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The walls of the apartment pressed in like the sides of a forgotten broadcast booth, narrow and stained with the residue of whatever sins had leaked through the cracks before Vox claimed the space. He hadn’t chosen it so much as fallen into it, after the dust settled from that final, spectacular unraveling. The Vees were past now, distant and severed. Whatever had snapped between them in the aftermath of his grand miscalculation stayed unspoken, a void he didn’t prod. It was easier that way, staring at the peeling wallpaper instead of the messages that had stopped coming.
Vox sat on the edge of the bed, the frame creaking under his weight. He traced a finger along the seam of his old suit jacket, noting how the fabric had frayed at the cuffs, threads pulling loose. Once, this suit had been tailored to command. Now, it hung on him, a relic from better times.
He leaned back, the mattress dipping unevenly, and let his gaze drift to the window. The empire he’d built, gone in a blaze of his own making. He could still feel the weight of it slipping away, the contracts dissolving. And the Vees… well, they’d made their choices, or he’d made them for them. It didn’t matter.
Rising slowly, Vox crossed to the small table by the wall, where a cracked mirror leaned against a stack of discarded papers. He straightened his tie, the motion automatic, fingers smoothing the knot as if preparing for a pitch.
He turned away, pacing the narrow length of the room. The floorboards groaned, a rhythm that matched the distant scream rain rolling through the city. What next? Rebuild, of course. He’d done it before, clawing up from nothing in this infernal pit. The thought should have sparked something, a surge, a plan snapping into focus. Instead, it lay flat.
Vox stopped by the window, pressing a palm against the cool glass. The rain streaked down, blurring the view of the streets below, sinners scurrying like ants under umbrellas that did little against the downpour. He’d been one of them once, fresh in Hell, scrambling for footing. But he’d risen, hadn’t he? The Vees had been part of that ascent. Without them, the silence in this room felt heavier.
He shook his head, a sharp motion that sent a faint hum through his frame. No use dwelling. Action was what mattered. He could reach out, test the waters. Valentino might still answer, if the mood struck him. Velvette, too, with her quick wit she’d see the logic in reuniting. Or not. The last exchange had been… unideal. Vox let his hand drop from the glass, leaving a smudge where his fingers had pressed.
He stood again, restless, and rifled through a drawer that held nothing but dust and a few loose bolts. Useless. Everything here was useless, stripped down to bare essentials. No screens to command, no feeds to monitor. Just him, alone with the rain’s patter and the occasional shout from the sky. He leaned against the wall, arms crossed, staring at the bed as if it held answers. The sheets were rumpled from fitful rest.
His mind drifted to the usual thought — Alastor. Why would he bother to harbor hatred, let alone even pay mind to Vox when he was a nobody now? He was merely a pebble in his path, invisible.
He pushed off the wall, pacing anew. The room felt smaller, the air stale. Without the empire, without the Vees, what was left? But Alastor… ending that, letting it fade too, sent a twist through him, sharp and insistent. The hotel loomed in his thoughts now, that ridiculous beacon of false hope. Alastor was there, scheming as always, free of chains Vox had once tried to wrap around him.
He had raged then. He had sworn vengeance that would level cities. He had meant every word.
Where was that anger now?
He searched for it the way a tongue probes a missing tooth. There was a hollow place, yes. A tenderness. But not rage.
The thought of never hearing that laugh again. Never seeing those red eyes narrow in amusement at something he said. Never feeling the particular sting of being dismissed, outmaneuvered, seen in a way no one else has ever seen him.
The thought of the story simply ending.
Vox stood up so abruptly the chair toppled behind him. The sound cracked through the room like a gunshot.
He straightened his cuffs, which was pointless, they were frayed beyond salvage, and smoothed the front of his shirt. The motion felt familiar, like muscle memory from a life that no longer fit.
Vox stopped, hand on the doorknob. The rain had eased, leaving the city glistening under the perpetual red glow. He couldn’t let it end like this, severed and forgotten. Not when there was still a move to make, a deal to strike. His fingers tightened on the knob, turning it with a click.
The hallway outside was dim, flickering lights casting shadows. The stairs descended into the murk, each step a descent toward something inevitable. The streets waited below, slick and — thankfully for Vox — not very crowded, leading toward that gaudy hotel on the hill.
By the time the hotel’s ridiculous neon sign came into view his screen had steadied to a calm, confident blue. He paused at the foot of the steps, looking up at the mismatched windows, the patched roof, the absurd optimism of the whole structure.
He drew one breath that tasted of smoke and wet stone before knocking on the door.
The knock echoed through the lobby like a gunshot in a library. Vaggi was there before the sound had finished fading, spear already half-raised, eye narrowing at the peephole. She didn’t need to look long. The silhouette on the other side was unmistakable: tall, angular, the faint blue glow bleeding through the frosted glass.
She yanked the door open just enough to glare through the gap.
“What the hell do you want?”
Vox stood on the threshold, rain still clinging to the shoulders of his ruined jacket. He didn’t smirk. Didn’t posture. He simply met her stare, hands visible at his sides, palms open in a gesture that looked almost foreign on him.
“I’m here to speak with Alastor,” he said, voice steady, pitched low.
Vaggi’s grip tightened on the spear. “You’ve got some nerve showing your face here after everything.”
“I know.” A pause. He didn’t look away. “I’m not here for trouble. Just him.”
She studied him for a long moment: the frayed cuffs, the faint flicker at the edge of his screen when he thought she wasn’t watching, the way he held himself like someone trying very hard not to take up too much space. It unsettled her more than any grand entrance would have.
“Stay right there,” she muttered, then stepped back and pulled the door wider. “One wrong move and I skewer you. Understand?”
He nodded once and crossed the threshold.
The lobby smelled of old wood and faint ozone, the chandelier above casting fractured light across the worn carpet. Vaggi pointed to a threadbare armchair near the check-in desk. “Sit. Don’t touch anything.”
Vox obeyed without comment, lowering himself into the chair with careful movements. The springs groaned. He folded his hands in his lap and waited.
Husk emerged from behind the bar almost immediately, bottle in one paw, eyes widening as recognition hit.
“You’ve gotta be shittin’ me.” The words came out half-growl, half-disbelief. He set the bottle down hard enough to slosh liquor over the rim. “Vaggi, tell me you didn’t just let him in.”
“I let him in,” she said flatly, already moving toward the staircase. “Keep an eye on him. I’m getting Charlie.”
Husk muttered something that sounded suspiciously like a string of curses involving televisions and bodily orifices, but he stayed where he was, wings mantled, glaring at Vox like he was personally offended by his continued existence.
Vox didn’t meet the stare. He kept his gaze forward, fixed on a spot just above the bar mirror where the wallpaper had begun to curl.
Charlie’s voice drifted down from the upper landing, quick, concerned questions, Vaggi’s lower replies too muffled to catch. A door closed somewhere above. Footsteps descended.
Cherri Bomb poked her head out of a side corridor first, single eye narrowing with interest. Lucifer followed a moment later, the man holding a hot cup of coffee as he took in the scene.
Niffty zipped past them both, dust rag in hand, stopping dead when she spotted the visitor. Her eye went wide and bright.
“Ooooh! Can I stab the bad boy?” She bounced on her toes, needle already materializing between her fingers. “Just a little! He looks like he’d bleed pretty colors!”
Cherri snorted. “Go for it, short stuff.”
Lucifer tilted his head, a slow smile spreading. “I don’t see why not.”
Vox didn’t flinch, but his fingers tightened fractionally in his lap.
A voice cut through the lobby like a record needle dropping, it was smooth, crackling at the edges, laced with amusement that didn’t quite reach the words. Alastor descended the stairs at a leisurely pace, staff tapping each step in perfect rhythm. His smile was fixed, wide, unchanged, but something in the set of his shoulders suggested irritation coiled tight beneath the surface.
“That won’t be necessary, my dears.”
Niffty pouted. “But—”
“Run along now,” Alastor said lightly, flicking a finger. The needle vanished from her hand. “We have a guest. Let’s not be rude.”
She scampered off with a huff, already distracted by a speck of dust on the banister.
Alastor stopped at the foot of the stairs, head cocked, eyes narrowing to red slits as he regarded Vox. “Well, well. To what do I owe this… unexpected pleasure?”
Vox rose slowly from the chair. The movement drew every eye in the room. He kept his hands visible.
“I’d like to speak with you,” he said. “Privately. I have a proposal.”
Husk barked a laugh. “Proposal? Oh, hell no. Vaggi, we’re tossing this asshole out on his screen before he—”
“Husk,” Charlie’s voice came from the landing, gentle but firm. She descended the last few steps, arms crossed. “Let him finish.”
Vox inclined his head toward her, gratitude, or the closest he could manage. “It won’t take long.”
Alastor’s smile didn’t waver, but his fingers drummed once against the microphone head of his staff. “A proposal,” he repeated, tasting the word. “How intriguing.”
He considered Vox for a long moment, the lobby silent except for the faint tick of the grandfather clock in the corner. Then he gestured with one clawed hand toward a side door that led to one of the smaller parlors. “Very well. This way.”
Husk started forward. “Alastor—”
Alastor’s head turned just enough for the bar light to catch the gleam of teeth. “I said privately, Husker. Do mind the bar while I’m gone.”
The dismissal was soft, almost pleasant. Husk subsided with a growl.
Vox followed Alastor through the door without looking back. The parlor beyond was dim, lit only by a single lamp with a fringed shade. Books lined the walls in uneven rows, dust thick on the higher shelves. A faded velvet settee sat opposite two armchairs separated by a low table. The door clicked shut behind them, the sound oddly final.
Alastor didn’t sit. He leaned his staff against the wall and turned, arms folded loosely, smile still in place.
“Now then,” he said, voice dropping to that intimate broadcast murmur that filled a room without effort. “What could possibly bring you crawling to my doorstep?”
Vox stood in the center of the rug, hands at his sides. The lamp’s light caught the edge of his screen, casting fractured reflections across the floor.
“I want to make a deal,” he said.
Alastor’s eyebrows rose a fraction. “Do you, now?”
“Yes.” Vox’s voice didn’t waver. “My soul. For ownership.”
The silence that followed was thick enough to choke on.
Alastor’s smile widened, just a touch too sharp. “Oh my,” he murmured. “You are full of surprises tonight. And what exactly do you get from that?”
Vox held Alastor’s gaze, the faint blue light of his screen steady in the low lamplight. The words sat heavy between them, spoken and irrevocable. “In exchange,” he continued, voice low but deliberate, “you keep me. Here. With you. Always.”
Alastor’s head tilted a fraction further, the motion slow, almost birdlike. The smile stayed fixed, but the eyes above it narrowed, red irises catching the lamp’s glow like fresh blood on glass.
“Keep you,” Alastor echoed, tasting the phrase as if it were a foreign wine he suspected had turned. “Like a stray that wandered in from the rain? My, my. How… poetic.”
Vox didn’t rise to the bait. He took one measured step closer, shoes sinking into the thick rug.
“I’ve thought about it,” he said. “Everything else is gone. The tower. The feeds. My name on every screen in the city. I could build it again. I know how. I’ve done it before.” A pause, brief but weighted. “But none of that matters if the one thing I can’t stand losing is you walking away for good. If this… whatever this is, just ends.”
The admission hung in the air, raw and unpolished. Vox’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly, as though the words had scraped on their way out. He hated how they sounded, soft, pleading, the kind of thing he would have mocked on a late-night talk show once upon a time. But they were out now, and he wouldn’t take them back as much as he wanted to vomit at his own cheesiness.
Alastor’s fingers drummed once against his forearm, a soft staccato. When he spoke, the static in his voice crackled just a little sharper.
“Let me make sure I understand,” he said, stepping forward until only the low table separated them. “You, the ‘great’ Vox, are offering me your soul — your eternal, irretrievable soul — so that you may trail after me like some pathetic, collared mongrel?” His smile stretched wider, teeth gleaming. “Tell me, who’s the bottomest bitch now, hm?”
The barb landed exactly where it was meant to. Vox’s screen flickered, just once, a brief ripple of darker blue across the surface, but he didn’t look away.
“I’m not asking for partnership,” he said. “Not equality. I know what I’m offering. You set the terms. You decide what I am. What I do. As long as I’m here. As long as you don’t cut me loose.”
Alastor laughed then, a short, bright burst of sound that filled the small room and died just as quickly.
“And why, pray tell, would I want a powerless picture box following me about? You have nothing left to offer, old pal. No empire. No influence. No leverage. You’re a relic gathering dust in a city that’s already forgotten you!” He leaned forward, elbows resting on the back of one armchair, voice dropping to a silken murmur. “You’d be an annoyance. A distraction. A sad little shadow yipping at my heels for scraps of attention. What possible use could you be?”
Vox’s hands flexed at his sides. He took another step, close enough now that the faint heat from his screen brushed the air between them.
“I know things… about Heaven’s movements, about Lilith’s old networks that even you haven’t mapped completely. Things I never shared with the others.” he said quietly.
Alastor stilled. The drumming fingers stopped. The smile didn’t falter, but something behind his eyes shifted, calculating, weighing.
“Lilith’s networks…” Alastor repeated, drawing the name out like a note held on an old jazz record.
“Yes!” Vox’s voice was more enthusiastic than it should’ve been. “Information when you want it! And the rest of the time…” He spread his hands slightly, a gesture of surrender. “Whatever you decide I’m worth.”
Alastor straightened slowly, unfolding to his full height. He circled the table with deliberate steps, staff left leaning against the wall, until he stood directly in front of Vox.
“You’d belong to me,” Alastor said softly. “No appeals. No escape clauses. No pride left to salvage. And in return, I give you my attention. Daily. However I choose to bestow it.”
Vox met his gaze without flinching. “Yes.”
A long silence stretched, broken only by the faint tick of the clock in the lobby bleeding through the walls.
Then Alastor extended one hand, palm up, fingers curled like an invitation and a threat all at once. Shadows thickened in the corners of the room, curling along the floorboards like spilled ink. Green light flickered at the edges of his smile, runes, sigils, the old familiar symbols of a bargain about to be sealed.
“Very well,” he said, voice rich with satisfaction. “Let’s make it official, shall we?”
Vox placed his hand in Alastor’s without hesitation. The contact was cool, dry, the grip firm. Energy crackled between their palms, sharp and electric, racing up Vox’s arm and settling behind his screen like a second heartbeat.
The deal snapped into place with a sound like a record skipping and then silence.
Alastor’s free hand moved almost lazily, tracing a line in the air. From nothing, a band of shimmering green materialized around Vox’s throat: not quite metal, not quite shadow, etched with the same glow of the runes that danced in Alastor’s eyes. A thin chain unfurled from it, trailing down to coil loosely around Alastor’s wrist like a living thing.
Alastor gave the chain an experimental tug, light, almost playful.
Vox’s knees buckled. He dropped hard to the rug, breath catching as the pull reverberated through every inch of him, a bright, undeniable command that sang along nerves he hadn’t known existed. The impact jarred his palms against the floor, but he didn’t try to rise. Couldn’t, not yet.
Alastor crouched in front of him, chain held loosely between two fingers, smile wide and triumphant.
“There we are,” he murmured, voice soft as velvet over broken glass. “Much better.”
The following morning, the first pale light of morning filtered through the heavy curtains of Alastor’s private suite, a room tucked high in one of the hotel’s crooked towers where the wallpaper bloomed with faded roses and the air carried the faint scent of ozone. Vox woke on the floor beside the bed, a thin blanket pulled over him sometime in the night. He didn’t remember Alastor draping the blanket. He didn’t ask.
He sat up slowly, the links shifting with a faint chime. Alastor was already moving, standing at the window with his back turned, adjusting his bow tie in the reflection of the glass. The red of his coat caught the light like fresh blood. Vox watched the precise movements of those long fingers and felt something tighten in his throat, anticipation sharp enough to taste.
Alastor turned, smile bright and unchanging. “Up with the dawn, are we? How eager.”
Vox rose to his knees without thinking. “Good morning,” he said, the words coming out rougher than intended.
Alastor crossed the room in three unhurried strides. He stopped just in front of Vox, close enough that the hem of his coat brushed Vox’s bent knees. Then he reached down and gave Vox’s back a single, brisk pat, two taps between the shoulder blades, the way one might acknowledge a well-behaved hound.
“There,” Alastor said lightly. “Your daily ration. Now do be a dear and fetch my coat from the chair.”
The pat lingered on Vox’s skin like a brand, warm for a moment and then gone. He stayed on his knees, staring up. “That’s it?”
Alastor was already moving toward the wardrobe, humming something old and jaunty under his breath. “That’s the terms, my friend. Attention. I gave it. Run along.”
Vox’s hands curled against his thighs. He rose to his feet, took one step, then another, until he was close enough to catch the sleeve of Alastor’s coat.
“Wait.” The word came out low. “That wasn’t— I thought—”
Alastor paused, one brow arched. “You thought what, exactly?”
Vox’s screen flickered, a brief flare of brighter blue. He hated the way his voice dropped, the way it edged toward something raw. “More. Just… more.”
Alastor turned fully now, head tilted. His smile didn’t waver, but his eyes narrowed, irritation flickering behind the amusement. “You begged for a place at my side, not a throne on it. I gave you what was promised.”
Vox didn’t let go of the sleeve. “Please.”
The single word hung in the air, small and ugly. Vox wasn’t the one to ask ‘please’ to anyone.
Alastor regarded him for a long moment, the hum of his static growing louder, filling the room like distant thunder. Then he sighed a soft, theatrical exhale and reached out. He simply held, steady and cold, letting the weight of it sink in.
Vox’s eyes half-closed. He leaned into the touch without meaning to.
“There,” Alastor said, voice low, almost kind. “Will you stop begging now?”
Vox nodded once, a short, sharp motion. A small, satisfied curve touched the corner of his mouth, barely there, gone almost immediately, but unmistakable.
Alastor’s grip tightened fractionally, just enough to remind. “Don’t mistake indulgence for weakness, pet.” Then he released, stepping back and smoothing his sleeve where Vox had creased it. “Now. We’re going out. The hotel’s residents are… less than enthusiastic about your continued presence. Can’t imagine why.”
They left through a side door that opened onto a narrow alley behind the hotel. The morning air was thick with the smell of wet pavement and distant smoke.
Alastor walked with his usual unhurried grace, staff tapping a lazy rhythm against the ground. Vox matched his pace, eyes flicking to every movement. The way Alastor’s ears twitched at a distant scream, the idle spin of his staff when they paused at a corner, the brief pause to tip his hat to a trembling sinner who nearly dropped a stack of newspapers at the sight of them.
They stopped first at a small café tucked into the shadow of a crumbling theater. The owner, a nervous demon with too many eyes, nearly tripped over himself to clear the best table on the patio. Alastor ordered coffee, black, and something raw and red for himself. Vox sat opposite, hands folded on the table, watching Alastor stir his cup with slow, deliberate circles.
“You’re staring,” Alastor said without looking up.
“Am I not allowed?”
A soft laugh. “You’re allowed many things. Manners, however, remain optional.”
Vox leaned forward slightly. “Tell me where we’re going today.”
Alastor took a sip, eyes half-lidded. “A little errand in Cannibal Town. Rosie’s expecting a visit, and I thought you might enjoy the scenery. All those smiling faces.” He glanced up then, smile sharpening. “Try not to embarrass me.”
Vox felt a small non-corporeal tug on his soul as Alastor rose, a silent command. Vox followed.
The streets grew narrower as they moved deeper into the district, the buildings leaning close like conspirators. Meat hung in shop windows, fresh and glistening. Demons greeted Alastor with bows and eager smiles, eyes sliding curiously to the figure trailing behind him on a leash of green light. Vox kept his expression neutral, but his shoulders squared with every stare, the old posture trying to reassert itself.
At one point, a drunk looking sinner darted too close to Al in a threatening — according to Vox — manner, curiosity overriding fear. Alastor’s hand lifted almost lazily, shadows curling at his feet, but Vox stepped forward first, screen flaring bright enough to make her stumble back with a hiss.
Alastor glanced at him, one brow raised.
“She was in the way,” Vox said.
“Protective,” Alastor murmured. “How touching.”
They reached Rosie’s emporium near midday. The place smelled of roses and copper, lace curtains framing windows displaying hats perched on polished skulls. Rosie greeted Alastor with a delighted laugh and a hug that he returned with theatrical flair. Her eyes lit on Vox immediately
“Well, well. Look what the demon dragged in.” She circled him slowly. “On a leash now, darling? How the mighty have fallen.”
Vox met her gaze steadily. “It’s a temporary arrangement.”
Temporary his ass.
Rosie’s laugh tinkled like breaking glass. “Oh, I do hope so.”
Alastor watched the exchange with mild interest, sipping tea Rosie pressed into his hand. “Behave,” he said quietly.
Vox’s mouth curved again, that same small, satisfied twist.
The afternoon passed in a haze of conversation and delicate pastries that Vox didn’t touch. He stood at the deer’s shoulder the whole time, silent and watchful.
By the time they left, the sky had deepened to its usual bruised red. They walked back through streets now lit by flickering lamps. “You were adequate today,” Alastor said eventually, voice carrying that familiar mocking lilt. “No tantrums. No grandstanding. I may even bring you along tomorrow to whatever awaits.”
Vox glanced sideways. “High praise.”
“Don’t let it go to your head.”
Vox said nothing, but his step lightened.
Back at the hotel, they slipped in through the same side door. The lobby was quiet, most residents avoiding the common areas when Alastor’s shadow passed through. Up the stairs, down the hall, into the suite. The door closed behind them with a soft click.
“There,” he said, turning away to hang his coat. “Consider yourself dismissed. You may curl up in your usual spot. I’m sure the floor misses you terribly.”
Vox didn’t move. “Adequate,” he said, voice slipping back into that old sardonic drawl, smooth and edged. “That’s what you call me? Adequate. After I spent the afternoon playing guard dog and silent statue while Rosie poked at me like a sideshow exhibit. High praise from the Radio Demon. I’ll have it framed.”
Alastor poured two fingers of something dark and amber, the glass clinking softly. “Would you prefer I lie? You were tolerable. Barely a nuisance. Miracles do happen.”
Vox’s mouth curved, sharp and familiar. “Tolerable. From you, that’s practically a love letter.” He took a step closer. “You know, those seven years you vanished. Poof, gone without a trace. I thought the Exorcists had caught you. Thought they had done a very well needed favour to all of hell.”
Alastor paused mid-sip, glass hovering near his lips. His eyes flicked sideways, red and unreadable.
“I waited,” Vox continued, voice dropping lower, almost conversational. “Weeks. Months. Kept waiting for the satisfaction to hit. The relief. I’d finally won, hadn’t I? You were gone. No more Al acting all high and mighty. No more of that insufferable grin.” He laughed, short and bitter, trying to make himself seem bigger, as if he’d forgotten where he currently — and willingly so — stood at. “It never came though. Because I kept thinking about how someone else got to wipe that fucking smile off your hideous face. Not me.”
Alastor set the glass down with deliberate care. When he turned, his smile was wider than ever, teeth gleaming.
“How romantic,” he said, voice honeyed and venomous. “The great Vox, pining away like a widow in mourning. All that time wasted on little old me. Tell me, did you cry into your pillows? Compose tragic broadcasts about your lost rival? How utterly pathetic.”
Vox’s screen flared, bright and hot. “Pathetic? Says the man who spent years chained to someone else… unwillingly” He added, trying hard not to make himself look like a hypocrite. “Playing errand boy. At least I never let anyone leash me until I decided it was worth it.”
The barb landed. Alastor’s eyes narrowed, static crackling sharp enough to raise the hairs on Vox’s neck. If he even had any.
“Decided,” Alastor echoed, stepping closer. “Is that what you tell yourself? Look at you, trailing after me like a kicked dog waiting for the next boot. You’re not here because you won anything. You’re here because you still need me. Don’t be foolish, Vincent.”
Vox’s breath hitched, a sharp, involuntary sound. Heat coiled low in his frame, traitorous and immediate, surging in response to the venom dripping from every word. Bright cyan plastered across his screen, betraying him before he even registered the shift.
Alastor’s gaze dropped, slow and deliberate, lingering on the front of Vox’s trousers where the evidence strained against fabric. His nose wrinkled in theatrical disgust.
“Ew,” he said flatly. “Gross. Really? That’s what does it for you now? Being told what you are?”
Vox froze, he opened his mouth for some retort, some deflection but nothing came.
Alastor waved a hand, already turning away. “Out. Tonight, you sleep in the hall. I won’t have that… enthusiasm soiling my floors.”
Vox’s hands clenched at his sides. “You’re serious.”
“As a severed head.” Alastor’s voice didn’t rise because it didn’t need to. “Door’s right there. Take your blanket. And do try not to make a mess of the carpet out there. Niffty just cleaned.”
For a moment, Vox didn’t move. Anger simmered hot under his skin, warring with the lingering ache low in his belly. Then he snatched the thin blanket from the floor.
“Fine,” he snapped, voice rough. “Enjoy your beauty sleep, your highness.” He was absolutely fuming.
He yanked the door open hard enough to rattle the hinges and stepped into the hallway. The door shut behind him with a decisive click, leaving him in the dim glow of a single wall sconce.
The corridor stretched empty in both directions, doors closed and silent. Vox stood there for a long moment, breathing hard, screen cycling through colors before settling on a sullen blue. Then he lowered himself to the floor, back against the wall opposite Alastor’s door, blanket pulled over his shoulders.
The carpet was thin and worn, cold seeping through quickly. He sat with knees drawn up, arms wrapped around them, staring at the closed door like it might open again if he glared hard enough.
It didn’t.
Tomorrow, he told himself. Tomorrow would be different.
Eventually, his eyes closed.
The hallway carried the chill of early morning, the kind that seeped through carpet and bone alike. Vox stirred against the wall, blanket slipped halfway down his chest, the collar’s faint glow the only warmth against his throat. He hadn’t slept much.
Voices drifted from the stairwell, low and careful.
Charlie’s first, soft with worry. “I just… I saw him out there when I came up for coffee. Curled up like a dog someone forgot to let in. Vaggie, that’s not right. No one puts Vox in a position like this. Not ever.”
Vaggi’s reply came sharper, edged with old anger. “Voluntarily, Charlie. He walked in here and handed himself over. You saw what happened during his little ‘doomsday’, it’s probably why he’s acting like this now.”
A pause. Charlie’s voice dropped further. “Do you think he’s… broken? Like, really broken? I’ve seen people hit rock bottom, but this doesn’t seem like Vox.”
Vox’s screen flickered awake, dim blue brightening slowly. He stayed still, listening.
Vaggi sighed. “I think he’s exactly where he wants to be, which is fucked up. Alastor’s not forcing him. It’s degrading, yeah. But we shouldn’t kink-shame him.” Her voice dripped with sarcasm at last.
Charlie made a small, distressed sound. “We should do something. Talk to him. Offer—”
“No.” Vaggi’s tone hardened. “He’s not a resident. He’s not here for redemption. He’s Alastor’s problem now. Literally.”
Their footsteps receded down the stairs, voices fading into murmurs.
Vox pushed himself upright, blanket pooling around his waist. His back ached from the wall, neck stiff. He rolled his shoulders once, twice, then leaned his head back with a soft thud.
“Broken,” he muttered to the empty hallway, voice rough from disuse. “Please. As if a little floor time undoes decades of being the one pulling the strings.”
He raised his voice just enough to carry down the stairwell, annoyed and loud. “Well, fuck you too!” He paused before continuing, his tone louder. “Tell you what, ladies, next time you want to dissect my life choices, do it where I can’t hear the pity party. It’s bad for my image.”
Silence answered. Then Charlie’s flustered “Oh no—” and Vaggi’s sharp “See? Still an asshole.”
Vox smirked, the expression brittle but real. He brushed imaginary dust from his sleeves, straightened his posture against the wall like it was a throne. “That’s right. Keep walking.”
Then finally, the door behind opened.
Alastor stood framed in the threshold, fully dressed, coat impeccable, smile wide and bright as morning broadcast. He looked down at Vox with mild curiosity, as if discovering a package left on the step.
Vox rose in one fluid motion, blanket abandoned on the floor. He didn’t quite run inside, but his steps carried an eagerness he couldn’t quite mask.
“Took you long enough,” he said, voice aiming for casual and landing somewhere closer to relief. “Your hallway decor leaves something to be desired.”
Alastor closed the door behind him with a soft click. “Did the accommodations not suit? My apologies. Next time I’ll have Niffty leave a bowl of water.”
Vox brushed past him, moving deeper into the room, shoulders already loosening as the familiar scent of ozone and old roses wrapped around him. He stopped near the window, glancing back a grin. “Next time, try not to make me wait. I still have some standards.”
Alastor’s laugh was soft, crackling. “Standards. From the man who spent the night on a dirty carpet. Do remind me who begged for this arrangement.”
Vox’s screen flickered, but he didn’t rise to it. He turned to the window instead, watching the red dawn crawl across the city skyline.
“Details,” he said. “The point is, I’m inside now.”
Alastor moved to the sideboard, pouring coffee that steamed with something dark as night. “Indeed you are. Try not to make me regret it.”
Soon, the days began blurring into one another, marked less by calendars than by small, accumulating shifts.
At first the routine held its sharp edges. Mornings began with the brisk pat or the casual brush-off, Vox pressing for more until Alastor relented with a sigh and a grip that lasted longer than strictly necessary. Afternoons were often spent outside the hotel. Evenings ended with Vox on the floor.
Even he wondered why the hell would he allow himself to sleep on someone's floor like some pathetic mutt. He had no answer for that.
Slowly, those edges began dulling.
Alastor stopped sending him into the hall quite so often. One morning Vox even woke to find a second cup already poured on the sideboard, black, no sugar, the way he had always taken it back when they shared brighter ambitions together. He stared at it for a long moment before picking it up. Alastor said nothing, only turned a page in whatever book he was pretending to read.
Conversations lengthened. They spoke shit about overlords, talked about old songs neither of them had heard in decades or just sat in a comfortable silence. Alastor’s barbs even grew lighter, almost playful, the kind that invited return fire rather than retreat. Vox found himself answering more kindly.
One afternoon in Cannibal Town, Rosie watched them over tea and raised a delicate brow. “My, my. You two almost look like friends again.”
Alastor’s laugh crackled soft. “Perish the thought.”
No such thing as ‘friends’ in hell. Vox had thought, but he didn't bother denying Rosie’s claim.
When they went back to the hotel everyone was already fast asleep. Alastor had quickly changed into something more breathable than what he had been wearing and made himself comfortable in his bed. Vox lay on the hard wooden floor. His back had been killing him lately, all this sleeping like a dog was finally catching up to him. He shifted once, then again, trying to find a position that didn’t press on the ache building along his spine.
Alastor watched the subtle restlessness with half-lidded amusement.
Vox’s voice came muffled against the pillow he’d been allowed weeks ago. “The floor’s murder on the back. Allowing me a mattress wouldn’t kill you. Or the couch. Anything with padding.”
Alastor’s head tilted, smile curving wider. “The couch is for guests. The bed is for me. And the floor, it seems, is for ungrateful televisions who complain about accommodations they begged for.” He paused, voice dropping to that mocking lilt. “Though if you’re truly desperate, you could always curl up at the foot of the bed like a proper—”
Vox was moving before the sentence finished, rising in one fluid motion to the bottom corner of the mattress. He settled there without ceremony, stretching out along the edge, back to the room, shoulders claiming a sliver of space that left most of the bed untouched. Although Alastor’s bed was already ridiculously large, especially for a single person.
Alastor’s words cut off mid-breath. “Impatient creature,” Alastor murmured. “One can tell you’d been waiting seventy years for an invitation.”
Vox glanced up, mouth curving into that familiar smug twist. “You said it. I’m just following orders.”
A longer silence. When Alastor spoke again, the mockery had thinned, replaced by something cooler.
“Insolent creature. You think because I’ve grown… accustomed to your presence that boundaries no longer apply?”
Vox shifted, rolling onto his back to meet Alastor’s gaze across the expanse of mattress. “Accustomed. That’s one word for it.”
For a moment, tension hung thick in the air. Vox braced, half-expecting a yank or a shove back to the floor, probably worse. Instead, Alastor huffed, a sound between amusement and exasperation.
“You’re shameless,” he said, voice dripping with disdain. “A pathetic shadow of whatever you used to be. Crawling into my bed like a stray that’s forgotten its place.”
Vox’s mouth curved wider. “Could be. I’ve been good. ‘Tolerable’, even. Deserve a reward, don’t I?” He stretched again, deliberately, the sheet sliding down his chest. “Come on, Al. Throw me a bone. Or something.”
Alastor’s laugh was soft, crackling at the edges. He turned, eyes narrowing, but there was no immediate dismissal. “Begging again? How predictable. And here I thought you’d learned some dignity.”
Vox pushed up on one elbow, gaze steady. “Please.” The word came out half-joke, half-something else.
Alastor’s smile didn’t waver, but his shadows stirred in the corners, coiling slow and dark along the walls. He materialized the chain leashing Vox’s soul to him out of thin air, he reached out for it, fingers brushing the chain where it lay on the sheets. It glowed bright under his touch, links tightening just enough to pull Vox forward a fraction. “Pitiful,” he murmured. “But you’ve been… adequate. Endured without too much fuss. I suppose a reward is in order.”
The shadows deepened then, spilling from the corners like ink, twisting up the bedposts and across the mattress. They brushed Vox’s skin first, cool, insistent, wrapping around his wrists and pinning them lightly above his head. Vox gasped, back arching as they slid lower, teasing, pressing in ways that sent heat surging through him.
Alastor stayed at the edge of the bed, watching with detached amusement. “There,” he said softly. “I won’t soil my hands on you, whatsoever.”
The shadows obeyed, coiling tighter around Vox’s thighs, spreading them wider with unyielding pressure. One tendril slipped beneath the waistband of his trousers, cool and slick, pressing in slow circles that drew a low groan from his throat. Another wrapped around his length, stroking with a rhythm that built steady and merciless.
Vox’s hips bucked, screen flickering bright. “Fuck— come on, touch me properly.”
Alastor’s smile curved sharper. “Demanding as ever. No. This is sufficient.”
A thicker shadow pressed inside him then, filling slow and deep, curling just right to make Vox’s eyes roll back. He tugged against the bindings at his wrists, claws digging into empty air, body trembling as the tendrils worked in tandem, stroking, thrusting, teasing without pause.
Vox would’ve usually never allowed such a thing to happen. He rarely ever bottomed, not because he disliked it — though he usually pretended to on the rare occasions he agreed to it — but because he hated feeling like a submissive little gay boy. That was probably the prejudice he carried from his times and his ego talking. But he had already thrown his entire dignity overboard long ago, hadn’t he? What even was there to preserve?
And it all felt so nice, maybe if he didn’t do anything but be on the receiving end without having to work for it or do something in exchange it wouldn’t feel so degrading.
Yeah. He had it figured out.
“Please,” Vox rasped again, the word breaking. “More.”
“There it is,” Alastor murmured, leaning in just enough for his breath to ghost across Vox’s screen. “That sound. You’ve wanted this since the beginning, haven’t you? Pathetic, really. All that bluster, and it boils down to this.”
Vox moaned, loud and unfiltered, as the shadows quickened, one coiling around the base of his throat like a second collar, squeezing just enough to heighten every sensation. His frame arched off the bed, chasing the pressure, the stretch, the relentless drive that built hotter and faster.
“M’ Close,” he gasped.
Alastor watched, unmoving, eyes gleaming. “Go on, then. Do show me how pitiful you are.”
The command tipped him over, spilling hot across the sheets. The shadows held him through it, drawing out every shudder until he collapsed back, panting.
They retreated slowly, dissolving into wisps that vanished into the walls. Alastor straightened, adjusting his cuffs with casual grace.
“Satisfied?” he asked, voice light, as if discussing the weather.
Vox lay there, boneless, staring at the ceiling with a lazy grin. “For now. But next time, use your hands. What you did is cheating.”
Alastor’s laugh echoed soft in the quiet room. “Next time? How presumptuous.”