadow like a lifeline. 

Alastor's ears twitch and his smile strains, "I assure you it does. I am a deer sinner. I only have one season a year; it seems you are not so lucky."

Vox's screen pales to grey and then fills with snowy interference. "What do you mean?" 

"It means we shall have to see if you are the type of sinner who gets biannual, triannual, or quarterly heats. I'm afraid Lucifer has never bothered to write a rulebook on how it works down here, so it is very much a play-it-by-ear learning curve."  

Vox lets out an unhappy moan and Alastor can sympathize. He stands from his half of the booth and slides in next to Vox, pleased to smell his scent sweeten as he calms. He releases the order for his shadow to hold Vox in place. The dark figure curls comfortingly around Vox, letting out little trills, "Now, now, my dear, no need for that, it's perfectly natural. But I do believe we should go home, unless you would fancy one last hunt before your cycle."

Vox shakes his head and Alastor sighs as his shadow expands, engulfing them both. That was something they would have to work on. There was no easier or more satisfying hunt than before a heat. The prey practically threw itself on the ground, but that was something he would have to teach Vox later. For now, he needs to make sure his Picture Box feels safe, tucked away in his nest. 

As soon as they get home, Alastor takes Vox to the linen closet and tells him to take what he needs. Vox runs his claws across the fabric before he pulls the softest ones out, scenting each one carefully before adding it to his collection of selected nesting materials. Soon, he has a small pile and a few pillows scattered on the wooden floor around him. Vox will need to move it all to his room because while Alastor may be a bit untraditional, he draws the line at allowing a nest in the hallway. 

"Can I…" Vox mumbles awkwardly as he glances at the closet and then at Alastor. 

"I'm afraid you'll have to speak up, my dear." 

Vox fidgets, his claws clicking together as he weaves his fingers together. "Can I have one of your shirts to add to my nest?" Vox's screen fades slightly into a light purple and Alastor can hear some electronic contraption click on and buzz in his boxy head.  

Alastor tilts his head to the side and watches Vox fidget. His scent spreads down the hall as he rocks the blankets still in his hand. Alastor is much more in the habit of taking others' clothes to add to his nest than providing them. Except Vox, he has no other omega friends, so it's never come up before. He may not have a pack exactly, but he does appreciate Niffty's calm beta scent, Mimzy's spicy cinnamon smell, especially outrageous for a beta, and Rosie's floral alpha scent when he is going through his season. 

He scrutinizes Vox and his wide hopeful red eyes, but he doesn't particularly like the idea of Vox defiling something of his in his hormone-lauded debauchery. He can understand the need for familiar scents; outside of himself, Vox has no regular hellish contacts. It wasn't something Alastor had considered a problem before, but it is something they will need to rectify for the future. 

Alastor peels off his favorite red jacket and hands it over. Vox clutches it to his chest like it's the most precious treasure in the underworld. 

If you didn't count the pre-heat—and Alastor certainly didn't—Vox's heat lasted three days. It was about standard for most sinners, Alastor's, of course, lasted closer to ten days, but he was lucky enough only to have to deal with that particular facet of his biology once a year. 

Vox comes out of his nest looking worse for wear. His screen is dimmer than usual, and his clothes are rumpled. He's dressed down to only a blue button-up and a pair of slacks, not even a tie in sight.  He sits at the table, and Alastor sets a steaming mug of more sugar than coffee in front of him. 

The other omega mumbles his thanks, takes a sip and purrs happily into his coffee. Alastor chuckles. His heat may be over, but his scent is still a touch sweeter than usual, and his hormones are still obviously impacted. Alastor records the sound. It is a nice purr, and one can never have too many sounds in one's basket as a radio host, after all. 

The coffee wakes Vox up, and his pupils seem to sharpen. After he finishes the cup and Alastor places a plate full of eggs in front of him, and Vox asks, "Where do you get suppressants down here?" 

"Pardon?" A screech of a record fills the air as Alastor turns his full attention to his Picture Box. 

Vox rocks back against his chair, letting out a low whimper, he quickly clamps down. "You know heat suppressants, they cut down on the hormones, stop heats, and make everything more bearable." Vox waves his hand, then his eyes widen. "There were suppressants around when you were alive, right?"

Alastor sets a claw under Vox's screen and tilts his screen up. "Those vile things that dull the senses. Whatever could you want with those?"  

"I want never to have to go through that again. It was like someone took my presentation heat and decided to make it a hundred times worse." Vox says flatly. 

"I wouldn't recommend them," Alastor says through gritted teeth. Terrible, absolutely terrible things. It felt like subjecting yourself to a constant ice bath, not to mention what they did to his hunger. He'd once eaten five sinners in one sitting after trying one of those pills in Hell for the first time.  

"Why not?" Vox's red eyes narrow, "You're not one of those naturalist omegas, right?"

Alastor waved a claw, "I wouldn't classify myself as such, but this is Hell, my dear, and so naturally suppressants have side effects." 

Vox frowns, "Like what?"

"They suppress the hormones and scents, but they also suppress an omega's innate magic and abilities. Things like your little trick with the alpha voice. Now that may be fine for a bulky sinner that can simply stab their way out of danger, but not for those sinners more like us that use our wits and innate abilities. It isn't ideal to be missing a trick." 

Vox grimaced, chewing on the new information, "How much suppression are we talking about? Have you tried them?"

Alastor's grin fell but didn't disappear. The suppressants had been one of his worst decisions in Hell, second only to the selling of his soul. "Why, I took them only once in my first decade. I was already an Overlord with hundreds of souls under my control. For a whole month, why I could only summon my shadow, for you, my dear, I think you wouldn't so much as spark." 

Vox's face twists into a grimace as he runs one of his hands down his screen. " Fuuccck ," Vox whines out. 

Alastor nods in commiseration. Being an omega was its own unique punishment even in Hell. "Well, we can only hope you're a lucky fellow like me with only one heat a year." 

"Yeah," Vox says, not sounding convinced as he lifts his coffee mug, "Here's to hoping." 

Alastor has to keep his concentration on his tail, or else it would wag vigorously under his tailcoat at the prospects for this evening. It's been a long time coming. Mimzy is ever so free-spirited though, and Alastor didn't want to bring Vox along until he was certain Mimzy wasn't stirring up trouble. 

Mimzy was like a hurricane and predicting her was a skillset Alastor had honed across two lifetimes. The secret was knowing where she was in her cycle of trouble, and she was. Alastor had run into her not two weeks before and dealt with some rather unsavory sinners on her behalf. Now there was plenty of time before she fell into a new batch of trouble. 

It meant tonight was the perfect time to introduce Vox to Mimzy. The beta woman was a delight, and he's sure Vox will adore her! 

"So this is your beau, Alastor?" Mimzy asks, leaning over her glass of rye, giving a clear view of her plump and rather exposed bosom. Alastor supposes the position is intended to be seductive to alphas.  He can't fault a hunter for their strategies. 

Alastor's nose crinkles slightly at the term. Beau implied so much messiness. Nothing was messy or so filled with those tedious expectations with Vox. "Beau? No, Mimzy, this is my Vox. He's a delight," 

"Huh, guess he does look a lil funny. Is that why you keep him around?" Mimzy gives Vox an appraising once-over. Her eyes linger on his screen. 

"Why Vox is a riot. Just wait until we get a few glasses of giggle juice in him," Alastor wraps an arm around Vox's shoulders, pulling him closer. "Vox, Mimzy," he gestures at his friend,  "Mimzy, Vox. Now you two acquaint yourselves, and I'll gather the drinks!" Alastor trots happily to the bar, leaving his two good friends to get acquainted. 

Vox stares at Alastor's tailcoat as he leaves him to fend for himself. He isn't sure what to make of the plump blonde beta woman. Her form was still rather human for a sinner, if you overlooked her dark eyes and sharp teeth. Vox fidgets his fingers against his pants, trying to decide what to say. Mimzy beats him to it. 

"So, you're his type, huh? I always did wonder if he was a poof. I mean, you'd gotta be ta not want a handful of this," Mimzy gives her chest a firm squeeze and shimmies suggestively. "Still, shame he never let me have a taste." 

Vox feels the electricity spark between his antennas, not liking a single word that the blond uttered.

"Pardon?" Vox asks stiffly. In his time in Hell, he found that it's better to lean on his politeness than outright violence, unless you were Alastor, who somehow managed to do both simultaneously. But Vox couldn't even pretend that was his style.  

"You heard me," Mimzy said with a big sigh as she threw herself into the chair next to Vox. Far too close for his liking. "So tell me what’s ol' Al is like in bed. I bet he's a right minx." 

Vox's face stutters at that. He's never even thought of Alastor like that. Omegas don't do that with each other! His screen flips to please standby, and he has to bang his hand to get it to clear. When his eyesight comes back online, Mimizy has leaned into his space and is watching his distress in fascination. She has one finger tapping his screen. Vox doesn't hesitate to let a spark find its way to her skin. 

"Ywooch!" Mimzy screeches as she yanks her hand back, rubbing at the red skin. Her eyes still lingered on his face. "So, you play picture shows on that thing?" 

Vox rolls his eyes at her, his goodwill long since run out. "No, it's my face." 

"Sure, ain't pretty. Bet that makes getting an alpha hard for you, that why you settled for Al?" 

Vox seriously considers electrocuting her. All it would take is reaching his hand out and letting out a steady stream of electricity. Sure, he's never done it on purpose, but for Mimzy, he would find a way. 

"I did not settle. It's not like that," he hisses. His scent sours and there's faint pleasure in his chest when Mimzy recoils, "I bet you're just jealous. What you tried to mooch off Al, thinking he'd be an easy mark, and it didn't go your way?" 

Mimzy scowls. "Yeah, and what's your secret, jigglo? You sure are a stick in the mud. I can't imagine Al keeps you around for fun. You that good in bed?" 

Before Vox can vault himself across the table and claw out the blonde sinner's eyes, Alastor is between them, humming along with the club music as he lays three glasses and three bottles of bourbon on the table. Vox blinks. Wasn't that a bit much? 

"Mimzy, I got your favorite!" Alastor calls and Mimzy instantly straightens up, wiping her face into a pleasant grin.

"You're always such a sweetie. You know how to treat a girl right!" 

Vox glares at her pointed comment. "Cow," he mutters under his breath. As Mimzy turns and gives Alastor a simpering smile, and starts on a bit of gossip that Vox couldn't care less about, but has Alastor cackling. Vox turns to his glass and pours himself a healthy dose of bourbon. He might need that whole bottle and then some to make it through this night.

It doesn't take long for Vox to zone out of the conversation. He doesn't know most of the people Al or Mimzy are talking about, and it's irritating to see the two catching up like fast friends. It's much better to guard his drink and watch the dancers tearing up the floor. 

"Dance with me, Al," Mimzy says. She's had more drinks than Vox can count in, and Alastor has matched her drink for drink, but she looks just a bit rosy in her cheeks. Alastor looks downright wobbly. His ears relax and his eyes are half lidded as he rests his hands and listens to Mimzy's stories with far more interest than she deserves. His ears perk up at the suggestion.

"I'm not sure that's the best—" Vox starts. 

"Oh, can it, boxhead! Al can dance if he wants ta, can't ya Al?" Mimzy simpers, fluttering her eyelashes at him as she leans into Alastor's side. Vox stifles a hiss as his scent flares in irritation. He wishes he could reach out a hand and yank Alastor away. 

"Yes, we can dance!" Al slurs out, stumbling to his feet like a fawn walking for the first time. Vox is actually impressed that Alastor is standing, but then he gets on the dancefloor, and it's like he has wings. Mimzy twirls around the floor with him. She focuses on the smooth, graceful motions Alastor leads them through. But that doesn't stop her from shooting Vox smirks between their songs. 

Vox is on his feet and storming towards the dance floor before he recognizes what he's doing. He doesn't even wait for the song to finish once Alastor swings Mimzy out into a set of twirls and releases her, Vox steps in, taking Alastor's warm hand. 

"Mind if I cut in?" He whispers with a grin, not missing Mimzy's scoff behind him. 

Alastor tilts his head back and laughs, "Only if you can keep up, my dear." Then they're off. It takes all of Vox's experience, dance lessons, and focus to keep up. Alastor is a natural dancer, and Vox admittedly did much more waltzing when he was alive than swing, let alone the free-flowing moves Alastor is doing as he leads them around the dance floor. 

Still, Vox doesn't step on his toes or fall as he follows Alastor's lead and even manages to put his own flourishes as he gets used to Alastor's chaotic style. He isn't sure how long they dance, just that he's panting and laughing when Alastor eventually slows them down. Alastor curls his head against Vox's chest, his ears tickling the bottom of Vox's screen. Alastor's sweet scent rises around them, and they rock to the rhythm of the jazz. 

"Picture Box," Alastor says, scandalized. Vox wilts, unsure what Alastor didn't find passable about his dancing, afraid he would go back with Mimzy. 

"What's wrong?" Vox rushes out worriedly. 

Alastor's red eyes look up at him." You never told me you could cut a rug", Vox laughs as their next turn around the room leaves Vox panting and Alastor shaking with laughter. He leans his chest fully into Vox's and repositions his head to rest against Vox's shoulder as the jazz continues soft and slow. 

"I'm a man of many talents." Vox smiles as he spins Alastor again, catching a glimpse of Mimzy standing alone, fuming on the edge of the dance floor. The other sinners give them a wide berth, watching enraptured as Vox and Alastor take turns trading the lead. 

Vox is sure Alastor is going to have a bitch of a hangover tomorrow and probably spend the day on the couch whining and biting Vox's head off, but for now, Vox will enjoy the moment and bask in Alastor's presence. 

Art by GoofBerry

Vox is holed up in his room. Alastor noticed the signs a week ago as Vox started smelling like saltwater taffy again. Vox was a bit slower to catch on, but by the time he was stealing the pillows off the couch to add to his room, it was clear he was nesting again. Alastor sighed. It appeared Vox's luck was not nearly as good as his own. 

Alastor flips open the calendar and marks it down. Then he flips it four months ahead and adds another note. Poor Vox was one of those unfortunate sinners with at least three heat cycles in a year. He'll make Vox some soup, and then when he finishes his cycle, they'll have to have a conversation about proper preparation for one's heat in Hell.

Chapter Text

Alastor comes down one morning to find Vox hard at work in the kitchen. Well, that was certainly a development! Vox pushes him over to the table and sets a coffee mug and a yellow blob he assumes are eggs. 

"Why, thank you, my dear." 

Alastor sniffs it before he raises the mug to his lips and takes a tentative sip. His taste buds curl inwards and die from the bitter, burned liquid scorching across his tongue. How was it possible to turn coffee into tar? Who had taught Vox to make coffee? This was its own kind of torture. 

He discreetly spits the liquid out and pushes the mug away, dabbing at his mouth with a napkin. His Mama would be rolling in her grave at him for wasting food, but then again, he wasn't sure that Vox's coffee constituted food, not when it tasted like liquid asphalt. 

Vox sits across from him with his mug, and Alastor is horrified to see him take a long drink and not even grimace. That was rather impressive. 

His Picture Box fidgets, tapping his claws against the table. Anxious static buzzes between his antenna, and his scent turns a tad spicy. Alastor waits for him to overcome his bout of nervousness and put words to whatever is going on in his funny head. When Vox has finished his cup of coffee without a word, Alastor decides he'll have to take the first step. 

"Whatever is on your mind this hellish morning, my dear?"

"Well, it's…" Vox starts before cutting himself off and fidgeting his claws against the table. 

"Cat got your tongue?" Alastor tries again, trying a subtle manipulation of widening his eyes and letting his scent of candied pecans shift to something slightly sweeter. Vox doesn't comment on the change, but he does relax. 

"I want to start a business!" He blurts out in a rush. Alastor blinks; that wasn't what he expected. Vox is still going then. He seems unable to stop now that the floodgates are open. "I've been giving it a lot of thought and I think there's a lot I can do down here.” 

Alastor pauses and looks over. Was this about to be like that job nonsense all over again? “I thought you were perfectly happy working in Franklin’s General Store.” 

“It’s fine. But I can do more! The whole electrical grid is completely wrong. I can't explain why, but every time I go outside, it's like someone glued mismatched plates together to make a dinner set." Alastor didn't comment because he's fairly certain that's exactly what some enterprising sinner had done. "I know I can do it better and then there's television. All that's down here is silent movies."

"I thought you liked silent movies," Alastor says. At least Vox had seemed charmed by them the handful of times they'd watched them at the Cannibal Town Theater. His ears stand on end. This conversation is eerily reminiscent of that conversation all those months ago. But there is more danger for Vox to set out and make himself known than to act under the wing and relative safety of Cannibal Town. 

"I do! They're classic, but there's so much more now. I would love to be able to make the kind of movies they wouldn't let me make when I was alive." Vox's antenna droops at the statement. Alastor doesn't like the forlorn expression on his Picture Box's face, but all the talk of the future on Earth long after he'd died leaves him uneasy. He knows that the world marched on without him. Why, Vox's very appearance was proof of that, but he didn't want to be reminded. As far as he was concerned, radio was and always would be king—the one medium where an omega could project their voice with no one being any wiser. 

"I know I don't know everything about the politics down here yet, but I know the ropes and that should get me started. I can't just keep taking advantage of your kindness and I feel like a housewife!  I can get a few souls and try to branch out, maybe get an office to stay-" 

A shriek of static feedback fills the room, and Alastor's antlers grow. "You want to leave? You think I'm treating you like a frail housewife ?" he growls, not bothering to keep his eyes from flipping to radio dials. 

"N-no!" Vox splutters, "That's not what I said!" 

"Why, I'm hardly preventing you from doing, living your afterlife to the fullest." Alastor snarls, "The one always hiding from the bloodshed like a coward is you. Every time I look away, you're pinned under an alpha in an alley. Or stuck out in the acid rains somewhere without an umbrella like an especially stupid child.  Perhaps you like playing the princess and waiting for me to swoop down and rescue you."

Vox's signal oscillates wildly at that, and there's a fizzing blurt of static from Vox as his face momentarily blinks off his screen. When they come back, they are tugged into a glare. 

" Okay, first of all," Vox says, rising. His antenna spark and his scent sharpens to heavy brine that adds poorly to Hell's naturally sulfurous air. " Fuck you ! I'm not a coward or some damsel. I don't get my rocks off at tracking blood into our perfectly clean house and starting fights everywhere we go." 

Alastor's microphone spits out out-of-tune notes in outrage. "It's my house." He narrows his eyes at the television. And I don't like what you're implying. I can do what I want with my possessions and my time. In fact, I think I would have a great deal more time if I didn't need to look after you!" Alastor hisses, his ears folding back. 

Vox's screen blanks again, this time in a wash of static. He slams his right hand hard against his casing. There's a popping sound and then his face comes back up. His expression is uncharacteristically blank. "Your house, right . Because you think everything here is yours, including me, like some knothead!"

A record scratch fills the air. Had Vox really said that? 

"Pardon? "

Vox stands, leaving his mug half finished on the table. His chair screeches on the tiled floor as he shoves it back. 

"You heard me." Vox grabs his jacket off the coat rack without another word. 

"Vox? Vox! Where are you going?" Vox doesn't answer as he slides his shoes on and opens the door. He slams it closed behind him as he goes. The parlor windows rattled as Vox stormed down the drive and into the cobbled streets. “Fine! But, don’t expect me to come to your rescue when you inevitably get into trouble from your idiotic decisions! In fact, if you’re so certain of yourself, why, you shouldn't even come back until you make your mark on Hell!" Alastor calls, projecting his voice through the airwaves and down the drive into the street. 

Alastor is left sitting still, looking at the steaming mug of coffee in front of him, his ears droop. This was not the way he intended to start the morning, but if Vox chose to throw a temper tantrum, that was on him. It was no skin off of Alastor's nose, why he had been nothing but a perfect host. 

The whole room still smells sour with upset omega hormones. It was no use wallowing; Vox would be back. In the meantime, Alastor will get out, some fresh air, perhaps a visit to Rosie while he waits for Vox to come back and apologize. 

It's been a week, and Alastor has not seen so much as a spark from Vox. His ocean scent is starting to fade from around the house, and more than once, Alastor has found himself sitting in Vox's preferred armchair chasing the familiar smell of salt in the air. 

He refuses. He will not yield. He will not be the first one to falter and search out Vox. But… 

The images come unbidden: Vox’s broken screen, shattered onto the pavement, a soul chain or worse a bite secured on his neck. He shakes his head, shoving the thoughts away. 

That absolute niggling traitorous voice in the back of his head won't let him rest. After rereading the same stanza for the fourth time, Alastor sets down his book and stands pacing towards the window. He looks through the glass and then curses himself when he realizes he's looking for Vox's usual blue suit. 

He curses and forces himself to turn away, stomping to the kitchen, one of his mother's recipes would surely take his mind off this annoying itching feeling under his skin. 

A knock sounds at his front door. Alastor's tail wags. There! He knew Vox would be back. He rushes to the door, nearly tripping as his hooves slide across the hardwood floor. He flings it open as wide, a smile on his face, "Vox—"

Rosie stands on his porch, her arms crossed over her chest and a less than pleased expression on her usually grinning face. "Ah, Rosie, apologies, I was expecting someone else."

"Oh, I'm sure you were." She says curtly. "I was giving you time to come to your senses and deal with this," Rosie says, her mouth a thin line. Alastor's ears droop.

"I'm afraid, I don't know what you're talking about."

Rosie bobs her head, "Uh huh. You wanna explain why I got a little box-headed fellow I found wandering through Cannibal Town 'bout a week ago, sobbing his eyes out?" 

Alastor's ears twitch at that as relief washes over him. Vox was with Rosie. He was safe. Alastor sags into his door frame. "Rosie, my dear, I'm afraid…I may have made a slight error." 

"Well, that's no surprise to me, so are you going to let me in, or are we going to keep standing out here on your porch for the whole neighborhood to hear?" 

Alastor steps aside, waves her inside, and walks her to his parlor. Once she's settled, he makes an excuse to gather tea and snacks for his guest before slinking off to the kitchen. The familiar rhythm of making Rosie's favorite tea calms him, and by the time he comes back out with the tea tray, he's locked his pesky worries away behind his smile. 

"How do I fix this?" He asks as he sets the tray on his inn table. He carefully pours the tea into his fine bone white china and hands Rosie her usual teacup. 

Rosie takes a careful sip, testing the temperature, and leaving him to stew uncomfortably. Alastor has seen her use this tactic with her townspeople often enough. He doesn't appreciate being on the other side of it. 

Finally, Rosie gracefully sets the tea down and looks at him. Her black eyes are serious as she considers the question. "He doesn't like being controlled any more than I'm sure you or any other omega does. What's the harm in letting him try to make his mark down here? You sure do with your broadcasts." 

"That's different. I'm an Overlord! I can't keep him safe when he's out getting himself into trouble." Alastor hisses, his ears flicking back. 

"Oh hogwash, Alastor. I know you. There's no way you would have taken Vox in if he was as frail as all that. You like people with potential. If he were any other type of omega, you would have foisted him off on me the first chance you got. Instead, I had to wait four months to meet him. If I knew you weren't an ace in the hole, I'd say you were worried he might like someone other than you. Worried he might decide to make a little bit more space between you." 

"No," Alastor denies immediately. Vox was getting acclimatized to Hell, but he still wasn't strong enough and didn't even have any soul contracts. 

"Well, I gave you my advice, mister. You want to see your Vox, you're going to have to apologize. It's as simple as that." 

Alastor has never been good at apologizing. In fact, in all his years living and dead, the only two people he can recall ever issuing one to were his Maman and Rosie. So that leaves him rather unpracticed and, for once, at a rare loss of words as he thinks about what he might say to Vox. 

Rosie doesn't even spare him a sympathetic smile as she tells him sternly, "Fix this," before bustling out the front door. 

Fix this indeed! Alastor drums his fingers on the porch railing as he watches her go. Yes, he would have to go see Vox. They most definitely needed to have words, but a brief pitstop before that couldn't hurt anything. No, what he needed for Vox was the perfect gift. Actions spoke louder than words. 

Alastor knocks on the door, rapping twice on the thick wood. He can feel Vox inside his familiar bubbling signal, fluttering about.  Vox swings the door open, blinks twice and then scowls, crossing his arms over his soft orange sweater. Alastor could lean in and bask in the familiar salty smell if he wasn't sure Vox would bite him. For a sinner so particular about cannibalism, he certainly didn’t mind using his teeth. Instead, Alastor clears his throat and tucks his hands behind his back, clutching at a silver key ring. "I've got you something." 

"If you think flowers or tacky shit like that are going to make up for what you said—" Vox starts with a scowl. Alastor thrusts his hands out, shoving the studio keys into Vox's hand. Vox blinks down in confusion. "What's this?" 

Alastor shuffles on his hooves. Why does his chest feel so tight right now? He can feel his heart trying to pound its way out of his chest. He shouldn't be nervous about this! What is there to be nervous about that Vox doesn't return with him? He's lived alone for decades; surely it should be no big concern to return to it. But the thought of returning to his empty house, devoid of Vox's familiar briney scent, makes him bite back a whine. 

"Al?" Vox asks again. 

Alastor clears his throat, and his small smile strains upward. "Why, they're keys, my dear." 

Vox hisses at him, his glare returning and his scent taking on that acidic edge that makes Alastor's nose scrunch in displeasure, "I can see that you ass. What are they for?"

"They're… well, you had mentioned wanting to start a business. I happened across a space and venture that seemed like it could use your expertise. You'll need an office, yes?" 

Vox's eyes grow big and his face fuzzes out for a moment before Vox reaches up and straightens his sparkling antenna. " Oh ," Vox lets out. "For me?"

Alastor smiles fondly at the silly expression, "Well, I certainly don't need an old, run-down power plant to put on a radio show." 

Vox suddenly enters his space, wrapping his arms around him in a tight hug. His scent is sweet, not quite like his heat scent, but still nice. Alastor breathes it in, and his body relaxes, weeks' worth of tensions draining away at a simple touch. He had missed this, the casual intimacy. 

"I thought you didn't want to see me anymore." Vox babbles his screen tucked against Alastor's shoulder. "I missed you." 

The words slip out without consideration as Alastor returns the hug, tugging Vox closer. "I'm sorry, my dear. I missed you too." He gives Vox a moment longer before he straightens up and peels himself out of Vox's grasp. "There's one more key there too," Alastor says, plucking the ring back to show a teary-eyed Vox. "It's for our house." Vox crashes his way back into his chest, and Alastor lets out a low oof, patting the other, "Now, now dear, you're making a scene in the street. Why don't we go home?" 

Alastor didn't notice he was doing it, not at first. It seemed second nature to put food down in front of Vox, especially when his forays into the kitchen were a unique new torture in Hell. But it certainly didn't hurt, especially with Vox coming home from his new and growing power plant looking like he could fall asleep on his feet. Well, Alastor couldn't stop his instincts from fussing over him. If he left Vox to his own devices, his Picture Box would forget to eat and probably starve himself. Vox truly was helpless without him. 

So, Alastor dutifully cooked and ensured a warm meal on the table at six o'clock sharp, exactly when Vox tended to return home. It should bristle at him. He would never have considered cooking for anyone but his Maman while he was alive. It gave certain people ideas about what Alastor should be doing that he would rather avoid. But he found he rather liked cooking for Vox. 

Vox had tried to explain what he did with all the coils and transformers, but it all went over Alastor's head. It was no fault of Vox's, but Alastor was willing to bet most of what he was doing with his electricity, and the infrastructure was instinctual. Much like Alastor's radio waves made up a sixth sense, he suspected Vox's electricity did something similar. And the way powers in Hell manifested could be quite peculiar. 

"I don't understand why it's not working. I looked at the math. There's no reason why I shouldn't be able to. It's like I need a power boost." Vox groans into his hands, tugging at his antenna. Alastor smooths his hands away and pushes him into a seat at the kitchen table. 

A power boost, now that was an idea that certainly couldn't hurt. "Say, Vox, would you like to come with me when I make a deal?"

"A deal? Like the one we made?"

"Yes, similar, though I think a soul deal will be more educational."

Vox blanches. "A soul deal! How does that even work? It's not like souls are physical things—" 

"Mmm," Alastor hums, "Not physical, but not quite not-physical either. It's a bit like your electricity, my dear. There, whether you can see it or not. I'm a bit shocked you haven't already come across this."

"Well," Vox looks up from where he's slumped across the table, "A few demons offered to buy my soul. I thought they were joking as an excuse to get closer and smell me, ya'know?"

Alastor's eyes flick to dials. "Oh, and what were their names?" 

Vox rolls his eyes. "Don't worry about it, Al. I fried 'em. I'm not totally useless." 

"Good. I do so hate those with bad manners." 

"So, how does a soul deal work then?" Vox asks as he sits at the table, his claws tapping away at the wood.  

Alastor hums his grin sharpening on his face. "I think it's better to show you my dear."

Before Vox can so much as blink, the shadows surround him. They reappear with a pop outside of the Casino. Taking Husker's soul had been on Alastor's list for a while. He'd been watching the other Overlords' fortunes fall in recent times. There was no easier soul than the desperate. And what could Alastor say? It was Vox's first time, and Alastor did so love to impress his Picture Box. 

Of course, the illusion of a grand entrance for both of them was shattered as Vox fell to his knees, his pants digging into the asphalt as he leaned over and wretched. It came from his throat static-filled and buzzing. Alastor eyed it curiously. He's never seen such consistency before. It's less food than those little black-and-white dots on Vox's face made tangible. The mess vibrates unpleasantly. 

"Al, why'd ya got to do that? I hate travelling this way." Vox moans, his signals jumping everywhere as he reconnects to his power grid. This was a recent development, the sickness. Alastor isn't sure if his connection with the grid or something from his growing power causes the nausea. 

Still, Alastor feels a bit bad, but not so much that they won't utilize the shadows to make their return trip. 

"Well, c'mon chum, we can't just lie down all day," Alastor offers him a hand. Vox glares at him and slowly rolls himself up, not taking the offered help. The static buzzes in the air between them. Alastor can't quite shove down the pulse of irritation as he watches Vox climb to his feet. 

"Fuck you, Al. I'm going to figure out my teleportation magic and then take you alongside for a joyride." 

"Haha, good luck with that, my friend." In all of his years in Hell, there were only a handful of sinners with teleportation abilities. They didn't measure up to his powers, but still, it was far from common. 

"Just you wait and see, Al," Vox mutters. 

Alastor hums, pats Vox on the back, unwilling to partake in his petty revenge fantasies. Vox stumbles along beside him as they enter the Casino. The air smells strongly of cigarette smoke and spilled whiskey. Lights flash between the whirling slot machines. Cries and sobs, and whoops of delight fill the air. Ah, nothing like the smell of a potential deal! 

"We came to gamble?" Vox asks as he glances around. 

"You are quite the detective, but we didn't just come to gamble, Vox. We came to strike a deal. Come now, let me introduce you to a friend of mine!" Alastor tugs him along to the bar. Given how early it is in the evening, he has no doubt he will find Husker connected at the hip to one of his favored vices. 

"Alastor you Red Fuck!" Husker's voice echoes around the room. Alastor's grin widens as he spots the cat demon leaning over the brightly lit bar, wrinkling his black suit. His pupils are mismatched, and he stinks of whiskey. The stars were aligning for a perfect show. 

"Husker, my friend!" Alastor says, vanishing his microphone to lean in and pat the cat demon's shoulder, while his other arm wraps around Vox, pulling him into the limelight. "Meet my Vox!" 

The cat sinner squints and tilts his head. "What the fuck is wrong with his face?" 

Static screeches in the air and Vox sparks angrily at the alpha. "What the fuck is wrong with your face?" Vox spits back. 

Husk tilts his head to the side and bites out a deep laugh. "He's kind of funny. I see why you keep him around." Alastor taps his claws on his microphone. "Well, what were you thinking? What's your poison tonight, Alastor?" 

"Oh, Vox here has never gambled before. I thought it would make quite an educational experience. I believe poker might be a good starting place." Alastor's grin is sharp as he tucks his microphone into the crook of his arm. The bait is tossed out, chum in the water. 

Husk's ears perk up at the mention of cards, his smile widening as a deck appears in his claws. He fans them out with a flourish.  "I hope you have the souls to back it up, Al, because I won't go easy on you just because you have a friend on your arm. I'm on a streak."

"Oh, I don't doubt that, my dear Husker, but I don't doubt my luck either. Let's find a table and play a few hands." 

Husk shrugs, his cat-slit eyes sharp. "Don't blame me if I bankrupt you, Bambi." 

It takes less than ten hands. Alastor ups the ante each time as Husk only grows more frantic as his souls diminish, chasing one more big break to save himself until no chips are left and there's only an unpaid debt. 

Alastor relishes the look of fear on the alpha's face as Alastor offers his hands. "Such tough luck. But the deal is the deal, my friend." The soon to be former Gambling Overlord crumples in his seat like a house of cards. "Hurry up, Husker; we don't have all day!" Alastor chirps out, shoving his hand insistently under the alpha's nose. 

In defeat, Husk reaches his hand out. Green tangles around the other soul, tightening around the neck until a sickly neon green soul chain and collar forms. Alastor gives an experimental tug as Husk slams his face into the poker table, unable to stop the moment. Satisfied Alastor dispels the chain before turning to Vox. "That my dear was a soul deal, and a powerful one at that!" 

Vox wanders downstairs from his room, rubbing the back of his hand against his screen. His screen is monochrome in the way it only gets when Vox is particularly exhausted. Alastor hasn't asked Vox about it. He's not entirely sure Vox is aware that he does it, but his friend has such a penchant for wearing all his emotions on his sleeve. Alastor isn't sure Vox could stop it if he tried—and he would try—so Alastor lets sleeping dogs lie. 

"G'evenin'," Vox mumbles as he slides into his usual seat. Alastor dances over, a jazz song in the background, as he places a cup of decaffeinated tea in front of him. His Picture Box did need his sleep after all. He leans his chin down and breathes in Vox’s lovely scent. A rumble builds in his chest. 

"Are you purring?" Vox asks with a raised eyebrow as he wraps his hands around the steaming cup. 

Alastor's static cuts out with a hiss. "No," he denies, his chest vibrating as he nuzzles the top of Vox's plastic frame in the way Alastor knows makes his Picture Box melt. 

"Okay," Vox acquiesces as he leans further back into Alastor. His pixelated eyes close as he lets out a rumbling purr of his own. Alastor's ears twitch in pleasure, and he let the jazz play louder to cover the evidence of both of them giving in to their instincts for a moment. 

Art by Shiveagit

"So if you own souls, you can summon them?" Vox asks, their evening conversation had taken a more practical turn, laying out the inner workings of souls and dealmaking. After Alastor's demonstration a few weeks ago, he'd strategized what type of deals would help his business most. Alastor had offered one or two suggestions but was not eager to get too far into Vox's business. That suited Vox fine. He needed to prove his worth; to sink or swim on his own. To make any argument on his strength or his place in their situation mute. He would be Alastor’s equal, prove himself, and then there would be no risk that Alastor would throw him away. 

"Indeed! These are my thralls!" Alastor says with a clap of his hands, "Of course, you've met Husker before." Vox glances warily up at the alpha. He's glaring at both of them with a half-empty bottle of a liquid that smells suspiciously like antiseptic in his paws. Alastor is right, though. Vox recognizes the alpha instantly despite his downright scraggly appearance compared to the last time Vox had seen the former Casino Overlord in all his glory. 

"And this little darling is Niffty," Vox's eyes rove over to the small cyclops girl. Her pink poodle skirt twirls as she climbs up on Alastor's head to get a closer look at Vox's screen. Vox wants to bristle at anyone but himself getting so close to Alastor, but he restrains himself as Alastor plucks her off his head without a care, tossing her to the ground. Vox scents the air, and under Husk's twisting nicotine and general boozy scent is a pleasant, almost neutral lavender scent. Niffty must be a beta. 

She giggles. "Is this your omega, sir?" She's practically vibrating and Vox squeaks as she climbs his pant leg. Vox feels his screen tilt purple and his fans speed up. He tries to shake Niffty off as a distraction, but to no avail. Her fingernails are like needles. 

"Oh, I wouldn't say that. Why must people want to put names to everything?" Alastor says with a wave of his hand. Vox instantly feels himself deflate. He's not sure why. He doesn't want to be anyone's omega, but Alastor— well, there was something. If he had to be anyone's, he wouldn't mind being Alastor's, so long as Alastor was also his. 

Niffty gives Vox a knowing smirk as she climbs atop his head, kicking her feet merrily. 

"Don't worry," she whispers conspiratorially. "I know all of Alastor's secrets. I'll help you." She pats the side of his head. Then she throws herself to the ground and skitters over to the bookshelf to start dusting. Maybe Niffty wasn't so bad after all. She was certainly a bit odd, but who wasn't in Hell? 

"Why the fuck did you summon us here?" Husk growls.

Alastor merely twists his head to the side, giving Husk a smug smile, "Why, because I could!"

"Do you think this is funny?" Husk asks, a slight hiss on the edge of his voice, his harsh scent flaring in their living room. I was doing shit."  The smell leaves Vox fighting his instincts. He wants to retreat, but instead, he straightens his back. He lived here, and former Overlord or not, if anyone was leaving, it would be Husk. 

"Of course! It's hilarious!" Alastor laughs. 

"I'm not drunk enough for this," Husk declares as he throws himself on the couch. Vox sparks in irritation. Great, now their whole parlor would stink like alpha for the next several days. 

Surprisingly, their cycles take nearly six years to sync despite Vox's frequent heats. Alastor is headed downstairs, when Vox shifts his world again. He plans to seal up the exits on their house with runes before he returns to his own nest to deal with his unfortunate annual season. 

Vox met him in the hall. He's dressed down compared to his usual suit, with a pillow clutched protectively at his side. No doubt his nesting urges are already hitting him. 

"Is there something you need, my dear? Do you have enough of the meals I prepared stocked by your nest?" Alastor asked worriedly. His own heats were awful, but his form was always starving, so it mattered little if he sat unfulfilled for the duration of his heat. Afterward, well, Hell was always full of new sinners to devour. Vox, though, normally Alastor would be tapping at his door reminding the other omega to eat. 

Vox nods, but chews at his bottom lip. Alastor lingers, clearly his Picture Box has something else to say before they go to their separate parts of the house for the next several days. 

"Will you stay?" Vox asks in a quiet voice that has Alastor's ears craning forward. His eyes are larger than usual, taking up a good third of this boxy face. Alastor blinks, sure he's misheard, but then Vox looks at him: a desperate needy look, his eyes almost too big for his screen, and oh so pleading. 

Alastor recoils. "I do not do that . I cannot provide you the relief you seek, and my heat does not change that." Alastor can't stop the way his ears pin to his hair. He had thought he was safe from this, that Vox understood and it was why he had never dared to bring it up. But Alastor should have known better than to hope in Hell. 

He let his static pool around him, threatening and daring Vox to continue this line of questioning. Vox grimaced at the oscillating signal his receivers picked up and he let out a pained grunt as he adjusted his antenna. 

"No, not that …" Vox says his face turns purple as he leans away. Alastor is pleased by his mildly horrified look at the thought of any sexual encounters between them, "I wouldn't- I don't want you to touch me like that. I want you to stay with me in my nest. You don't have to touch me at all— it's just your scent… You smell nice." Vox looks down, his antenna sparking and his scent deepening in embarrassment. 

Vox smelled lovely, he always had, but now he smells  like a little storm in the making. Alastor leaned closer and took a deep breath. He can't believe that it's taken them over half a decade for this particular predicament to befall them. He can't say it was unexpected. 

"Only my scent," Alastor confirms, "that's all you desire?"

Vox nods, "If you're uncomfortable during, you can leave and head back to your nest." Vox assures. How can he tell his Picture Box no when he looks so pathetic standing out in their hall, a pillow clutched to his side as they're both about to enter their infernal cycles. There is safety in numbers, his hind brain adds. 

Alastor sighs, "We can try it, but my heat is longer, so we shall use my nest." 

Vox lets out a long, happy chirp and then flushes at his reaction, "I'll go get my nesting materials." Vox says, practically skipping down the hall. 

Alastor rolls his eyes. Silly Picture Box. He heads back to his room and scrutinizes the start of his nest. It’s partially built on his bed, his quilts tucked just so. They'll have to move it; the bed won't be big enough for both of them. He waves his hand and allows his shadow puppets to get to work.

In the meantime, he crosses to the wardrobe. His silk shirts are starting to feel cloying on his sensitive skin. He quickly strips them off until he's only in his boxers. Ah, that's much better. Alastor grimaces at the sheen of sweat he can feel under his fur: disgusting. 

It doesn't take Vox long to return. He lingers in the doorway, uncertain. The television's eyes are wide as he takes in the room, pausing on the mounted taxidermy deer hung on the walls. His housemate has shimmied out of his day clothes and is in a similar state to himself. Only his blue boxers remain. The heat must already be getting to him. 

A flicker of movement strikes behind Vox, and Alastor inches closer. Alastor laughs. He's never seen Vox so disrobed before. "Is that a tail?" Craning his neck behind Vox to get a closer look at the electrical plug, thrashing like a cat's tail. Vox's form truly was a marvel. 

Vox huffs, "I could say the same to you, don't think I didn't see that little tuft of red fur you're hiding,"

Alastor lets out a bleat of static that has Vox laughing. Alastor throws one of the pillows from the growing nest at the obnoxious Picture Box. "Help me get this nest sorted since someone waited until the last minute to make requests about changing our arrangements." 

Blue electricity crackles around Vox as the deal is sealed in a handshake. The beta eel sinner quivers nervously as he pulls his hand back. His soul now belongs to Vox. Vox gives the other sinner a sharp smile, "Nice doing business with you. I expect you at the power plant bright and early Monday morning!" 

Alastor watches his Picture Box from the shadows. A protective habit he has never managed to shake, even though Vox can now produce thousands of volts from his claws. Still, old habits die hard, and on nights like this, where he can watch Vox cackle as his power grows, Alastor is glad. 

He waits until Vox is a few more streets away from his newest thrall before he appears. Vox's antenna swivels towards him, instantly locking onto his signal. "Hello, my dear! It seems you're having quite the productive evening." 

Vox's grin takes up over half his screen, showing off his beautiful, sharp teeth. Alastor can smell the excitement and soul magic on him. "Does it always feel like that?" Vox asks as he skips closer to Alastor, his scent pleased and his signal warm as it wraps around Alastor's own. 

"Yes, the rush of power can be quite addictive." Alastor laughs before reaching a hand out in front of Vox, already planning for what he knows is about to follow, "and quite tiring for the first few times." 

Vox sways on his feet, the sudden after-effect finally catching up to him. Alastor steadies him as Vox lets out a quiet, "Whoa."

"Let's get you home, my dear. We can have a proper celebratory drink tomorrow. A first soul is quite an occasion after all!" 

Vox's expression softens at the offer, despite his struggle to keep his eyes open. "Yeah, that sounds good, Al. Thanks for keeping an eye on me." 

Alastor chuckles and breathes in the sharp electrical scent of his dear companion. "Well, you are quite eyecatching. A show as entertaining as you deserves an audience after all."  

It takes them another decade into their unique partnership for Alastor to ask for more and even then, if he would rather die and regenerate than give the real reason. It starts like this: Alastor wants to show Vox his studio. 

The first time it happens, Alastor stops mid-step, nearly falling down the stairs. In all his years, living or dead, he's never wanted someone peeking over his shoulder while he broadcasted. He's never thought to let another soul into his radio tower. Why, it was practically sacred, his cathedral to worship at an altar to himself! Pride may be a sin, but Alastor had every intention of giving in to all his vices fully. What else could possibly be the point of Hell? 

Vox, though, with his sharp eyes, would understand perfectly, Alastor was sure. He had an appreciation for this type of thing. He listened to all of his broadcasts. After the first one dedicated to his roommate, Vox had never missed one. Even now, Alastor could feel his signal and hear his breathing through the radio at home. 

Alastor would be lying if he said he didn't sometimes make a comment or play a song solely for Vox's ears. And Vox always heard him. He lay in rapt attention at the foot of the radio for every show, a most devoted listener. 

Still, this was something else. After nearly a decade together, he wanted to bring Vox here. Show his territory off. Show Vox how well he could take care of him, provide for them both while the nest—

Oh . Oh dear. This was… Alastor isn't quite sure how he could have forgotten, especially after how hard a time he gave Vox for not recognizing the signs of his own preheat over the years. He clicks his tongue. This simply wouldn't do. 

For the last several years, Alastor's annual heat has synced with Vox's. They build a shared nest in Vox's room and spend their time curled around each other, the outside world kept firmly outside, along with its opinions of what they ought to be doing in their nest and with whom . 

It works for them, and slowly it's become a time that Alastor appreciates. Hah ! A strange thought indeed! A single omega looking forward to a heat unaccompanied by an alpha. But he is not truly unaccompanied; he has his Vox. 

And it's time for just the two of them. Alastor does not mind helping Vox with his heats; he enjoys it even if the sweat and other body fluids are rather unsavory, but Vox more than makes up for it by how sweet he is. But when they're both nesting, the experiences are… well, it's simply more in every sense of the word.

It's almost that time again, Alastor can taste it in the air. Though Hell lacks the season markers and the contrast between a summer in Hell and a winter in Hell is the difference between scorching days with acid rain versus scorching days without acid rain, Alastor can still tell. 

He can tell by the way Vox is pacing, by the way he stops in front of every linen store they pass on the way back from Rosie's. He can tell by the way his antlers have begun to grow, not quite ready to shed yet, but the day is fast approaching, and above all, he can tell because a sinner makes the mistake of bumping into Vox on their usual evening walk. The bulky bear sinner, an alpha if Alastor's ever seen one, doesn't even attempt an apology. Poor Vox would have gone sprawling on the pavement without Alastor's quick intervention. 

How dare he do that to our mate ! His shadow echoes in his mind.

It's an involuntary thought, an instinctual response. Alastor's tentacles appear, reach out, and jerk the sinner back by his ankles, causing him to crash face first into the asphalt road before he's dragged backwards. Alastor's bones creak as he increases in size. He twists his head around, not letting go of where Vox is still pressed safely into his shoulder, and he leans over and bites down. 

There's a popping squelch as the sinner's head is bitten through and swallowed down his maw. The blood drools out of his mouth, running down his chin and neck to stain the collar of his shirt. Alastor can't help the pleased purr that rumbles up his chest as his shadows dissipate and the alpha's headless body twitches on the ground. 

"Al?" Vox asks wide-eyed and innocent as the day he was freshly fallen as he looks up at him. It's far too cute. Alastor can't help but lean over and nuzzle his Picture Box. "Eww, you're getting blood all over me." Vox gripes, trying to shove him off. 

Alastor has enough sense to rein in his whine of protest, but is quite grumpy when Vox unthreads himself from his hold and gives Alastor a pointed look. "What was that all about?"

"He was quite rude." 

A quizzical expression dances over Vox's screen. "Yeah, Al, it's Hell everyone's kind of a dick down here if you haven't noticed, but I don't see you trying to bite their heads off." 

Alastor sniffs, ignoring Vox's unasked question, and takes his hand. He threads their fingers together, red claws clicking against blue. "Let's go home, my dear. I'm afraid my stomach is rather upset, and I have something I would like to speak with you about that is best done over some wine."

Vox snorts. "Probably because of how much you ate at Rosie's and now this." Vox kicks the dead sinner's body out of the way as they pass by. 

"Nonsense, there's always room for a quick snack!" 

Alastor can feel Vox's curiosity on the scant few miles to their house. His signal curls around Alastor's pressing and feeling for more information. Clever Picture Box. Alastor shoos him away with a quick signal fluctuation. He will have to wait. Alastor does not want to ask the question in a place like this. Vox deserves better; even if he were left to his own devices, he would spoil it. 

Vox is practically buzzing as Alastor scoots him up the stairs to change into something more comfortable. He's amused by how he can practically hear the gears turning in Vox's head as he tries to puzzle out what Alastor has up his sleeve. 

Alastor turns on the radio, humming along with the soft jazz as he makes his way to his room. He trades out the shirt stained with sinner blood—he'll have to give it to Niffty for laundering— with a simple button-up and heads to the kitchen. 

He hums and pulls the minced meat from the fridge, alongside some breadcrumbs. They have a bit until dinner, but if he wants to make Vox's favorite, he'll have to start it soon. He looks over the mashed meat in the bowl and hums. He would not do this for another soul save Vox. The texture alone he found to be quite off-putting. Alas, it was Vox's favorite.  Alastor would like a word with whoever had ruined his Picture Box's tastebuds so thoroughly in life that it carried over to Hell. 

The echoing sound of footsteps carries down the hall, and Vox's familiar excited buzz of electricity carries him into the room. His eyes light up as he gets closer. "Oh! Is that meatloaf?" Vox asks, leaning his screen over Alastor's shoulder. "What's the occasion?"

Alastor swats at him with his wooden spoon. "Go get a bottle of wine and let me cook in peace." 

Vox grins at him and lets out a teasing, "Yes, dear." 

Alastor finishes shaping the Frankenstein meat and sets the pan in the oven. Vox returns swinging an unlabeled bottle of wine. "Are you ready to tell me what this is all about, Al?" 

"In time. Patience, my dear." 

Vox rolls his eyes and grumbles, but dutifully gets two wine glasses out of the cupboard, before popping the cork and pouring the red liquid generously into both glasses. Alastor hums pleased, taking his glass and allowing Vox to do the same before he guides him along to their study. Vox raises an eyebrow at him, but plays along well enough as Alastor situates him on their sofa and settles beside him. 

"My dear, I have a proposal." 

Vox's eyebrows jump so high they nearly disappear off the top of his screen. "Like a deal?" 

Alastor swirls the wine in his glass and takes a deep drink. "Of a sort, I suppose." 

"Al," Vox laughs nervously, "Is this related to what happened earlier?"

Alastor tuts. "No. Well, not directly. It was something I was considering prior." He clears his throat, and his mouth suddenly dries. He wets it with another long drink of wine, looking down at his glass in disapproval for how quickly it seemed to empty. He takes a steadying breath.  "I do not want to give this up, my dear. The fact that someone else would dare to claim you, when you are already mine …"

Vox blinks at him, grey static swarming his screen as his signal fluctuates. "Al, what are you asking?" 

"I…" Alastor desperately reaches for the bottle of wine, but Vox grabs his hand. His cyan claws hold it gently, and he uses his other hand to nudge Alastor back to look at him. 

"Alastor, are you asking if we can," Vox's voice is barely audible as he chokes out the last word, " mate?!" 

" Yes! No! " Alastor says all at once. The words overlap, crashing against each other. Vox looks over at him, hope and confusion flicker on his face. Suddenly, their parlor feels far too small. Alastor stands, taking a steadying breath. He has ruined this. Vox must be disgusted with him for letting his instincts reign when they have such clear boundaries, their life perfect and comfortably suited to both of them, and now Alastor has ruined that. He should go. 

He makes it two steps before Vox is grabbing his hand again. "Al, stay. I— we should talk about this."

Alastor's ears flick in displeasure, "What is there to talk about? I have made a mistake. I misspoke!" 

" Alastor, " Vox says, "I don't think you misspoke. Yes. The answer to your unasked question is yes. I want you to be my mate for eternity or however long we both last in this shithole. Now let's sit down and talk about this. Have another glass of wine or so help me I'll call up Rosie!" 

Alastor gapes at Vox. Had he misheard? Frantic signals dance around both of them until Vox tunes to his high frequency and slowly lowers it back down. His calming scent floats around the room, and Alastor relaxes at a glacial pace, finding his way back to the couch. Vox pours him another glass of wine that he sips, while Vox's red eyes never leave him. 

"So about the mating. The mating bite…can two omegas even do that?" Hell freezes. Alastor hadn't considered that. Leave it to Vox to ask the practical questions. 

Alastor opens his mouth and then clears his throat. "Well, I don't know. There were omega couples when I was alive, but they tended to hide away in the back of the speakeasies. I never thought to ask them about what it was like. We can try for our next heat and then we will know." 

Vox nods, his expression thoughtful. "The bond— that's it. It would be nice if it worked, but if it doesn't, well- we'll both know that we're mates. Besides," Vox's signal spreads out and he grins and projects into the air: We are already beyond a doubt compatible and idiotic omega instincts won't change that. 

Alastor smiles and responds, No, it won't, my dear. 

Vox is petting his ears. It feels nice. Alastor's tail flicks. He's warm and comfortable. The awful emptiness has eased with Vox curled beside him. Alastor buries himself closer, feeling no urge to leave their safe nest. His neck throbs pleasantly from where Vox had sunk his teeth earlier. A reminder that they belonged to no one save each other. They'll have to make sure they scar nicely. Alastor thinks vaguely, though he wouldn't be opposed to biting Vox again if they didn't.  

"You're so fucking cute, you know that?" Vox's hushed voice says from somewhere to his left. Alastor's ears twitch, but moving requires far too much energy. He does reach a clawed hand out and swat in Vox's general direction when the petting stops. 

Vox chuckles again, but his claws dig into the spot right at the base of where his ears meet his hair, and Alastor can't find it in him to complain. 

Art by GoofBerry

Alastor stares down at the strange green thing Vox has placed in front of him. He pokes it with his fork… it jiggles. Surely this isn't edible. 

Vox beams over him, "It's Jello. It was one of my specialities back on Earth. Try it, and tell me what you think!" Vox rocks back and forth on his heels as he tucks his hands into the front pocket of his apron. 

The 'Jello' sits ominously on his plate as Alastor pokes it with his fork again. It continues its spongy oscillations. He tentatively peels off a small gelatinous clump and moves it to his mouth. 

The texture is awful. It is cold and chewy but somehow not and oh, Satan Vox had put cut-up pieces of sinner meat in this abomination! Alastor chokes back the urge to gag. It was quite honestly the most horrid way Alastor had ever eaten sinner and that included fresh and screaming. He swallows quickly, shivering as the slimy texture slides down his throat. 

He takes a deep breath before turning to Vox’s waiting face. "It's… quite the experience, my dear!" 

Vox preens and lets out a pleased purr, "You like it?" 

Alastor swallows down another bite without chewing and attempts not to gag, pushing the plate away from him. "It is simply too delicious to finish in one sitting! I'll have to save some for later, my dear." 

Vox turns his big mismatched digital eyes on him. Curse those eyes! How did Vox manage to be so manipulative without even saying anything? His screen dims, "You don't like it, do you?"

Alastor tips the whole green slab into his mouth and swallows without chewing. "As I said, delicious," Alastor fights off the nausea as his shadow writhes underfoot in distress, "Why don't you bring me another slice?"

Vox lights up like the Fourth of July and nuzzles the top of his head before he skips across the kitchen to his horrendous science experiment. His shadow makes pleading eyes at him. As much as Alastor would love to dive into his shadow and make a speedy escape from the kitchen, it is already too late.

Vox pauses by the counter, "Do you think I should save some for Niffty?" 

Alastor pauses. On one hand, it means he would not have to suffer through the whole gelatinous mound; on the other hand, he would never wish to inflict this suffering on his darling Niffty. Husker perhaps, but not Niffty. 

"No, no. I couldn't bear to share something so delicious my mate made me with another soul. Why, I think I might just go into a jealous slaughter!" Alastor says the laugh track playing in the background. 

Vox beams at him and he gets those adorable little hearts on his screen. Alastor's stomach may be in agony, but his heart is full of nothing but adoration—the things Alastor does for his mate. 

Alastor never meant for it to happen. Admittedly, both he and Vox were on day two of their shared heat, and between the surplus of pheromones in the air and their fevers, neither was in their right mind when it happened. One minute, Niffty is at their door with a tray of food and water, and the next, she is firmly in their nest, and Vox is scent marking her. Alastor couldn't even say if he or Vox had pulled her into the nest. Only that she was there and that she needed to stay . 

Alastor waits for Vox to finish before he nuzzles into her red hair. Once she smells satisfactorily like both of them, he flops back over Vox's chest, tugs the small … pup? Not pup, pup-shaped thing to his chest, and lets out a happy purr.

"Alastor," the door opens a crack and the heavy smell of a whiskey scent slips in, disturbing the rich smells of coffee, pecans, and salt water taffy, "Have you seen Nif— Oh shit! " 

Alpha . An alpha was in his territory with his mate and… a pup-shaped thing. He lets out a low, long hiss of warning. His eyes locked onto the black and yellow irises of this uninvited alpha daring to enter their territory. His and Vox's scents take on a sharp, bitter undertone, and faint sparks of electricity dance along Vox's claws as he curls protectively around their pup-shaped thing . 

"Right, she's fine, I'm leaving now," The alpha puts its claws up in surrender and backs away slowly. 

Alastor's eyes narrow, watching until the invader is out of his line of sight before his shadows slam the door shut and his hissing fades. Vox nudges the edge of his screen against Alastor's chin and lets out a whimper as the foreign alpha's smell still lingers at the edge of the nest. 

Alastor indulges him, tilting his neck back to give his boxy-headed mate easier access to his scent gland. He deserves a reward after all. He was such a good mate, helping to defend their nest. Vox lets out a pleased purr and soon all Alastor can smell is the calming intermingling of their scents and the faint cinnamon smell of their not-pup. 

The pup-shaped thing giggles, and Alastor coos, tugging her and his mate deeper into the nest to sleep. 

It was supposed to be business as usual. Vox was on his way home from the newly opened studio. He was branching out from power into broadcasting finally, starting small with one filming set but it would be the first of many if he had his way! When the smell of cotton candy wafted through his sensors. Vox sparks, it smells like someone’s pre-heat. He tilts his screen tracing the smell along to where he sees a pink spider sinner lounging on the corner. They have a large purple fur coat covering their shoulder and their scent is so strong, Vox hadn’t even picked up the tobacco they were smoking. 

Vox keeps a wary eye out. It’s unusual to meet omegas who flared their hormones so openly, but Vox also knew that Alastor liked to do exactly that in pre-heat to attract easy targets. He nods at the other omega as he passes and is greeted with a sultry, “Hey there bright eyes . Care for a quickie?”

Vox touches his neck, his fingers running reassuringly along his scarred bond mark. The other omega notices. 

"Ah, got a protective Alpha back home. Don't worry, they can join us. Tell you what, I'll even give you a discount, a two-for-one deal." 

"No-not exactly, but I'm— we're still not interested."

"I can make it real good antennas," the spider demon purred out. “It takes an omega to know how to please an omega. "Trust me, once you go omega, you're never going to want just a knothead again. They might have the knot, but they certainly don't know how to give head!" 

The spider demon chuckles. Their fur around their chest bouncing, in a way that Vox is sure is meant to be appealing. Their pupils are blown wide as they lean in closer. Vox should fry him. He knows he should, and if the sad-looking spider demon didn't smell like depressing cotton candy, Vox would have. Fuck is this why Alastor took him home those years ago? Was he this level of a pathetic omega on the street? 

"I'll cut you a good deal," the pink spider is still rambling. Vox hasn't even noticed they're off the main street until his back hits the brick wall. 

Something tingles at the edge of consciousness. His shadow is furious. Alastor tilts his head, tuning into the signal and listening to whatever Vox has gotten himself into now. 

He hears an unfamiliar voice with a thick accent. A New Yorker, perhaps? 

He doesn't waste a moment more dematerializing from the poor sinner who would have his soul spared for the moment. He curls up from his shadow in front of Vox, his yellow teeth tight in a Cheshire grin. He feels his shadow lift off the ground and curl protectively around his Vox. He startles at the cool, ethereal touch. 

Alastor wasn't sure what he was expecting as he emerged from the shadows. Vox is flustered, his screen marred purple, as he's backed himself into the alley wall by a pink fluffy-looking spider. Another omega, how peculiar, but he supposes Vox and him are not alone in their twisted desires down here in hell. Alastor could not even fault their taste. Vox was lovely. But Vox was also his.

He gives his shadow a flat look; this was far from an emergency. His shadow gives him a look of wide, green-eyed innocence, and then growls at the pink spider sinner getting far too close to Vox's personal space. 

Oh, that wouldn't do. That wouldn't do at all. Not with Vox looking so anxious. His Picture Box was far too polite to shove off unwanted company, even if it was another omega. 

"Excuse me, my dear. I do believe my mate said he wasn't interested, and if you are not interested in becoming my lunch, I suggest you leave immediately." Alastor's voice is thick with static, prickles the air, and pings against his antenna. Vox has only heard him lose the transatlantic accent in the thrill of his broadcast, and it tingles down his spine. 

"Oh shit ! Right! Right, sorry, Mister Radio Demon, sir," the other demon sputters. Alastor's ears twitch. He had manners and could use them when he so chose. Alastor steps back and lets them flee. He doesn't stop his shadow from snapping his ephemeral teeth in the direction the pink sinner disappeared around the corner. 

"Well, some people certainly don't know how to take no for an answer!" Alastor plays the laugh track as Vox straightens his suit. 

"Al, you didn't need to come all the way down here. I could have handled it." 

"Oh, pish posh. You practically reek of anxiety." His shadow churrs and rubs its face against his mate's boxy head. "I appear to have some free time in my schedule now, my dear. What do you say we go out tonight?"

Alastor knew Vox's heat was approaching; it was marked on their shared calendar, but this was too much. "No, Vox. Put them back where you found them!" 

Vox's eyes are so wide they nearly take up his whole screen as he looks at Alastor, four hellhound puppies clutched in his arms. He'd undoubtedly picked them up in some filthy alley on his way back from the powerplant. 

"But, it was so hot outside and there was acid rain in the forecast. I couldn't just leave them out there. They looked so sad!" There's a near whine underlying every word Vox says. His signal is curling around Alastor, practically begging. 

Alastor eyed the mangy things. They looked flea-ridden. "Absolutely not. I do not care for dogs. Take them back." 

"They're not dogs, they're hellhounds."

"Yes, hounds, a type of dog." 

Vox clutches the four abominations closer and presses his screen down atop their heads. Alastor feels his eye twitch in irritation. 

"Vox, I will not argue more on this with you. You can either have those mongrels in your nest or me. I refuse to share with four mutts." 

Vox lets out a piteous whine, "You're so mean. They're just puppies."

"Yes, someone else's puppies." 

"But—but Al!" Vox's eyes got impossibly larger and wobbled on the verge of tears. 

"No buts!" 

Alastor summons his shadow to take the hellhounds from Vox. He could at least drop them off at one of Hell's pounds; having to deal with a sobbing mate for the next three days seemed less than ideal. 

Alastor can feel the chain around his neck growing heavier. The deal, his end of the bargain, burned under his skin; nothing could cool it. He doesn't have much time left, a few hours at most. He knew this day was coming. The bill always came due. Still, he nuzzles Vox's sleeping form, scenting him as he does every day. Vox lets out a pleased purring rumble before he stills, falling back asleep in the pre-dawn light.  His screen is dim, nearly black and Alastor can make out the shape of his closed eyes. He strokes down his casing and leans forward pressing a gentle kiss to the top of his monitor. 

It won't be forever. No, Alastor has to pray that Vox is strong enough to be without him. With great trepidation, Alastor rises, letting his eyes linger on Vox's sleeping form a moment longer before he slips silently into the shadows. 

Chapter Text

Vox wakes up one day to find the house oddly empty. He blinks his digital eyes away and then frowns as he glances at the clock. Shit! It's nearly nine! He scrambles out of bed, rushing to the closet to throw his suit on. He's struggling to tie his tie for the third time when he peeks out the door and calls, "Al?" He was always much better at getting the knot right. 

Only silence greets him. Vox frowns. There's no way Alastor was sleeping in. They might have had a bit too much whiskey last night, but Vox knows exactly how much Al can drink before he needs a hangover day, and that wasn't even close. He leaves his lopsided tie alone and wanders down to the kitchen. 

There's nothing out of place—nothing out of place except a lack of Alastor in every room he opens. Vox shrugs and goes to make his coffee. It's not unheard of for Alastor to have business to attend to and go out. It's strange he didn't mention it, but then again, his mate does like to be a cryptic bastard sometimes. 

So Vox doesn't think about it too hard as he prepares for his day and then goes to his studio.  The rapid pace of script writing, shooting, and arguing with useless employees keeps his mind occupied. He doesn't think about the curious lack of Alastor until he zaps out of the outlets and finds the kitchen cold and empty. Not a single light is on in the house. Everything is right where Vox left it. It's not right. 

He doesn't hesitate to go straight to Alastor's bedroom door. 

"Al?" He knocks, then waits. There's no response. 

He frowns. It's not the right season for Alastor's heat, but maybe he was sick. Hell had all sorts of uniquely torturous diseases. Scabies and smallpox had nothing on in fuck luenza. Vox tries again louder. When he doesn't hear so much as a hiss, he puts his hand on the doorknob. 

"I'm coming in," Vox calls before he opens the door slowly, giving Alastor ample time to stop him if he desires. 

The room is empty. The bed is perfectly made, and the sheets are tucked straight and tight into the mattress just as Alastor likes it. His mate's scent lingers in the air, it's not fresh like he hadn't slept here last night, but Vox knows he had. He'd helped Alastor to his room, kissed his cheek goodnight before he flicked off the lights. 

Vox paces the whole length of their house, biting at his claws while he waits for Alastor to turn up. He feels like a parent trying to catch their teenager sneaking in as he sits with the lights out in their parlor, staring at the door. The hours tick by. 

The hellish sun rises over Pentagram City, and Vox is still alone. He waits until 8 a.m., and then he goes to see Rosie. 

The news doesn't get better. 

The first two weeks are a blur. Vox doesn't remember sleeping. He practically lives in the grid, moving across Pride anywhere he can to try and pick up Alastor's radio waves, any sign of his signal. He broadcasts SOS. He neglects his station, airing reruns while he searches for his mate. 

There's nothing but radio silence wherever he goes. The airwaves are empty. 

At the beginning of the third week, Vox tracks Husk down in a bar so filthy he doesn't understand how it has any clientele. A sour smell in the air could be vomit but is just as likely to be urine. Not that it matters to the demons inside. Most are either passed out or so drunk that Vox would be shocked if they could even see straight. He finds Alastor's thrall unconscious on the floor in the corner. He's cuddling an empty brown bottle of whiskey. 

Vox doesn't even try to be gentle as he digs his shoe into the alpha's cheek. "Wake up!" 

Husk jumps up, his fur fluffing as he lets out a low growl and flares his scent—Vox's face twists in disgust as the heavy scent hits his vents. 

"Quit that," he scowls, "Where's Al?"

In his blurry vision, Husk finally seems to register to him, "Vx?" He slurs out, "Shit."  

Vox waits impatiently as the other sinner rubs his palms into his eyes. His slit pupils blown wide as he retreats from how bright Vox's screen is. "Wadda ya want?" 

Vox snaps, his hand darts out, and he yanks the other sinner closer, but his suspenders. His coat and shirt were absent, meaning the alpha was so low he'd resorted to playing strip poker again.  "WHERE IS ALASTOR?" Vox sparks out, his hypnotic eye swirling. 

"How th' fuck am I 'sppsed ta know?" Husk slurs out. It's the wrong answer. Vox feels his carefully coiled electricity shoots out. There's a flash of blue, Husk yowls and crumples on the floor. His fur smokes, every hair standing on end like he's a puffed-up furball. 

When he looks up at Vox, there's real fear in his eyes. Vox glowers over him, his claws still sparking. "Where is he?" 

"I don't know. I don't know! I haven't seen him in weeks, I swear. He never tells me anything!" Husk says desperately putting his paws up to protect himself. He stinks of pain, desperation, and fear. It spoils the air around him, but it makes one thing obvious: he's not lying. 

Vox crumples on the floor. This was it. His last lead. He'd tracked down everything, everyone Al might have been with. He'd even gone to see fucking Mimzy. Alastor was nowhere; it's like he'd disappeared off the face of Hell without a trace. And that could only mean— No!

Vox digs his claws into his screen. The glass groans under the pressure before it shatters, leaving gouges in his screen. His vision blurs, blackening at the edges. Where could Alastor have gone? He can't be gone! 

"Hey," someone touches his shoulder. Vox can barely make out their shape; his system is throwing so many errors. But the scent that is now trying to calm him is unmistakable, and if he had a nose, it would be wrinkling in discomfort. 

"Why don't I make you a drink and then let's get you somewhere else." Husk's tone is gentle. Far too gentle. Vox considers shocking him again, to make a point. But, he's so tired, and that last zap took a lot out of him. He can't even remember the last time he'd charged. He's been pulling power straight out of the grid for the last week to stay on his feet. He can't even remember the last time he slept. 

"Okay," he mumbles, allowing Husk to lead him towards the bar.  

Vox is miserable. He's spent the last month depressed, finding it nearly impossible to get out of bed, let alone leave the house, clinging to the idea that one day Alastor would stroll back through the door and Vox would be waiting for him, ready to greet him with a smile. 

It was empty, so empty without Alastor. The absence of his scent lingered in the air, an unfillable hole in their once warm home. 

Why did Alastor leave him? Where did he go? These two questions cycled through his mind in a never-ending stream daily. He couldn't understand. What had he done? Why didn't Alastor trust him? 

It was only with Rosie's intervention that he'd crawled out of his nest. When she came over to find Vox curled in their nest, the sour scent of depression and days-old heat still clinging to him, he hadn't had the energy to clean himself up or even find food. It all seemed so pointless, and then Rosie was staring disappointedly down at him, a handkerchief pressed over her face. 

"Really, Vox?" She sighs, "Let's get you cleaned up and then I think you ought to come stay with me for a bit. Alastor would hate to see you like this." 

Vox hisses weakly at her and pulls Alastor's pillow closer to him. Rosie steps closer to his nest. He watches every motion but doesn't move to stop her as she intrudes, stepping over the ring of pillows. Then she's reaching down so slowly- or maybe that's just Vox's processing speed. She puts her silk-gloved hand on his neck, right over his mating mark. Vox whines, and tears prick in his eyes as his body goes limp. 

She's scruffed him. She's not the one he wants and she scruffed him! 

He wants to be outraged, but he can't seem to find the energy as Rosie picks him up, wrapping him carefully in one of his blankets and carrying him out of the room and into a cab. Vox passes out somewhere along the way and wakes up to the soft, familiar yellow wallpaper of Rosie's guest room.

"I've had more than enough of your mopping, mister. Alastor will be back when he's back, or he won't. Now, in the meantime, I won't have you stinking up my guest room and acting like a living corpse. So up you go. I got a surprise for you."

Vox groans and digs his palms into his screen. He's been eating three meals daily and has even started responding to his business letters recently. What more could Rosie want from him? The rest didn't matter; he had all of eternity, everything could wait. It seemed Rosie disagreed though; he'd become very familiar with that tone of voice from the other Overlord. She wouldn't let him stay in his room all day and she would scruff him again if she had to. 

"I'm coming, let me get dressed." He calls with a sigh as he ever so slowly pulls the quilt off of him. His whole body hated him and he couldn't stop shivering as the cool morning air hit his skin. He washed his screen and dressed, not even attempting the tie as he blinked at his reflection in the mirror. He looked… older. It was strange, it's not as if Vox was particularly young when he died, but now he couldn't help but feel that being apart from Alastor had aged him the way even a lifetime hadn't. With a grimace, he turns away, stomping to the door to dance to whatever tune Rosie set for him today. 

The door opens smoothly, without so much as a creak, that's normal enough, Rosie and her many rotating husbands keep the house in top shape, what is unusual is that Rosie is standing outside the door waiting with him, a huge grin that shows all of her sharp teeth. 

"Good morning, Vox." 

"Good morning, Rosie," Vox replies cautiously. Rosie was unexpectedly chipper, and Vox wasn't sure what to make of it. Her hands are tucked behind her back. 

"I have a surprise for you, something to lighten your sour mood right up." 

Vox scoffs at that. He highly doubts that, but he's not about to voice that to Rosie. Not that it matters, he's sure she's already picked up on his lack of enthusiasm. 

Something barks—it's not like a dog. It reverberates like the air isn't quite the right medium to hear it. Vox's antenna twitch. He leans his head around curiously, stretching his neck out to see what she's hiding behind her wide pink skirts. 

"What's this?" he breathes out as his eyes land on something blue and sharklike with adorably wide eyes. " Oh ," Vox breathes out and he can't help but squat down and put his hand out, cooing, "Who's a good boy? It's a boy, right?" Rosie nods, "Whose such a good boy?" Vox continues in a baby voice as the shark creature rolls over and shows him his belly. Vox coos, he wants to bury his screen in the creature's cute belly. He had no idea hell creatures like this even existed. He's only seen shark sinners before and this obviously isn't a sinner. 

"What is he?" 

"A landshark, not very common up here in Pride. I've no idea where the little dear came from. One of my cannibals found him on the edge of town, and as soon as I saw him, I knew just what to do." 

Static ripples across his face in confusion as he looks up at Rosie. She smiles softly, "He's yours, dear, if you want him. I figured you could use a new friend while you waited, and well.. Alastor told me repeatedly about the hellhound puppy incident."

Vox's screen dims at the mention of Alastor. Alastor didn't like dogs… or pets. He bites his lip, looking at the landshark lolling his tongue out as Vox rubs his belly.  Well, if Alastor didn't like him, that was too bad. Vox could find him a new home, but until his mate got home, Vox was keeping the shark. 

"Unless you don't want him?"  

"No, no. I'll take him," Vox assures, wrapping his arms around the creature's neck. Now he just needed a name. 

Rosie smiles, "Good, I was hoping you'd say that." 

It's been almost a year. He's had two terrible heats curled up in his nest alone. Vox stayed in their house. Watching as every day Alastor faded away a bit more. Even the unwashed clothes Vox had kept carefully stored in the closet were losing the sweet smell of pecans. 

Vox couldn't let him go. He didn't want to. He wouldn't accept Hell without Alastor. Vox buried his face in Alastor's old coat before he took one of Alastor's silk shirts and pulled it on. This one doesn't smell like his mate anymore, but the feeling and the fact that it's Alastor's makes him feel safe as he tugs on the rest of his suit.

He slunk down to the kitchen to have a cup of coffee for breakfast. Rosie would box his non-exsistent ears in if she knew, but there was no one to rat him out and Vox certainly wasn't going to tell her. He flips the light on and moves mechanically towards the coffee maker, which was a recent addition. Without Alastor here, he had no idea how to make his coffee come out unburned from his fancy French press. So a brand new coffee maker it was, even if the coffee still tastes somewhat burned sometimes. Vox opens the overhead cupboard and snags on the bag of hell beans when his claw catches on the edge and it tears, scattering coffee beans across the floor. Fucking great, what a way to start his morning. He tilts the bag back, setting it on the counter, and bends down to scoop up the dark smattering of beans. 

He's got a pile in his hands when he realizes his shadow is squirming on the floor, wriggling and fuzzy on the edges. 

Vox freezes. "Is that you?" he whispers, leaning down, his screen practically pressed into the kitchen floorboards as he stares at his shadow. It sways again unnaturally despite no shifting light. Then it shifts. The shadow cast from his rectangular face shrinks into a glowing green grin and the outline of two fluffy deer ears. 

His heart stalls as Alastor's shadow pulls itself off the floor and chitters as it curls around him, purring happily as it hugs him. Vox melts into the embrace. He can't stop the staticky, electrified tears that drip down his face as he returns the hug. 

The shadow was intangible, half there, half not, like a cool mist, but Vox couldn't help but bury himself in it, searching for the familiar scent for the firm presence of his mate. 

"Alastor'll be back soon." Vox sobs, "I knew he'd come back. Where is he?" The shadow chitters at him, curling tighter, practically enveloping him, and Vox raises his face from the creature's chest. The usual smile is twisted into a deep frown and the creature shakes its head. What did that mean?

"He's okay though?" Vox asks desperately. The shadow's face disappears for a moment, leaving only eerie blackness. He wonders if that's what he looks like when he's rebooting.  When the green glowing smile and eyes return, the shadow pats him. 

"But he's coming back?" The shadow gives no indication, stays still, petting Vox's antenna. Vox's insides twist. What did that mean? The non-answers were only slightly better than nothing. But, if Alastor didn't care, if he wasn't planning to come back, he wouldn't have sent his shadow, right? Vox clings to that idea and clings to the shadow. 

Life isn't normal, but Vox can trick himself into feeling more normal with Alastor's shadow following every step he takes. He can pretend Alastor is watching him, just like all those years ago, waiting to step out of the shadows if Vox finds himself in a spot of trouble. 

And Vox doesn't so much find trouble as it comes knocking on his front door. Well, Alastor's front door, to be specific. It's been over a year and a half since Alastor's disappearance and his shadow's reappearance. 

New technology continued to seep into Hell, and in his absence, Vox took over maintaining the airwaves. He ran his studio, the power grid, and Alastor's nightly show with less murder than the deer would have probably liked. But if Alastor had a problem with his radio hosting abilities, he could come back and say it to his face. 

Decades of work were finally shaping up, becoming a reckoning force. VoxTek was the present, and it was the future. His company was shaping up to be a multimedia empire, and he couldn't wait to show Alastor all his new projects when he returned. He'd certainly had more time to focus his attention there while Alastor was away. He tutted his tongue in his mouth as his assistant again brought him the wrong file. Why was good help so hard to find in Hell? 

Then Vox pauses as the blue ink of the schematics he's looking at finally registers. He blinks. The shape is familiar, but smaller than he's used to, but Vox wouldn't mistake the lens of a camera for anything else. He turns over the design and looks for the engineer. Baxter was scrawled right beside the VoxTek logo at the bottom of the page. He didn’t recognize the name, which meant it was a new acquisition into his empire. He'd need to visit his research department because a camera this small and functional schematics? Well, that just reeked of potential. 

Depending on how expensive they were when they were built, Vox could put one on every border of his and Alastor's territory! He could feed the new technology into his network, into the layers of cables he'd carefully set up beneath the city streets, a visual element to his sensory network. It was perfect! And most importantly, Vox would be the first to know as soon as his mate set one hoof inside Pentagram City. 

"Varky!" Vox calls as he taps into his dress shoes. The eager landshark pup is at his heels in a second, circling excitedly as Vox holds up a red leash. 

Something pings from his newly established camera network, and Vox frowns. He spreads his awareness out through the cables. It's far on the edge of his network, but he would recognize the area anywhere. 

A zap of electricity shoots up his antenna. It's coming from Alastor's radio station. Was he back? 

Vox doesn't waste any time, scrabbling to set down Vark's leash and giving him a quick pat on the head and an apologetic coo as Vox crackles along the wires. It's Alastor, it has to be! He's back, he's finally back! 

He pops out of the wires in front of the radio tower, Alastor’s buck motif showing in the dark metal that makes up the station antenna. Vox practically skips to the front door, following the sense of motion from his camera. 

He is not greeted by his mate. Instead, fifteen sinners, all burly looking, all alphas, are barricaded in front of the station door like an unruly mob. Crowbars and explosives clutched in their hands as they try to break down the front door. Vox stops in his tracks. 

How dare they! How fucking dare they! 

This is Alastor territory! Vox's now by proxy until he gets back, claimed and marked by the VoxTek sticker resting over the door. And they thought they could steal it from him! Vox is hissing and sparking. He shoves his hand through the heart of the nearest sinner, not even bothering to introduce himself. 

After that, it's all chaos and screams. Vox sends bolts of electricity flying, not caring where they hit as long as they hit someone! Eventually, the alphas wise up, slinking back and ducking behind any rubble they can find, not knowing that it's going to save them. 

Hell runs on his power and Vox has spent decades making this part of Pentagram City his fortress. He twitches his fingers and the cables rise from under the street, sparking as the alphas try to flee. Vox will see them all turned to ash for this. Let them be a lesson. Maybe he’ll broadcast this footage tomorrow as a reminder that no one is going to take Alastor's tower from him. 

Vox miscounts. He thinks he has them all, all fifteen, as he collapses in a slump by the radio tower's front door. It's stupid, sloppy. The kind of thing that Alastor would be reading him his rights for. 

The whistling of a bullet is all Vox hears before his screen shatters. His vision goes dark as he throws himself to the side. His head is on fire and he can't fucking see! He lashes out at everything, throwing all his electricity into the air around him and every metal thing in fucking street. Bloodcurdling screams fill the air and then silence follows. The smell of fried hair lingers unpleasantly. 

Blackness surrounds him, only the occasional pop or a hiss from the cooling bodies give him any indicator where he is. 

This has never happened before. He's never broken his screen before, not in all his years in Hell. He's dinged it. He’s had to replace components like any other machine, but this? What if he stayed broken? What if there was no fixing it? Should he finish the job and wait for his body to regenerate? Panic courses through him like poison. 

His head pounds, sparking incessantly, and he can feel a void where his face should be, as only sensory deprivation remains. Vox stumbles towards the vague tingle of electricity and throws himself into the wires. He has to get to his workshop, to Papermint; he could fix this. He had to fix this. If he didn't have his face, would Alastor even recognize him when he returned? Vox presses his claws on their mating mark, trying to reassure himself. 

Even when his screen is replaced, his whole head upgraded by necessity. The nagging feeling doesn't leave him. If Alastor returned would he even still want him?  

Vox liked to stroll through Cannibal Town. The nagging voice of Alastor in his head reminded him that a bit of sunshine and exercise was good for him. If Alastor was here Vox knows he would argue with him on principle, but since he isn't, well, Vox strolls, taking the familiar paths sometimes with Vark and sometimes without. It's almost meditative as the familiar cobblestones click under his heels. 

It's only happenstance that Vox finds her, that he chose today of all days for one of his infrequent strolls. A freshly fallen sinner is crumpled in an alley outside the butcher's row. At first, Vox mistakes her for an unregenerated corpse, a familiar sight especially so close to the butchers, but then he catches the milky scent of a pup and he freezes in his tracks. He locks on, stepping off the main street. His instincts urge him closer, sniffing cautiously. This was Hell after all; this could all be an elaborate trick to catch him off guard. An Overlord was quite a prize. 

Their scent is neutral, barely there like a pup, being so close to his pre-heat, Vox can't resist following the smell, stepping around the rotting vegetables and decaying bones tossed out in the alley. He finds the doll.  Their hair—wig?—is matted, clumped up with dirt and oil, with a unique singed quality that makes it impossible to tell its actual color. The fresh to hell sinner hisses at him and swipes their unclawed hand out. Their overall demeanor leaves the distinct impression of a stray kitten and the glare they fix him with really sells the image. 

"Hello there." 

"Fuck off," doll hisses. The voice is small and feminine. They try to scrabble back further into the fortress of garbage. Vox grimaces at the sweet rotten decay that wafts up from the disturbance. 

"I have no intention of hurting you," Vox tries again, keeping his distance. 

"Do you need your ears checked, you old fuck, I said sod off!" Well, this sinner certainly had a mouth. They raise a hand to flip him the bird, and Vox considers leaving the there to fend for themself. Pup or not, he could go find some hellhounds to smother with his affection. At least they'd appreciate it! That's when he catches sight of their legs, or rather the lack of legs from the knee down; it's just mangled, warped plastic. 

"What happened there?" he asks with a frown. 

"None of your—" the doll starts, but Vox is already kneeling, assessing the damage with a clinical touch. Would these regenerate? It was always harder to tell with non-organic sinners; Vox's components certainly didn't. Vox catches her wary and furious snarl as they try to dig their dirty nails into his face. The doll’s scent is sour and curdled in fear. Ultimately, it's their scent that does him in. Is this what Alastor felt like when they met all these years ago? 

He scoops them up, ignoring their hissing like an angry kitten as he throws the doll over his shoulder and zaps into a nearby powerline. 

Velvette is the name she uses when she screams to the whole neighborhood she’s been kidnapped. She's quite…spirited. She spends the first day cursing Vox out and trying to climb out the window without any legs. It's quite impressive, honestly. There are a few choice statements he's written into his memory banks for later use. Vox has to hold himself back from laughing in her face when she threatens to snap his antenna off and shove it up his arse. 

The barely there shadow attempts to rise and hiss at Velvette for that threat, but Vox coos at it until it grumpily settles back into the darkness. Vox presents her with a set of prosthetic legs the next day. She calls them hideous scrap rejects, even though they're the best money can buy in the Pride Ring and Vox designed them himself. 

The next day he expects to find his house empty again; Velvette finally making good on her escape attempts now that she has legs. Instead, he finds her petting Vark and examining all of the photos of Alastor and him on the walls. Vox leaves her to it. As long as she doesn’t burn down the house, there’s not much she can do. Even if she steals anything to pawn, Vox can retrieve it later. 

It takes her months, but eventually, she warms up to him. Showing Velvette his workshop and his newest cellular device certainly speeds things along. She might be young, but she certainly has a head on her shoulders. 

Their house is far less empty with Velvette in it. Vox moves into Alastor’s room and gives her his old guest room to keep. 

Vox awakens, shaky and weak from his latest heat. He pulls on his robe in a fog; he'll need to shower, but his stomach aches, and his mouth feels like the Sahara desert, so Velvette will have to deal with him being a bit more pungent than usual over breakfast. He's surprised when he makes his way down the stairs that she's not already hoarding the coffee pot. She insists that she be the one to make it. Not that Vox minds, Alastor used to insist too, and Shadow used to do it, but… well, he's been a bit slower than usual, so Vox doesn't mind if the entity takes a break. 

The process of filling the water and shoving as many coffee grounds as possible into the filter is calming, a nice return to normal after painfully unending cramps that made him wish he was dying for the last five days in a nest by himself. Vox adds a mental note to invest in suppressants. With his current influence and register of souls, he could make something with fewer side effects, and then maybe he wouldn't feel like he was dying every few months. 

With Alastor's favorite pink mug steaming with morning ambrosia, Vox sits at the kitchen table, thumbing through a slightly holey newspaper Vark had been kind enough to bring in. 

A faint chittering fills the air. Vox glances around before his eyes land on Shadow. The creature gives him a wave, and Vox freezes. Instantly, Vox drops out of his chair onto the kitchen floor, where the shadow is resting. Fear stabs into his heart as his claws easily pull through the shadow. It lets out a weak churl at the touch. The edges are wispy, like a worn-down favorite sweater beginning to unravel.

It's wrong. Faded and barely there, even its perpetual grin looks thin. 

"No, no, no. What's wrong? I can fix it! Do you need souls?" Vox begs, holding his hand out for the shadow to take as he steeped it in his contracts. A few hundred would be enough to fix this. 

The shadow lets out a mournful cry and slowly shakes its head. Its hands slide through Vox as it tries to push his wrist away. It can't even solidify to touch him. Shadow is cool to the touch usually, but Vox can’t even feel it now.  How had Vox been so stupid? He knew it was getting slow and making fewer appearances. It was barely even present in his nest despite usually getting rather cuddly during his heats in Alastor's absence. 

A thought like ice water slides down his back. If the shadow was attached to Alastor, fed off his power, and was now running out… what did that mean for Alastor? Vox had clung ever since Shadow reappeared to the idea that Shadow was alive, so Alastor must be too. But if he was fading… did that mean Alastor was—Vox shakes his head, unable to stomach the thought that his shadow, a last memento he'd sent to Vox, a final gift. 

The room dims as every light overhead explodes. Vox sits there numbly on the floor, his coffee forgotten. Everything forgotten except for the racing questions about what all of this meant and the never-resting question of where Alastor was and why he left. 

Velvette finds him later, much later, after the house has grown dark, and all of Pentagram City has grown dark, with no street lamps flickering on to help alleviate it. She cusses him out and then prods at him. When that doesn't work, she holds up the phone, firm as she presses it into his hands. He looks at her blankly, unsure what she expects him to do with it. She lets out an exasperated sigh and then a huff as she holds it up to his microphone. 

"Vox?" Rosie's voice echoes into the empty house from the phone. "Vox, honey, Velvette called, and she's concerned. The electricity seems to be on the fritz. Is something wrong, dear?" 

"No," Vox chokes out his voice thick and wet. When had he started crying? He doesn't remember that. 

Rosie sighs into the receiver. "I'll be over lickity-split now, dear, don't do anything rash." 

Vox scoffs. Him do something rash? How was he supposed to do that when he couldn't even bring himself to get off the floor? When Rosie hangs up, Vox finally sees Velvette. 

"You called Rosie?" Vox accuses his pup. 

Velvette rolls her eyes. "Yeah, well, you've been staring at the wall blankly for three hours and didn't even notice when I walked in or that you knocked the power out. So, I figured the old bird was the best bet when you didn't even complain that I used you as a charger or notice Vark whining." 

"Fuck Vark!" Vox curses, jumping to his feet. How could he have forgotten? That was… Vark relied on him; he was helpless without him, and he couldn't even do that right! No wonder Alastor left him! 

A static-filled sob crackles out of his speakers. "Whoa, whoa. Vox!" Velvette lets out in alarm. He's not sure if she's ever seen him cry before. "I took Vark out, fed him dinner, and all that, yeah? I could tell you were out of it." 

"Look at him!" Vox yells, gesturing at Shadow, and then he breaks down. It's too dark to see anything even with Velvette's flashlight phone. Vox prays Shadow is still there. Pentagram City stays dark for the next week. 

Chapter Text

Alastor strolls up to the dilapidated hotel building. It's marred by bright red and pink and an awful sense of rot. It truly is an eyesore, even by Hell's standards. He hums as he goes, an old Frank Sinatra song, one of Vox's favorites, as he climbs the steps to the heavy wooden door. 

Vox would be even more upset when he realized he'd come to see the Princess's new charity project before his mate. He hates that it must be this way, especially since he's spent the last seven years clinging to the memory of Vox's scent, of his soft smiles, but the deal is the deal. And nearly a century in the making, Alastor is almost unchained, one last task to help Hell's spoiled royal, and he will be free. 

His hold tightens on his cane as he reaches out and knocks on the door. His sensitive ears pick up murmurs on the inside and an unmistakable squeal of delight as footsteps move closer to the door. 

The door opens with a creak, and Alastor opens his mouth to introduce himself, only to find it quickly slammed in his face. Well, that was quite rude. 

"Uh, Vaggie, the Radio Demon is at the door?" He hears a rushed whisper. His ears flick, tuning into the conversation. It was good to know that his reputation had not waned in his absence. 

Another voice picks up quieter and more masculine. "Yeah, I've heard of them. Who hasn't down here? One of the two biggest Omega badasses Hell's ever seen. Upending centuries of Hell's hierarchies and toppling Overlords overnight." 

Ah, it seems Vox’s reputation has grown in his absence. The thought of his Picture Box makes his heart twinge. Seven years, what has Vox been doing for the time? What did he think of Alastor's sabbatical? Surely nothing good, but Vox was… well, nothing was insurmountable. Alastor could be quite charming even if their reconciliation took longer than he would like. 

This vein of thought leaves him anxious and unhappy. Alastor can't help but tap his foot impatiently. The sooner he completes this task, the sooner he can see Vox again. The door creaks open a crack as another woman's face appears. He parts his lips to start his pitch when the door slams shut again. He releases a crackle of static in the air. He raises his fist to knock again when the door is unceremoniously thrown open. 

"Welcome to the Happy Hotel!" The very excited Princess of Hell proclaims, practically buzzing, whether from nerves or other reasons are unclear as Alastor steps through the door. His smile and scent stay steady, but internally, he can't help the dismay upon seeing his future living arrangement. The inside of the hotel was worse than the decrepit, rundown exterior. This wouldn't do at all. Not for him to settle, and certainly not for Vox when he went to collect his mate. He walks around the lobby, taking note of the yellow stains on the ceiling and the thick coating of dust that's gathered on the window panes. 

He spins back around to the Princess and her glowering silver-haired companion. "So pleased to meet you, your highness. The name's Alastor. It's a pleasure to be meeting you!" He sticks his hand out. The Princess hesitates before slowly reaching out to take his hand. Alastor's smile widens. 

"Charlie! Are you here to check into our hotel?" The faint glimmer of hope on the Princess's face is delicious. Alastor can't wait to crush it. 

He laughs, loud and deep. It echoes through the mostly empty room. Tears gather in the corner of his eyes, and he dramatically wipes them away as he looks at Charlie's crestfallen face. "Hah, no. I'm afraid I have no such plans." 

The other woman lets out a growl and Alastor flicks his attention over to her. Despite her smaller stature, she is all coiled muscles, a spear clenched in her fist. If Alastor had to guess, he would have presumed alpha, but curiously, she lacks any scent. "Then why are you here?"

"Well, that's simple! I saw your interview on one of those noisy picture boxes and had to see it myself. I thought, 'Now there is a gal with a real vision.'" 

"So you believe that redemption is possible?" The hope is back in her eyes. 

Alastor clucks his teeth, "No! Of course not. We've had our time in the sun, made our decisions. Now we get to delight in our eternal suffering."  The Princess wilts like a flower, folding in on herself at his declaration. Alastor leans in closer. She really was so expressive, much like his favorite Picture Box. "But, does anyone else's opinion matter, my dear?" 

"What?" The Princess's eyes widened.

"You believe redemption is possible, so why should it matter if anyone else holds the same sentiment?" Charlie's mouth falls open, and her stab-happy frowny companion is gaping at him, no doubt expecting something else entirely. "Press on with the stubbornness of a boar." Alastor says cheerily, "I simply want to assist; no doubt it will be entertaining!" He can't keep the filter from covering his voice; his dealmaker's plans hinged on redemption.  

"Entertainment?" the silver-haired woman said flatly, her arms crossed. Charlie, you can't trust someone with a motive like that." 

"I know—but! Vaggie, he seems interested in the hotel! We've had no one but Angel here in weeks! Maybe he can observe and that will change his mind!" 

The girl's optimism was truly endless. "You'll accept my assistance? We have a deal then." Alastor asks, his smile arcing up as he sticks out his hand. 

Charlie bats it away and Alastor's ears flick in irritation at the unwelcome, however brief, touch. "No, no deals, buuuuuut you can stay and help out if you want." 

Not as useful as a deal, but a start. A foot in the door, as Vox would say. "Splendid! I suppose that will do for now." Alastor claps his hands together, sending out a burst of power as he calls his thralls, "Well, we must get this place in order if you want to have any real guests!" 

"Hey," The vaguely familiar spider who'd been watching from his lounging position on the coach called in offense. 

In a swirl of dark magic, Husk appears behind a newly created bar. His poker chips scatter across the carpet. The former Overlord is left scrambling as he takes in the overwhelming red of the hotel wallpaper. Niffty, Alastor is much more careful about summoning. She pops up just on the edges of the unlit fireplace. 

"Oh, not fucking you," Husk says unhappily behind the bar. Alastor laughs and dances into his space, flaring his scent in a way he knows irritates the alpha's sensitive nose. 

"Have you missed me, Husker?" Alastor bats his eyes—the perfect image of a demure omega. 

"Like a hole in my head." His thrall shoots back. Alastor throws his head back and cackles. He has missed this. Husker grimaces at him.  "Where is your better half? Does he know whatever racket you're running? Because last time I saw him, he wasn't too pleased with you," Husk presses, and Alastor's ears flick forward in irritation. 

"What my mate does or does not know is none of your business, Husker."

After an initial dusting around the room, Niffty stops in front of him after hearing Husk's words. Her eyes widen in excitement. "Ohhh, are you going to get your bad boy omega, sir? " she asks in delight as she climbs up his pant leg. Alastor gives her a conspiratorial wink, and she cackles. 

"My dear, you will have one more guest by the end of the day. I guarantee it! Tata!" he calls as he strolls out the door. Now to find out what his Picture Box had gotten into while he was away. He could feel Vox in the airwaves, much stronger and denser than before. His presence blanketed most of the parts of the city. It was impressive, but more importantly, it was reassuring that Vox was doing well. 

Alastor longed to breathe his scent in, to curl up in Vox's lap and let him stroke his ears. It truly had been far too long. 

Alastor takes the long walk to Cannibal Town to gather his thoughts. He'd spent years of his absence imagining what it would be like to see Vox again. Now it was so close as he breathed in the sulfurous air and followed the familiar path to their home. He sees the dark red paint of their front porch railing. Their house looked much the same as when he had left seven years ago, even down to the purple heliconias blooming in the front flower bed. Alastor treads up the porch steps, not even hesitating to swing the door open and step inside. 

He toes off his shoes, lining them neatly against a pair of blue and black dress shoes that can only be Vox's. He lingers, appreciating the homey sight of their shoes lined up. He is home at last. And if Vox's shoes are here, then his Picture Box is also. 

Alastor steps lightly, his hooves tapping on the soft pine floors as he heads for the parlor. The house is rather faint. He expected to be inundated with Vox's familiar scent upon arriving home. There's no doubt that Vox has been here, and the scent doesn't even smell old per se… but it does smell rather faint, which Alastor doesn't quite understand. No matter, he's sure it's nothing. 

Alastor's heart stops beating when he sees Vox. He's leaning forward, hunched over a book on his favorite chair. He looks exactly as Alastor remembers, like he'd never left. Alastor can't hold himself back as he throws himself across the room and wraps his arms around Vox. 

"What have you done with yourself while I was away, darling?" Alastor asks, leaning into Vox's neck to bathe in the familiar smell of ozone and ocean—his little storm. Unfortunately, Vox's scent was faint, hardly there at all, and that was concerning in itself. He noses at his partner's scent gland, hoping to coax a stronger smell. When that fails, he licks over his bond mark. His tongue takes in the familiar indents from his partner's neck scars. Still, there is nothing. "What is wrong with your scent?"

"I'm on suppressants, okay!" Vox says with a huff of irritation and crosses his arms over his chest, but he doesn't move away as Alastor vigorously scent marks him, completely overpowering Vox's faint ozone smell with his chicory coffee and sweet pecan smell. 

Alastor hisses in displeasure, "You know how I feel about those, my dear." 

"Yeah, well, you weren't here," electricity crackles between Vox's antennas, and he bats Alastor off of him. The charge in the air shifts, and Alastor's ears twitch at the uncomfortable buildup of static as Vox's tightly held anger grows, "You left me for seven years and fucked off to do who knows what! What was I supposed to do? Sleep with some alpha fuck!"

" NO," Alastor's lips curl back at the suggestion. 

"What was I supposed to do? Newsflash, asshole scents fade, and I suffered through heat by myself for two years before I couldn't take it anymore! Thinking you were coming back to me! Do you know what that was like?!"

"You act as if I did not also spend my heats alone, Vox—" 

"Yeah, well, I wonder whose fault that was?" Vox says unkindly, but not incorrectly.  

"Ah," Alastor had not expected this would be easy; Vox was not known for his forgiveness and his memory was impeccable. Alastor's ears lowered. His shadow trills sadly and hugs Vox's shoulders, his mate relaxes into the intangible touch. With his scent so faint, Alastor can't tell if his mood has evened out, but Alastor feels a stab of jealousy at how easily he accepts the touch when he moves from his touch. His antlers grow and he yanks his shadow back to him with a displeased hiss. 

Vox raises an unimpressed eyebrow, "You're on thin ice. I like shadow a lot more than I like you right now." 

"Well, if it's any consolation, I have no plans to leave again." 

Vox scoffs, "If you did, would you even tell me?" 

"Now, darling, I'm afraid you are not being fair."

"Hell isn't fair," Vox says flatly and Alastor's ears droop. 

The silence eats at him. Vox is here! Alastor could touch him, so why does he still feel so far away? Their house is familiar, with a few more trinkets on the edges and no doubt little innovations that caught his mate's eye, but still, Vox had kept things largely as they were, like he had been waiting just as Alastor had. 

Alastor falls heavily into his favorite armchair across from Vox, threading his fingers together. He fluctuates his signal, hoping Vox will pick up on all the words, the sentiments Alastor can't seem to wrap his tongue around. 

"Vox-" Alastor starts anew—his mate's bright red eyes on him, when heavy clinking crosses the front porch. Alastor's ears flick towards the noise and he bites back a hiss. Now was not the time for visitors, and if they were solicitors, Alastor would swallow them whole for ruining their reunion. 

Alastor waits, ready to take care of whoever it is. Even beloved Rosie would not be welcome at the moment. There isn't a knock though. There's no knock as their door is thrown open and the bobbing head of a red-haired sinner strolls into their front hall. The woman hardly even looks up as she chews loudly and then blows an obnoxious pink bubble with chewing gum, popping it obnoxiously. 

"Vox, who's this tosser?" her accented voice growls. Alastor's eyes flip to radio dials as an unfamiliar sinner stands rudely in their door, her needle claws extended. Alastor shoves off his chair, ensuring Vox is behind him, and hisses as he looms over the red-headed, doll-like woman. The woman growls back, flashing her canines at Alastor. 

"You have quite the gall coming into our house uninvited, girl," Alastor bites back. 

The sinner's eyes narrow, "Fuck you, I live here." 

Alastor lunges—

"Wait! Wait!" Vox says, darting between Alastor and his prey with a flash of electricity. Alastor manages to avoid Vox barely. His jaws snapped shut inches from his screen. "This is Velvette… she's… uh." The pixels on Vox's face quickly switch to a faint purple. Normally, Alastor would find it an endearing look on the television. Now was not one of those times; instead, he clenched his jaw, biting his lower lip in the process as black blood began to leak down his face. His scent curdles and fills the air. Even in his suppressed state, Vox can smell it as his digital eyes go wide and he instinctively tilts his head up, showing his neck in submission. Alastor ignores the display and makes no effort to rein in his pheromones. 

"Vox, why does she say she lives with you?" Alastor's voice is calm and even, but his antlers spring from his head, their shadows elongating on the wallpaper. "You said you spent your heats alone!"

"It's not what you think!" Vox blurts out, flinching back as Alastor hisses, his neck snapping as his demonic form begins to emerge. The annoying girl looks shell-shocked as she tries to shrink behind Vox. The action only stokes Alastor's rage. If the whore laid a hand on his mate, he would rend her flesh from her bones and then… His smile grew painfully tight as he thought about what he would have to do to Vox. Vox was his. And if Vox had forgotten that from just a few years apart. He would need to be reminded and more permanent measures would be taken. 

"It's…" Vox looks like he's struggling to find words; his pupils are pinpricks, and he's sparking, electricity dancing back and forth on his antenna. His signal jumped rapidly,  "Just smell her."

"Vox?!" The girl says in alarm, she's practically shaking as Alastor grins at her. Vox gives the girl a look and then a small reassuring smile. 

Alastor's eyes narrow as he looks between his mate and the pest. He makes no effort to shift down to his smaller effort. Instead, he presses forward into the girl's space, ensuring his yellowing teeth are on full display. Vox watches the whole thing closely but doesn't move as Alastor presses closer to the girl's scent gland. He has no idea what Vox thinks he'll find, but if it's not to Alastor's pleasure, it will be easy enough to take a bite of the sinner.   

The girl flinches and is practically vibrating with fear. Good. She should fear him. He lets out a pleased hum at the reaction before he breathes in deeply. 

She smells milky like a pup and faintly of Vox, like he had scented her despite his suppressants. It's odd. Alastor sniffs again, trying to puzzle it out before the pieces click into place: she's unpresented. 

It was rare for a sinner to be unpresented in Hell. It means they died young in life and most that die that young have not done anything to warrant a descent into Hell. 

" Oh ." 

That's why Vox had brought her home. He never had been able to resist trying to bring home strays. 

Alastor reels back violently, tearing away from the girl and Vox. He flees to the other side of the room, panting as his instincts scream at him for scaring a child.  Vox quickly steps in front of the girl and gives her shaking shoulder a reassuring squeeze before he purrs and leans in to press his screen to her forehead. The girl wraps her arms around him and briefly clings to Vox. 

Alastor watches it all as his omega instincts swing wildly between urging him to flee to give the pup space, wanting to purr at his mate being such a doting parent, and his desire to go over and scentmark both of them. He chooses to do nothing as he watches Vox try to settle the pup even without his scent.

"Apologies, my dears, things may have gotten a bit out of hand for a moment." 

The pup scoffs at him, "Like a sorry means anything if you can't keep your teeth to yourself, you arse! Fucking waltzing in and making gross assumptions about us." Alastor's ears flick and then droop. The words are not far from what he had told Vox all those years ago when he first fell to Hell.  

"This is not how I wanted this to go," Vox mutters, touching the center of his screen like he's trying to pinch his nose, an old human stress habit his mate had never quite shaken. Alastor can't help but relate; none of this is how he wanted their reunion to go.  

Alastor looks at his shadow, still pinned to his feet with an unhappy frown marring his face. "Did you know about this?" he whispers. The shadow crosses its arms over its chest and nods. Alastor gets the distinct feeling through their tethering bond of disapproval. 

After a few more awkward moments of silence, the pup steps away and Vox clears his throat. "Velvette, this is Alastor, my mate. Alastor, this is Velvette. She's been living with me for about two years." Vox rests a reassuring hand on the girl's shoulder. The girl—Velvette shakes him off with a glare. 

"Some mate you picked there, Vox," Velvette says, looking wholly unimpressed. Alastor grimaces and 

"Things may be a bit tense now, but I'm sure you'll get along… eventually."

She scoffs again, "I wouldn't count on that, but I'm going to my room. You can sort out whatever this is between you old fucks, but you better not bang on the kitchen counter or the couch." 

Vox's face flashes purple, and he looks downright scandalized. Alastor's not quite sure why; he doubts he and Vox will get into a physical altercation, let alone break furniture. 

"Vel— we don't do that!"

She snorts. "Whatever, just keep it away from my sensitive, virginal ears." 

Vox's mouth drops open, and Alastor can't help but laugh at an expression he's never seen Vox wear before, not even when he found the corpses in the freezer. It's somewhere between abject horror, disapproval, and embarrassment. Before Vox can pick any new words to lob at the pup, she's already gone out of sight. 

Vox sighs, rubbing at the center of his screen. A stress habit he hasn't shaken after years in Hell despite his lack of a nose. Usually, it would make Alastor chuckle, but now it made Alastor want to tuck Vox away in their nest and make him get some rest. Hopefully, there would be time for that after he convinces Vox to join him at the hotel. 

Alastor clears his throat, feeling awkward in the wake of his misunderstanding. "My dear, I truly am sorry." 

Vox waves him off with another long sigh. "Yeah, I know. I… I know you don't hurt pups and that you were thinking," Vox grimaces, "something inane about our relationship. Which, seriously, Alastor?" Alastor opens his mouth to interject, to defend himself or at least say something, but Vox is already steamrolling along. "Where were you, Alastor?" Vox cuts out. He's not looking at him; it feels like a knife in his heart. 

Alastor's teeth click shut. That's one thing he can't tell Vox. How like Vox to drag up all the topics Alastor does not wish to discuss one after the other.  It makes him feel so wrongfooted. 

"I can't tell you." 

Vox's eyes narrow. "Can't or won't?" 

"Can't," Alastor reiterates firmly, letting his signal prickle for Vox to feel. His Picture Box is smart enough to pick up the implication. 

The minutes drag on in silence until Vox finally lets out an assessing, "Huh. And you don't expect that this will happen again?" 

Alastor can't answer that, not honestly, not with the terms of his deal, but he can say one thing: "Not if I have it my way and things go according to plan. Which is to say, Vox, I've started on a new venture, something I think you might enjoy observing. Princess Charlotte Mourningstar has opened a new hotel and I plan to assist her." 

"That dump! Why would you want to get involved with that fucking disaster? Did you see her interview? Great for ratings, not promising as a business idea. Besides you working at a hotel, I can't imagine that. What are you going to be her bellhop?" Vox snorts. Alastor's ears twitch in irritation. 

"No, her hotelier." Alastor grits out. It was far from the praise and support he had hoped for from his mate. "I came to ask for you to join me or at least move into the room I plan to take up residence in." 

"What's wrong with our house?" Vox asks flatly, and a spark of electricity arcs up his antenna. His scent is souring by the second. 

"Nothing, I assure you, my dear. You've taken great care with the place, but I fear that with the state of the place it will—"

"Alastor, you can teleport. Why can't you come sleep in our house, in our nest that you left empty for seven years!?" 

Ah, and there was the crux of it. Vox's arms are crossed as sparks dance around his screen, colored bars jump on and off his mate's screen in worrisome flashes. "Darling, perhaps we should sit down and take a break—"

"I don't want to take a break!" Vox spits. I want to know how you can prance in here after seven years of me, alone, trying to keep it together and then not even wanting to stay."Vox's voice cracks. "Did I not do a good enough job?" 

Alastor teleports closer without a thought, even the seconds it would take him to cross the room feel too long as he scoops up Vox into a hug. "Hush, hush, it was never that Picture Box. Never that. You did everything wonderfully. I even love what you've done with my show. I never would have left you willingly. Never. " Vox's shoulders shake as he crushes his arms around Alastor, burying his screen in his shoulder. Alastor doesn't comment on the sudden dampness of his suit jacket. "And if I do this one thing well, I will never have to leave you again. So, please, Vox, won't you join me? These years apart have been torture. I don't want to sleep in an empty nest." 

" Fi-Ine," Vox glitches out wetly. "But I'm not sleeping over there on weekends, Velvette needs me and Vark needs his walks and—" 

"Vark?" Alastor starts to ask before a distinctive camera click sounds, followed by a string of swears. Alastor's head swivels towards the sound. 

"Velvette, my dear," Vox calls up the stairs, where the girl is leaning against the wall, one of those new cellular devices in her hands as she curses. She hadn't left; she'd stepped out of sight to eavesdrop—no doubt learning the very valuable lesson that the Radio Demon and modern technology do not mix. Alastor isn't sure if he should be offended or proud of Vox's pup's gaul. "I'm going with Alastor; he wants me to see his new project. I may not be back for a bit." 

Velvette waves a hand before looking back at the small, screened technological device humming, "Fine, fine. Go move in with your Beau, but fix my phone first. That fucker did something to it," She accuses with a heated glare. Alastor sniffs that was hardly his fault.  

Vox sighs before he merely waves his hand, and a new cellular device appears in the girl's hands in a blue show of sparks. Vox is spoiling the child. "Thanks, Vee. I'll watch the house for you and the boytoy over there, but if he fucks anything up, I'm murdering him."

"That doesn't mean you get to redecorate," Vox admonishes in what clearly must be a recurring argument. He doesn't comment on the pup's threat, nor does Alastor even as she gives him a sharp, needle-filled smile. This pup is sure to be trouble for him in the future. He can feel it, even as his traitorous shadow pats the girl on the head. 

"Well, I guess you'll just have to check in regularly to make sure I'm not putting all your old man wardrobe out on the street to finally put you into something that doesn't make my eyes bleed." With one final roll of her eyes, Velvette stalks off. Vox let out an amused huff at her attitude that Alastor doesn't share, but this was his fault for not being here to stop Vox from taking in strays. 

Alastor is pleased that the Princess is very enthusiastic about Vox's presence. His mate had done even better in his absence than he could have imagined. 

"Oh, Mister Vox," Alastor grits his teeth. He is not jealous that the Princess of Hell immediately recognized his mate without him speaking a word. Not at all, that would be petty. He was very proud that Vox had risen to such a prestigious figure in his absence. 

"Yes, this is Vox." Alastor reached an arm around Vox's shoulders and tugged him close despite the TV sinner's grumbles. He's promised to help out, and he'll be moving in."

Vox splutters, "Al, I didn't say tha—" 

"Oh my goodness, an Overlord is interested in redemption!" The Princess is still vigorously shaking Vox's hand. 

A record scratch fills the air, and Vox's face turns fully to static. "No such thing, my dear. Vox is purely here as a benefactor like myself." 

"Yeah," Husker mutters from the bar, " benefactor."

Alastor graciously chooses to ignore Husk's disrespect, in favor of showing Vox around. Charlie trails after them like a puppy with her own silver shadow. The girl keeps interjecting her latest ideas and vision for her hotel in a flood of words. When Vox starts interjecting his suggestions, Alastor knows he has his Picture Box, hook, line, and sinker. He can already see the twinkle in Vox's eye that he gets when he starts to see the potential in a new project. 

It's been a month of misadventures since Vox- who still staunchly claims he hasn't moved into the hotel despite sleeping in a shared nest nearly every night of the week and having a whole dresser to himself- has begun co-managing the hotel with him. So it's unusual for Alastor to wake up alone in their hotel nest. He sits up slowly, letting his back creak as he musses his naturally curly red hair out of his eyes and rolls out. His hooves step lightly on the carpet of his room. Vox had refused to sleep in the bayou, even decades later, his Picture Box was still such a city slicker. 

Alastor dresses himself. With a snap of his magic, he straightens his hair into his usual bob and then heads out the door, set on finding out what his mate is up to. 

"Where is Vox?" Alastor asks as he steps off the stairs into the lobby. There's a pep in his step after a successful hunt the night before. He's surprised Vox wasn't still lounging in bed, but he can smell he's nearby. So he lets his instincts settle. 

"Oh," Charlie pipes up from behind the concierge desk, "He's in the kitchen. He said he wanted to make breakfast for everyone. Isn't that the nicest thing! He told me he'd let me know when it was ready to go get everyone." 

Alastor's ears lie flat on his head and the static pops around him, " Oh ."

"Is something wrong, Alastor?"

"Nothing, my dear, nothing at all." He would let them discover the problem for themselves. At the very least, it should be amusing. Vox could be so inventive in his torture without even realizing it. Alastor sighed. Perhaps his time away was coloring his perception, or perhaps Vox had improved without Alastor there to take charge of the kitchen for all those years. 

His hopes are quickly dashed when he enters the hotel's dining room and sees black smoke pouring from the connecting kitchen door. The hotel patrons are all seated. Some—Charlie and Sir Pentious—looked far more excited than others. Alastor sits on the far end of the table, vanishing his microphone as he sits. An easy smile rests on his face as he keeps an eye on the kitchen door. 

"Fuck no," Husker says as soon as he walks through the door and sees everyone but Vox present, "I need two more cases of vodka before I'll even consider trying Vox's cooking again." Alastor quickly whirls on him, his eyes flipping to dials as he opens a shadow portal under Husker and promptly drops him in the seat to Alastor's left. The shadow tendril snakes up from the floor and covers Husk's legs and arms, pinning him in his chair with no chance of escape. 

"Mind your manners, Husker," Alastor advises as his Shadow curls around Husk's shoulders, laughing. "Vox is doing us all a kindness this morning. Why, I'm sure our dear Charlie is already thinking about how cooking can be part of the redemption program. Isn't that right, my dear?" 

"Oh my goodness! I wasn't, but that's such a good idea. We can do group cooking activities and learn about sharing! Wow, I can't wait to share that with Vox. He was so excited to make breakfast this morning." The Princess continues to ramble, and Alastor hums along in agreement. Vox will only ever be participating in that type of program if Alastor is around to observe; otherwise, he will simply have to schedule such activities while Vox is at VoxTek. He stops musing and tunes back into the conversation when he hears Vagatha intercede. 

"Isn't feeding people for omegas like an 'i nstinct thing' ?"The gray-haired woman waves her hand around, searching for the right word before landing so eloquently on "instinct." She looks at Alastor and Angel Dust expectantly. 

Angel shrugs, "Yeah, I guess. I only really cook for Cherri before my heat. It feels nice, you know, to make sure your pack's healthy. It's like a trust thing for some omegas." 

Charlie is practically buzzing at the explanation: "Wow! I had no idea! Dad always cooked for us, but—" She trails off, and Alastor tilts his head. Daddy issues; he'll have to remember that. "Anyway, I'm so glad Vox trusts us!" 

Smoke pours out of the kitchen door on that very happy note as Vox hurries out with a heaping pile of something blackened beyond recognition. A smile rests on his face as he proudly lays his large platter of something on the table. 

"Bon appétit!" He says proudly, and with a showman's flourish, dips into a bow as he rests a serving fork on china. 

"Maybe we should—" Charlie starts, her smile slipping into a nervous look as she eyes the smoking breakfast before them. She picks up the fork and Alastor gives her a pleased nod. 

"You'll have to tell me what you think. I tried a new seasoning!" Vox babbles happily, using his claws to take a piece of food and nibble on it. Alastor hums and pulls the serving dish to himself, taking a fair amount, resigned to the fact that he would be following this meal with something raw to get the taste out of his mouth. 

When the platter is then passed to Husker, the cat demon blanches.  Alastor's shadow dishes up an especially large portion on his thrall's plate. 

Alastor picks up his fork and spears a large piece, not bothering to cut it. It would turn to ash on his plate if he tried. He slips it into his mouth and swallows without chewing. He smacks his lips a few times to clear the taste before he turns to Vox with a smile. "It's delicious as always, dear. So delicious, in fact, that I expect everyone here to clean their plates."  

Alastor hears audible gulps from around the table as the hotel residents stare down at their breakfasts like they are facing their second death. Vox beams at him. 

"That's great! Oh- I forgot the gravy! Let me go get it!" 

Alastor waits until Vox is out of earshot before he turns and gives each hotel resident a sharp look. "Let this be a lesson to you all to keep Vox out of the kitchen," he says solemnly as he uses his fork to spear another charred bit of something on his plate. 

There's only one word that describes Vox when he gets into one of these states and that's prowling. Alastor sighs and snaps his book shut as Vox circles the room again, looking intently at the windows before jiggling the locks for the third time to check that they were closed.  

"Nothing is different than it was five minutes ago, my dear,"

"I know," Vox defends as he snaps his head around again, looking for movement, "This wouldn't be such a problem if you let me install some cameras in here!"

"Absolutely not. Come here, dear, your pre-heat is making me anxious."

"Pre-heat?! I'm not in pre-heat!" Vox splutters. His Picture Box can be so dense sometimes. A wave of nostalgia washes over Alastor. So much has changed, but Vox, despite his best efforts, remains unchanged. 

Alastor raises one eyebrow at his mate, "Now, Vox, you smell like that ridiculous candy again." Alastor offers his hand, "Come here, dear, I have a place I think would make a perfect nest." 

Vox is still grumbling and sparking, but he takes Alastor's hand, and Alastor uses the shadows to pull them through. Vox's stomach flips as he's tugged through icy nothingness. Vox blinks as he stares at Pentagram City. The vantage point is the same, so they must still be in or near the hotel. 

He looks around and his heart stutters. It's familiar, so familiar. "Is this…" 

"Yes, my new radio tower!" Alastor spreads his hands wide. His scent mellow and happy as he grabs Vox's hand to show him around, proudly pointing out his switchboard and records. 

Vox's eyes go wide. "You'll let me in?"

"Well, you've done such a good job with my show while I was away that I thought it was appropriate," Alastor clears his throat and blushes. "As a fellow radio host, that we could perhaps," Alastor coughs again as Vox's face tinges purple at the praise. "Nest here since I expect my annual heat will also begin soon."   

His grip tightens around Alastor's hand and he lets out a happy little chur as Vox butts the corner of his screen into Alastor's chest. His soul is singing, like he's finally whole again. Vox wishes for nothing more than to stay in this moment forever. 

"You're so perfect." He murmurs. 

"You may bring only one of your shark stuffed animals into the nest, Vox," Vox whines loudly at him, his eyes growing ever wider as he clutches a dozen multicolored shark plushies to his chest. 

"But the others will be lonely!" Vox protests, hugging them tighter. Honestly, Alastor should have been prepared for this. Of the two of them, Vox always had the stronger parental instincts arise during heat. He'd imprint on anything pup-like and try to get it into their nest. Once Alastor had caught him trying to sneak in a dozen hellhound puppies. Since then, he'd been very strict on holding the line because someone had to, lest their nest be overrun. 

"Only one."

"I need them!" Vox wails louder, "Shadow lets me put them in the nest!"

Alastor casts a very judgmental look at his shadow, who wilts back, avoids his gaze, and whistles innocently. Then it flickers over to Vox and wraps itself around him, chittering happily, the traitor. 

"Well, I'm back now, so I hardly think you need all of them. We both won't fit into the nest if you add all twelve, so you may add one. Choose wisely." 

"You can't make me pick a favorite. I love them all!"

"And do you love me too?" Alastor asks, batting his eyes from where he is sorting through their nesting blankets. 

"Of course! What kind of question is that?"

"Then pick one," he says, holding up a single finger for emphasis. 

Vox huffs grumpily and glares at Alastor, but at least he's sorting through the shark stuffed animals now. Alastor finishes his tasks and brings the blankets over to their nest. Vox seems to have decided, as he has the long blue shark plushie in his lap, petting it. 

"Can I really only have one?" Vox asks in a small voice, his eyes are wide, and his scent is on the edge of distress. Alastor leans behind him and picks up another stuffed shark from the floor. They are surprisingly soft. He presses the tip of his nose to the back of Vox's neck, scenting him to calm him. Vox practically melts and Alastor is pleased to smell his sharp ozone scent in the air. The suppressants may not be completely out of his system, but it is a marked improvement from a few months ago. 

"I suppose the others wouldn't be bad to support the edge of the nest." Alastor hedges. Instantly, Vox twists, and Alastor feels his mate's arms around him, clutching him tight. 

"Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!" Vox giggles like a mantra as he presses his screen into Alastor's chest, "You are the best mate."

Alastor can't stop the pleased purr from rumbling through his chest from having his happy mate in his arms as he gently pats his Picture Box's back. 

"Yes, and I'm very pleased for you to say that, dear, but I'm afraid if we don't finish the nest tonight, we won't have time to visit the bakery you like before we are indisposed." 

Vox pulls back and places both hands on Alastor's shoulder, a resolve settling over his mate that Alastor rarely sees outside his company, "We're going to have the best nest." 

Alastor laughs and gently slides Vox off his lap. "Of course we are. Now hurry up, dear. We still have to finish with the blankets."

"I wouldn't do that if I were you, princess," Husk says from behind the bar while he polishes a glass. Alastor has been absent from the hotel for the past few days and that could only mean one thing based on the month. Husk tenses up just thinking about it. He never wants to walk in on those two nesting again. He's never been closer to death than staring down two feral omegas, and that includes the time he was drunk during extermination day. 

"What? But what if Alastor and Vox want to join us for today's activity?" 

"I don't think we'll see much of either of those two for the rest of the week."  The Princess of Hell gives him a blank look. Husk clears his throat awkwardly, "Their heats are synced up. "

"Oh! Of course! I should check on them to make sure they don't need anything!"

"Charlie-"Husk says, trying to warn her, but the blonde is already halfway up the stairs towards Alastor's room. He shakes his head. Guess she's going to learn the hard way. Fuck, this was going to be a mess. Husk popped the cork off his strongest bourbon and took a long swig. The day had started off so well too. 

Husk is two bottles deeper when he sees Vaggie strut across the lobby. Her heels clicking against the tile. "Husk, have you seen Charlie?" 

He takes a pull from the whiskey bottle to avoid answering as long as he can. "She went to see Alastor, but I wouldn't go up there." 

"I found another one of Angel's drug stashes. I need her to have a word with him. This is getting out of hand! They're in Alastor's room or his radio tower?" Husk shrugs. He doesn't know and he doesn't want to know. "Very helpful," Vaggie grumbles as she makes her way back up the stairs. 

When she returns, Vaggie is missing a good chunk of hair and has scrapes down her cheeks. Honestly, she looks better than Husk expected. She must be a decent fighter or at least quick to walk out with all her limbs with a feral heat-addled pair of Overlords.

"I tried to warn you." Husk comments. Vaggie lets out a scream as she stomps over to the bar.  Husk silently passes her a drink. She looks like she could use it. "The two of them should be done in three days. I wouldn't expect to see Charlie until then. They once kept Niffty in their nest for a whole week."

The commotion of the hotel was certainly a tad louder than usual as Vox zaps into the lobby just in time to see his mate drop a piano on the King of Hell. Vox sighs. What had he honestly expected? Despite Alastor's generally gentlemanly manners, he could be a petty bastard, and if they were an alpha, what could Vox say other than he's not sure if his presence earlier wouldn't have made everything worse. 

Alastor was already acting territorial. His antlers stretched out larger than usual, he was pumping out omega pheromones like a factory. The whole lobby reeked of pecans and apple pie. Huh, odd smell for an alpha. Vox lingers next to Husk, happily accepting a martini as he watches his mate continue to up the ante in his musical duel. He's contemplating jumping in as the King of Hell steams when the front doors are thrown open with a bang and a cannonball with blonde hair bursts in. 

Vox grimaces when he hears Mimzy's familiar brassy singing voice. Well, there's a sound he hadn't missed in the last seven years. He curls his lips fucking great , just what Vox wanted to deal with today. He watches unhappily as Alastor sweeps Mimzy into a hug, laughing delightedly as he introduces her to the hotel staff and residents. She wastes no time sending a flirtatious wink to the King that makes Vox want to gag, and then, much to his dismay, she flings herself onto the barstool next to him and demands a drink. 

"I can smell them on you," Vox says without prompting. He doesn't bother with a hello. How dare she! Alastor had been back for less than a month and she's already coming snooping around with trouble. 

"Pardon? After living with Alastor for so long, I would have thought you learned some manners, though you always were more of his sugar baby."

Vox hisses at her, his antenna sparks. He hates her; he wishes he could dig his claws into her neck. 

"Okay!" Husk says, dropping two drinks in front of them with a clatter, "Drink up, and if you're about to have a bitch fight about Alastor, please take it outside. I don't get paid enough— or at all— to deal with this shit."

Vox's eyes widen and then narrow as he sparks, "I do not get in bitch fights."

Husk smirks, "What do you call this then?" He waves his claws between the two of them. Vox scowls. He'd fry Husk, but then who would bring him his next drink? 

Alastor knows Vox is strong. He's collected countless souls in his absence, but that doesn't stop Alastor from drumming his fingers on the railing as he watches the festivities below. Vox hasn't arrived yet. He was checking on his charge, Velvette, who was determined to give Alastor the cold shoulder. Not that he could hold it against the young lady, he'd made a rather bad first impression. Still, it rankled him that he could feel the phantom touch of his shadow tousselling her hair, when he could not be in the same room with her without it souring her scent to curdled milk. 

After this, he'd have to do better; perhaps Rosie and Vox would have some advice. In the meantime, he would wait for Vox's arrival. Despite the new cannibal faces in the hotel and likely their looming demise at the hands of exterminators, Alastor couldn't help but let out a pleased hum. Truly, this place wasn't too bad, nor were the residents. Of course, he would never be here of his own volition; if he didn't have a deal to keep, he would have taken Vox and run the other way. Charlie was smart; she was sure to be fine despite her bleeding heart, and there was always a good likelihood that her father would pull his head from his backside and bail her out. 

He won't be parted from Vox again, not because of his deal, and certainly not because of some pompous alpha angel. Still, he worried. Vox had confessed what led to his shifting out his screen, and while the new technology seemed strong, it was still made of glass.  

This was a battlefield, and if Vox were not so stubborn, Alastor would like nothing more than to keep him tucked away in their nest until this whole tedious affair was over. But there was no world where Vox allowed for that. So, Alastor would do his best as he placed the blood sigils for the barrier around the hotel. 

It starts slowly, exterminators with their great white wings flying through the golden crack in Hell's sky, but it didn't take long for everything to turn to chaos. He brings his staff down, and the sigils activate, the dark dome rising from the ground and trapping the primped-up pigeons. Alastor couldn't help but laugh as they threw themselves against it, singing their perfect wings while the cannibals below eagerly thrust harpoons up to pick off their prey. What a thrilling hunt! 

Alastor follows Charlie's plan, erecting a shadow dome to cut off the angel's first strike and allow the armed cannibals to get in closer. The ragtag army is doing surprisingly well and Alastor watches as the golden blood flows. It drives the cannibals into a bloodthirsty frenzy. Ah, nothing like the melodious sound of screams. Alastor wishes he could be down there sinking his teeth in, but in the name of teamwork, Alastor had agreed to focus on reinforcing the barrier, which was taking far more of his focus and power than he would care to admit. 

A crack fills the air as a powerful force hits his barrier. Alastor's eyes narrow as he pushes out more magic, trying to reinforce the thin hairline fractures arcing out from the blow's epicenter.  One or two more hits like that and it wouldn't hold. Whoever was on the other side must be powerful. 

There is a screech and then a shudder as his barrier is ripped away from him. He sends a warning over the airwaves, a whooshing, high-pitched siren to the troops below as hundreds of angels attack. 

An angel, Alastor, has heard much about from poor Charlotte. The first man. The first alpha. The hideous prototype for all their kind. Alastor bares his teeth. He floats there with his golden wings and a ridiculous guitar clutched in his hands. Is that what he had used to destroy the barrier? An instrument was wasted on the buffoon. 

"Hah, is this the best you could come up with? A couple of bitches and some omegas? And look at that thing," the first man points at Husk, "that's got to be the saddest excuse for an alpha I've ever seen." The angel is laughing so hard that tears are rolling down his face. A hiss warbles up from Alastor's throat at the insult. What a cur. 

Alastor leaves his position, not even trying to resurrect the barrier, as he rolls up the sleeves on his suit jacket. He would take care of this beast himself. Adam sizes him up with a wolf whistle and then an exaggerated scenting gesture to the air. It makes Alastor's fur stand on end in discomfort. Truly, there was no hope for alphas even in the beginning; no wonder Lillth had rejected heaven if this was to be her mate. Even Lucifer appeared a godsend by comparison. No doubt that was the only reason she had married him. 

"Why can't babes know their place?" Adam whines, "I could be dicking you down, but now I've got to kill you instead." 

Alastor lets out a guttural hiss as his antlers grow heavy on his head. His tentacles swarm to life, fuelled by his urge to smack the angel into another ring or at least one of Pride's local lakes of fire. Unfortunately, the alpha dodges, and begrudgingly, as the trade blows, Alastor has to admit fighting is one thing the First Man doesn't appear to be a total failure at. 

Their fighting is nearly at a draw, and neither is making as much progress as they would like. Alastor raises his staff, wishing he could put more force into this next strike. His Shadow is ready to capitalize on the distraction to drive an angelic knife into his opponent's back. 

Alastor misjudges. It's only a moment, a split second as his mind is forced to be split between himself and his shadow, but it's enough. The arc of the golden act crests down, and instinctively, Alastor moves up his microphone to block. 

His staff is sliced in two. Like a cut string, his magic fails. His magic's green chains sizzle to nothing as he watches in horror as the angelic axe blade continues down. A blow like that not even an Overlord would recover from. 

"Alastor!" Vox shrieks, and then in a flash of blue light, he's in front of his mate. The angelic steel-coated guitar axe continues its path—Vox twists to the right. Alastor's eyes widened. No, this can't be right. Vox shouldn't be here! 

Bite. Kill. Maim. Tear. 

His instincts scream at him to do something, to wrench the angel apart limb from limb. He can feel his exhausted body lengthen in an attempt to grow to protect his mate. 

But Vox is on Adam. He's a sparking mess; if he's bleeding, Alastor can't see or smell it. All he smells is Vox: all righteous anger, sea storm, and ozone—a force of nature—his storm. 

Adam is trying to back away, flailing his axe uselessly at his side as Vox gives him no room to maneuver the angelic steel weapon. Vox bites down hard on Adam's shoulder. Shaking his head to tear into the flesh of his prey. Alastor's mouth opens and closes in shock. In all his years, he hasn't been able to get Vox to try a morsel of sinner flesh, and here he is taking a bite out of an angel. 

Well, Vox has always had expensive tastes. 

"Ahhhh, AHHHH. GET OFF ME YOU BITCH!" Adam flails around in the air, Vox digs his glass teeth in deeper and wraps his wires around the angel as he tries to flap up. 

The leader of the exorcists looks rather like a trussed-up turkey. 

"There, there, Vox," His mate calls. There's a pleasant, sharp tang on his tongue. His mate is stroking his antennas, his familiar signal brushing against them so gently. Vox tries to bury himself deeper. 

"No, no Vox darling. I know you must be exhausted, but I could use your company. Come back to me, dear," Vox lets out an unsettled whine, not understanding why his mate would ask such a demanding thing of him when they could cuddle up in their nest. 

Vox blinks blearily at his mate. Alastor's smile is so pretty. "There you are, my dear." 

Vox purrs and plants his screen into his mate's uninjured chest, letting his signal and scent wash over him. 

"Love you," Vox purrs out, not caring that they're sitting in the ruins of their radio tower or that they have an audience that includes the King of Hell himself. Alastor pauses his petting. 

I love you too, my dear mate, but please, never do something as stupid as trying to jump in front of an exorcist's weapon for me again.

That makes Vox's processors come back online again, and he scowls, swatting at Alastor's shoulder. Then you better never try to fight an alpha angel by yourself again. Alastor quickly nods to his demand. Vox narrows his eyes. It's unlike Alastor to acquiesce so easily, but his mate looks tired, so for once, Vox chooses to let it go. 

Alastor seems to have the same idea as he projects over their shared frequency: You look lovely, covered in golden blood, my dear. It makes me think of the night I first found you. 

Vox presses his screen back into Alastor's chest to hide the growing purple, but he can't hide the rumbling purr rising from his chest. At this point, Vox feels lucky he hasn't been thrown into a stress heat, so if his stupid instincts want to act up and self-soothe while he rests in his mate's lap? Well, Vox for once won't complain. "You charmer. What would all your friends say if they could hear you being so sappy?"

Alastor rests his head back on his casing and hums. "Nothing if they know what's good for them." 

Vox snorts and lets the sound of Alastor's breathing wash over him.  He had his mate, and they were here together. Come Hell or high water, nothing would make Alastor leave him again.