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Vox knew he was the luckiest bastard in Hell.
Not that he hadn’t worked hard for what he had now – he did. Nor that he wouldn’t climb higher yet – he would.
But all things considered, a healthy dose of luck was also part in his success and contentment these days. And that luck had arrived in the pretty, brilliant, and manic form of Alastor.
Life with Alastor was hell on wheels, in both the best and worst possible ways.
Alastor was an amazing guy. Funny and endlessly interesting, he was damn near unbeatable in the skills he possessed. A schemer and jester alike, he put genuine effort and care into everything he deemed important. But rather than just being stiff, refined, and menacing, he was exhilaratingly fun, volatile, unpredictable, and game for almost anything, provided Vox could convince him of it.
Vox was something of an expert in that regard.
It had taken a lot of liquid courage, namely two-thirds of a bottle of gin, for Vox to work up the nerve to ask whether they should become partners, and it had taken even more reckless bravery when Vox had kissed him for the first time, following their one-year celebration of a wildly successful business partnership.
The smack he’d received by Alastor’s shadow tentacle had hurt like a bitch and damn near cracked the glass of his screen. His vision had turned so blurry he began glitching and stuttering. But when he came back to his senses, when his signal stabilized and the fuzziness settled down into clearer vision, Alastor was still there. And, notably, not trying to kill him.
Instead, his smile had been tight and pinched, a flush dusting his cheeks in a color so pretty that Vox felt endlessly grateful his boxy CRT head didn’t limit his vision to grayscale.
The painfully awkward and potentially disastrous moment resolved itself when Alastor, faced with Vox’s sudden, soul-crushing embarrassment, merely rolled his eyes, called him a “dramatic idiot box,” and pulled him closer to press a much more deliberate, much softer kiss to his screen.
Vox had definitely crashed after that, given that all his sweetest dreams came true in a single night, but the rest, as they say, was history.
Long story short, being with Alastor was amazing, but it was not without its challenges, even after more than a decade of successful dual partnership.
Alastor was endlessly fascinating, and Vox so irrevocably obsessed with the man that he studied everything about him long before they’d ever gotten together.
Vox had never cared much for academics, even during his years topside. He’d been far too outgoing, and far too hungry for fame, for a life of quiet introspection and research. But in death, the deer sinner had become his favorite subject.
Analyzing Alastor and his habits was like conducting a field study on the clinically insane, and the rush of simply watching him, even in his most mundane moments – like when he was sitting, reading, sleeping, or just generally being a bratty menace – hit Vox like cocaine mainlined straight into his veins.
But for all his redeeming qualities, Alastor could be a prickly bitch, too.
He never showed outright when something bothered him, hiding everything behind that infamous smile. He could be as sweet and docile as a kitten, then turn as mercurial and unpredictable as a feral stray cat.
One that got bored and knocked a vase off the shelf in the middle of the night, or pissed in your shoes when you weren’t looking.
Metaphorically speaking.
The feral cat had very much overtaken the sweet, kittenish Alastor these past few days.
He’d been tense, snippy, distant, and generally insufferable, needlessly sharp with his words, dismissive of Vox’s ideas and suggestions, and not even drinks together had been enough to loosen him up.
Vox knew better than to push for an explanation. Alastor had his reasons, and however close and fond they were of one another, the mysteries of the Radio Demon were not things even his beloved picture box was privy to.
Still, Vox clearly was no saint. His own wounded pride, coupled with thinning patience for Alastor’s nastier habits, had eventually gotten the better of him. Tempers had flared and they snapped at each other.
Calling his Bambi a “difficult piece of work” hadn’t landed in Vox’s favor.
Rather than clawing at Vox’s throat, Alastor had simply sunk into the shadows and left, which was how Vox knew he’d really fucked up. He’d also smashed a bottle of liquor on his way out, but that was just a minor inconvenience.
Arguments like that, though, burned hot and then cold. And with both of them so tightly intertwined, through business, pleasure, affection, and a mutually possessive obsession, they never managed to stay apart for long.
Alastor wasn’t prone to overt displays of affection the way Vox was, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t just as devoted to their partnership. He took meticulous care of the things that mattered to him. And he didn’t discard something precious over a minor hiccup.
After all, Vox was his delightfully needy and endlessly entertaining picture box.
So when Alastor showed up days later at Vox’s apartment, after the TV sinner had very deliberately given him time and space to cool off, he didn’t offer a verbal apology. Instead, there was a small, rueful smile on his lips, and a conciliatory bottle of rum produced from behind his back.
It was enough to have Vox almost kneeling in pathetic, sentimental gratitude.
Whatever had upset Alastor didn’t seem fully resolved, judging by the stiffness of his posture and the constant drifting of his eyes, but at least Vox was no longer the target of his ire. Alastor had reverted back to being his sweet kitten-self again.
Or deer, rather.
They ended up on the couch, sharing the bottle of rum without bothering with glasses, taking turns drinking straight from it. Somewhere around halfway through, Alastor climbed into Vox’s lap and stretched out atop him with the bold naturalness Vox adored most about him.
That kind of prolonged physical contact usually meant Alastor was feeling raw, perhaps a little embarrassed about his outburst earlier in the week, and likely still weighed down by whatever was on his mind.
Vox didn’t pry for details. He knew it would only lead to another fight. Instead, he soaked up the attention and the wordless apology, murmuring his own into Alastor’s hair as the radio demon settled more fully against him, and Vox’s hands came to rest on his hips.
Greedy as he was, Vox accepted the not-quite-apology gladly.
Delightfully inebriated, Alastor treated him like a mattress, pushing his full weight into Vox and resting his head atop his boxy screen. He’d admitted before that he liked the warmth it gave off and the fuzzy prickle of static that bit at his skin when they were this close. It left Vox with his face pressed against Alastor’s narrow chest.
Suffice to say, Vox was in fucking heaven right now.
“I’m feeling hungry,” Alastor mused after a while, cheek still pressed on Vox’s head, right between his antennae.
This close, their signals hummed together in the air, sometimes squealing or dipping as they shifted. To an outsider it was probably a nightmare to listen to, but for Vox it was music to his audio receptors.
“When are you not?” he snorted, greedily running his hands up and down Alastor’s back, feeling the fabric of his shirt bunch beneath his fingers.
“Rude,” Alastor muttered as he shifted lower.
Vox’s hands stilled and his heart pounded loudly when Alastor slid down to rest his head against his shoulder instead. Vox had to angle his boxy head away to give him space and his neck already protested the strain, but having his gorgeous, fussy boyfriend press his nose to the side of his throat, and feel that hot, wet breath ghosting over that sensitive column was worth every bit of soreness later.
“Feed me,” Alastor demanded.
He worked his jaw in a way Vox knew meant if he didn’t get something between those teeth soon, his own shoulder would become Alastor’s chew toy. Not that he minded.
But he had a live recording to film tomorrow. Alastor could gladly chew him to pieces after that. Preferably while they were in bed, with fewer clothes on.
“Wait– I got you something. Let me get it,” Vox said, tapping his thigh to signal him to move.
With an entirely too adorable, frustrated squeak that Alastor would vehemently and violently deny ever making if he were sober, he disentangled himself. Vox sprang up and headed for the fridge.
Alastor grumbled at the loss of contact, and Vox knew he had to be quick. If Alastor decided he’d had enough touch for tonight, that was it for cuddly couch time.
He returned moments later with a bowl of glazed eyeballs he’d picked up specifically for Alastor. Sticky, slimy, uncanny as they were, Vox didn’t mind keeping something like that in his home. If having Alastor willingly in his lap meant tolerating his questionable eating habits, then Vox was more than fine with it.
This was Hell, after all. Who the fuck cared about moral nonsense?
He balanced the bowl on the arm of the couch and sat back down with a grunt. Alastor immediately climbed back into his lap, eyes closed in drunken bliss, mouth open like a baby bird demanding to be fed.
One hand settled at the radio demon’s back while Vox used the other to spear an eyeball with a fork and place it into the cannibal deer’s waiting mouth.
“Mmh,” Alastor moaned appreciatively as he chewed.
The sound went straight to Vox’s groin.
He tried not to grind up against him, but his hips still rolled in small, greedy circles, hedonistic and desperate for warmth and the faintest echo of pleasure. Luckily, Alastor let him have his fun.
“Where did you get these, Vincent?” Alastor murmured, eyes still closed.
“Cannibal Town,” Vox said, feeding him another. “Ran into Rosie while I was there.”
That made Alastor lift his head, and eye him with brows raised in disbelief.
“You spoke with Rosie?”
Vox nodded. Alastor let out a huffing laugh before settling back against him.
“You’re much braver than I thought.”
“Hey! I am the bravest motherfucker down here,” Vox protested.
He emphasized the statement by lifting his hand to scratch at one of Alastor’s ears. It flicked and smacked against his screen, making Vox snort.
He kept at it for several minutes, stroking plush deer ears, feeding eyeball after eyeball into Alastor’s waiting, insatiable mouth, until the bowl was empty.
By the end of it, Vox felt like a decadent Roman god, lazing with a dark-skinned beauty on his lap, feeding him the cannibal’s equivalent of grapes.
“And you know, I’d do anything for you,” he added, setting the bowl aside.
He didn’t mind admitting it, even though it was definitely some kind of ritual humiliation to constantly admit how pathetically dependent he was on his partner, but Alastor preened at the admission.
“Mmm, yes you would, silly thing,” Alastor replied.
The mockery in his tone was entirely contradicted by how he melted into Vox’s grasp.
He really hoped Alastor would stay the night. Some nights, he did.
Vox had taken everything into consideration when he’d chosen this apartment. He had more than enough drawer space – an entire old-fashioned wooden cabinet just for Alastor. A fireplace was in the bedroom that Vox himself didn’t need but he knew Alastor appreciated. The biggest concession he made was his own no-screens-in-the-bedroom-rule, which had been crucial in making Alastor feel comfortable enough to stay. That and those silk pillows he liked.
“Will you stay the night?” Vox asked, daring it.
“Mmh,” Alastor hummed. “Convince me why I should.”
Fuck yes!
This was their game. If Alastor truly didn’t want to stay, he’d have said no immediately, he’d have laughed and teased Vox for not being a child in need of tucking in.
But this was what they did when Alastor wanted to stay.
He’d pretend he needed convincing, just to give Vox the chance to lay out his reasoning, facts and logic, as Vox liked to do, and then, eventually, Alastor would agree.
Gosh, he loved the guy.
“Well, for one, it’s late,” Vox began.
It was a weak opening argument. Hell wasn’t exactly beholden to time, and nights weren’t particularly restful down here anyway. They both had jobs, vocations, obligations, but skipping a night didn’t mean much.
But Vox liked to build his case from weakest to strongest argument. Save the killing blow for last, so to speak.
“You’re already here,” he continued, warming to it. “Which means going back home would be a waste of effort. Inefficient, really.”
Alastor made a noncommittal sound as his fingers drummed against Vox’s chest.
“And,” Vox added, “you’ve been off lately. Staying alone won’t cheer you up like I will.”
But that was the wrong thing to say, judging by the sharp sidelong glare Alastor shot him and the way he stiffened in Vox’s grasp.
Fuck, abort mission. Abort mission.
“You like the fireplace,” Vox said quickly, pressing on. “And everything is ready for you, all those pillows and the blanket you like. I know you sleep better here with all of my fancy stuff catered exactly to your needs.”
Alastor scoffed.
“That’s a bold assumption.”
Vox smiled to himself. He was almost there.
“And also,” he said, feigning nonchalance, “if you don’t stay, I’ll spend the whole night grumpy and not sleeping a wink, which means I’ll probably rip someone’s head off in the studio tomorrow. And that's just bad for business.”
Alastor hummed contemplatively.
“Now that would be entertaining…” he mused aloud and Vox stayed still, knowing the scale was either about to tip in his favor or crash and burn.
After a long period of silently thinking that made Vox’s antennae spark with nervous anticipation, Alastor finally gave a long-suffering sigh and settled back more comfortably against him.
“Fine, I’ll stay,” he declared at last.
Vox grinned, and allowed himself the luxury of giving Alastor a firm but brief squeeze.
Alastor’s pride got in the way more often than not, and Vox loved him for it. They were both prideful creatures and Vox didn’t think he could stand it if Alastor were some miserable, self-pitying wreck. That unapologetic sense of self, the way Alastor stood tall in who and what he was, was inspiring and admirable. It was something he had looked up to since he arrived here.
The downside, of course, was that when something was bothering him, Vox had to dig for it, and even then, there was no guarantee he’d ever uncover the truth. Alastor so rarely asked for help, and Vox knew better than to offer it outright – it would only irritate him.
But still, a little solace here and there couldn’t hurt.
Alastor was always affectionately calling him silly, saying how entertained he was by Vox.
Well. If that was what he did best, then Vox would lean into it and be his devoted, entertaining idiot box.
He doubted anyone was actively giving Alastor trouble. That seemed unlikely, considering how powerful and feared the Radio Demon was. More probable was that he’d fallen into a rut – not the fun, horny kind – or that he was remembering something unpleasant. Alastor had those phases and stretches of time where he brooded quietly over something in that beautiful head of his.
Maybe what he needed was a reminder of better times.
Vox wasn’t sure Alastor’s life topside qualified as such, but he always spoke so fondly of his home back then, the woods and the landscape he missed even now.
Vox knew better than to push for details Alastor wouldn’t share. But if he could distract him for a while, lift the weight just a little, that would be great, wouldn’t it?
Alastor liked to be entertained. He said so himself. And Vox was nothing if not inventive.
He already had just the thing in mind.
The sinners who worked for AV Entertainment knew better than to ask questions when their grim-faced, TV-headed boss walked out of the recording studios without so much as a glance back or waiting around to celebrate after learning his ratings were up yet again from the previous week.
And the imps who worked in the electronics department, selling TV sets, radios, and – since recently – 35mm cameras, also knew to stop everything they were doing the moment the head of said Tech Department came in with a very clear demand.
Vox forwent the sales area entirely and pushed open the doors to the workshops, sinners and imps alike sprang out of his way at the sight of him.
He interrupted a conversation between two imps when he slammed down a sketch he’d been working on while Alastor slept the night before, after Vox had finally managed to peel himself away from his deer.
Metallic claws tapped sharply against the worktable as Vox loomed over the two, eyeing their sudden stiffness and twitchiness with irritated impatience.
“I need this developed. As soon as possible. Postpone other orders, I don’t care. This is important,” he instructed flatly.
The imps hesitated, then exchanged a look that promised no good.
“Well, sir,” one began cautiously, adjusting his glasses as he leaned closer to study the sketch, “this sort of thing… is not really possible. Not with current technology. Not even on Earth.”
Vox’s claws struck the table again, scraping deep furrows into the wood.
“What the fuck do I even pay you for, you insufferable asswipe?”
The imp blinked. “You… uh, don’t, sir.”
Vox blinked. “I don’t?”
“No, Mr. Vox. I’m an unpaid intern.”
“Well, maybe I would pay you if you weren’t so useless,” he snapped.
The other imp swallowed, daring to add his two cents to the matter.
“Sir, this kind of small, personal robotic, this level of development and the pneumatics aren’t there yet... We don’t have a frame of reference for it.”
Vox snatched the sketch away from them, the paper crinkled around his tight grip. He wouldn’t have these talentless hacks rip his ingenious idea to shreds.
But then again, these were imps. One couldn’t expect ingenuity or genuine talent from them. They were good at following orders and building things with the foolproof instructions he provided.
Which was exactly the reason they remained unpaid. After all, this company wasn’t a charity case.
“Excuses, always excuses” he muttered, more to himself than them.
If they couldn’t build it, then he’d do it himself. Perhaps it was high time to finally develop the department into its own subsidiary, just as he’d been wanting to. VoxTek had a nice ring to it, and it would free him from the likes of these incompetent wastes of space.
He turned back to them sharply.
“You’re fired. Both of you.”
The imps stiffened.
“But before you leave,” Vox instructed, not caring for their wet-eyed stares, “you’ll put together a list of materials. I expect everything I need for this on my desk by the end of the day.”
“Yes, sir,” they said in unison, scrambling.
He rolled his eyes but waved them off with a dismissive flick otherwise and turned on his heel, toward his own workstation within the shop.
Honestly, he really should consider investing in actual talent. Maybe it was time for a biomechanical engineer, someone who was worth the money.
Anything was better than relying on bottom-feeding, low-effort, low-intelligence imps.
The added workload wasn’t pleasant, and it took far longer to finish than Vox would have liked. This was supposed to be a surprise, after all, and even if Alastor stayed well away from the technical side of things, Vox couldn’t justify to his business partner why he’d suddenly begun sinking hours upon hours into his workshop.
Alastor wasn’t a suffocating kind of partner, and they didn’t see each other every day, but he wasn’t ignorant either. Secrets didn’t go unnoticed, and Vox knew the other sinner would grow suspicious of anything being deliberately kept from him, especially in the sour mood he’d been in lately.
So Vox made a decision to sacrifice his nights – the ones where Alastor wasn’t staying over, and where they weren’t out painting the town red together. His nights alone were now thoroughly dedicated to finishing Alastor’s surprise.
Once the gift was finally complete and safely relocated to his apartment, Vox added the last finishing touches, like paint and other details meant to sell the illusion. Then, barely containing his excitement, he called Alastor and promised him a surprise.
Alastor agreed to come over, sounding intrigued, and told his idiot box to calm himself before he blew a fuse.
Which, to be fair, was good advice. Electricity quite literally hummed beneath Vox’s skin and his antennae were already sparking when he placed the gift on the coffee table in front of the couch. He stood before it, and positioned himself to shield it from view until the moment of his grand reveal.
When Alastor arrived, his smile was patient and the look in his eyes was one of mild interest, but his ears were tipped forward, which meant he was curious.
Fuck, he was cute.
“Vox, dear,” Alastor said mildly, stepping forward, “what in Lucifer’s Hell is going on?”
“Surprise!” Vox announced.
He sprang to the side and swept an arm out to reveal the gift he’d been working on for weeks.
Alastor tilted his head as the little machine came into view.
“…An alligator?” he asked. “Is it alive?”
Vox stepped up beside him and hovered one arm around Alastor’s waist like a particularly touchy car salesman.
“It’s a talking alligator,” he explained quickly. “And no, it’s not alive. It’s not a demon, I built it.”
“You’re giving me a children’s toy?” Alastor said, turning to look at him.
There was a confused crease between his brows.
“It’s not a children’s toy!” Vox protested. He felt his screen fuzzing with agitation.
“It’s a state-of-the-art robotic companion! The first of its kind. Catered specifically to your preferences, complete with a built-in voice box and pneumatic jaw!”
“And this is meant to…?” Alastor prompted, trailing off.
Vox shrugged, dropping his arm from Alastor’s waist.
“It’s just something I made to cheer you up,” he explained, now much more subdued.
“Thought it might remind you of home. They live in swamps, don’t they? Louisiana has swamps…”
He winced as the words left his mouth, suddenly very aware of how lame his reasoning sounded.
“Just a nice reminder of home, you know. Something to look at when you can’t stand to look at this box,” he added, knocking against his own screen in dejected self-deprecation.
But Alastor didn’t laugh at his expense, he didn’t mock him either. His ears remained tilted forward, and his expression was thoughtful as he studied the little machine.
“So, what does it actually do? Wouldn’t a plush toy have sufficed, darling?”
Vox perked right back up.
This was their game! Alastor was waiting to be convinced again, and Vox was very good at that.
He waggled his eyebrows and gestured toward the alligator.
“Go on, press his nose,” he encouraged.
Alastor stepped closer, bent down, and tapped the tip of the snout.
Immediately, the jaw snapped open, revealing sharp teeth locked into a smile-like grimace. The pneumatics hissed when the internal mechanism activated, and the voice box embedded in its belly spoke in a faux-cheery, robotic voice.
“Smile, my dear!”
Alastor instantly straightened up and a loud radio squeal whistled through the air as his frequency jumped in surprise.
“Vincent…this is… unspeakably ugly.”
Vox’s antennae drooped pitifully. His screen hazed with embarrassment and his chest burned as the rejection set in.
Fuck. He was an idiot.
But then Alastor turned to him with a wide, toothy smile that was unmistakably genuine. It stretched so far it made him look like the alligator himself.
“I adore it.”
Vox lit up, quite literally, his screen brightness ramped up until Alastor had to squint.
“Really?” he asked as the excitement returned with full force.
Static popped and crackled around him. The sounds they made in moments like this were absolutely abysmal and unbearable to normal ears. Thankfully, neither of them had normal ears.
“Oh, yes! It’s delightfully annoying and droll,” Alastor cheered, leaning down and repeatedly pressing the little machine’s nose, snapping its jaw open and shut as it rattled off its programmed taglines in that tinny synthetic voice:
“Smile, my dear!”
“It’s showtime!”
“See you later, alligator!”
“Just like you are!” Alastor added when he finally straightened.
But the bite in his words was practically nonexistent when he leaned his hip into Vox’s and the TV sinner’s hand found Alastor’s waist, squeezing it.
The understated fondness in Alastor’s eyes was so real and sincere, it made Vox’s breath stutter. His screen buzzed as he basked in his well-earned triumph.
“Yeah, well…as I said. Only the best for you,” Vox murmured, unable to suppress his own dreamy little grin now.
Damn it, after all these years, Alastor still had that effect on him. That would probably never change.
“Indeed, my idiot box, indeed.” Alastor sighed.
He leaned in then, slowly and sweetly, to press his lips against Vox’s screen.
Oh yea. He really was the luckiest bastard in Hell.