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“… He just kept talking about all these ‘safety protocols’ I don’t care about and asking me stupid questions like ‘sir, are you sure the teeth should be bigger’ and ‘we’ll need to keep upgrading the tank every two weeks because of unpredictable growth spurts, you are aware of this, right?’ I mean, can you believe it? Speaking to me in that condescending tone? Ugh, should’ve fried his brains right then and there…”
Vox was talking animatedly, waving his arms around as he spoke. Well, one of them at least, the other was tucked into the crook of Alastor’s elbow as they sauntered through Pentagram City’s streets at a leisurely pace.
“But you didn’t?” the Radio Demon asked.
“No, Al, we’ve just hired the guy,” Vox explained after a sigh, sounding like he regretted that fact already. “And we made such a big show of it too… killing him now would be bad for business, you know?”
Alastor didn’t answer aloud, only pursed his lips and gave the large hand tucked into his elbow a consoling little pat.
He didn’t know the young man in question – a fish-headed fellow named Baxter – as well as Vox did, having only seen him once during the spectacle that had been Voxtek’s Overlord Games.
Alastor had long since known his idiot box had a certain preference for employing fish-looking sinners – now that they’d finally progressed past the need for cheap imp labor – but this self-proclaimed mad scientist had won their tournament fair and square and had been almost immediately promoted to head scientist afterward.
Though why he was tasked with bio-engineering a pet shark for Vox as his first order of business, a rite of passage as it were, Alastor couldn’t say.
But his confusion about his partner’s whacky priorities in regards to their shared venture didn’t matter as much as his delight at parading through the streets of the Pentagram, arm in arm with his idiot box. Especially when Vox was in one of his excitable moods.
Oh yes, the silly picture box was very entertaining when he was this agitated, chattering away like a Yakity-Yak. And Alastor liked listening to him when he was this spirited and passionate about something – even if that something was having his competence as a future pet owner questioned, apparently.
He looked to the side, his perpetual smile widening as he watched sinners scrambling to hide themselves from view and window shutters closing while the two Overlords everyone knew belonged together made their way downtown.
They had no specific plans for this Friday night yet, but Alastor sure hoped it’d involve some good liquor and a scuffle afterward. There were enough hell-weary sinners around who’d try to pick a fight with them, even if their terrifying reputation as Hell’s most jovial and volatile duo long since preceded them.
Alastor’s mouth was already watering at the thought of licking the blood of some stray sinner from Vox’s screen right after his partner was done tearing into him with his sharp, metallic claws.
Of course, he could never admit to having such obscene and downright lecherous thoughts in public, though it would be fun to whisper them into Vox’s audio outputs and watch his screen fuzz with static and his antennae begin to spark with erratic energy. Alastor did so love to rile up his excitable partner, preferably at the most inconvenient of times.
And although the night was young and the Pentagram stood ready to be painted red by the two partner Overlords, Alastor stopped walking abruptly as soon as they reached their usual drinking establishment: The bar called Cigs and Gigs – not to be confused with Cigs and Tits, which was the strip club right next door.
His ears twisted forward with interest as he read the new flyer that had been sloppily slapped onto the window since the last time they’d been here. Linked together by the arm as they were, Vox was forced to stop alongside him and shot him a questioning glance that Alastor could feel on the side of his face.
“Didn’t you wanna try a new place tonight, babe?”
Unlinking his arm from Vox’s and ignoring the displeased little grunt the other man let out at the loss of contact, Alastor pointed at the advertisement that had piqued his interest.
“Now would you look at that, dear! That’s just the right thing for us.”
DRINKING COMPETITION!!
Finish as many rounds of our mystery cocktail as you can and win a prize!
When he turned back to his partner, Alastor was surprised to find Vox staring back unconvinced. The brows on his screen were pulled together in a frown.
“I don’t know, Al. Sounds a little gross actually,” Vox mumbled. “You sure that’s what you wanna do tonight?”
Alastor blinked at him. Had Vox accidentally rewired a few wires in his head during his last technical maintenance or where did this sudden hesitancy to get sloshed come from?
“Why isn’t it ‘our thing’? We wanted to go out and drink, and you like a bit of a challenge, don’t you? So what’s this indecision about?”
The Radio Demon turned up his nose at his partner, who was acting far too stubborn for his liking. Damned Vox! Alastor was supposed to be the reluctant one who’d Vox need to pester and cajole until he eventually gave in.
Had the idiot forgotten this unspoken rule of their relationship?
At least the TV sinner had the decency to look properly alarmed when he noticed the pinched expression of annoyance on Alastor’s face.
Vox’s hands immediately shot forward but he stopped short of actually touching him. Instead, he awkwardly rubbed the back of his boxy head with both hands. Maybe it was a nervous habit left over from his human days, and the absurdity of watching the other sinner rub his unwieldy head with those large and deadly claws actually softened up Alastor’s ire.
Damn that infuriatingly earnest and endearing picture box!
“I’m just saying, we’re Overlords, Al… the best of the best,” Vox began. “Surely at this point we don’t need to compete with these losers for some stupid prize. I could just buy this whole place if you wanted me to!”
Oh dear, maybe their recent success really went to his already large head.
Alastor didn’t want Vox to buy him the whole place, nor did he understand what their status as Overlords had to do with participating in a drinking competition. Vox wasn’t new to the title at this point, but compared to Alastor, who’d been toppling other Overlords ever since he’d arrived in Hell, he was still rather green.
Alastor had been a formidable Overlord for decades upon decades now – and it never stopped him from having his fun!
Was the idiot box suddenly thinking himself too good for their usual shenangigans?
That thought invoked far more dread than anger in Alastor, which was a terrifying realization for the Radio Demon. His ears lowered against his head.
He scoffed and turned on his heel, heading for the door without his partner as he tried to ignore the nervous pounding of his heart.
“Well, if you don’t want to drink with me, fine. I’ll just find a new pal to talk to,” he announced breezily, despite having no intention of actually doing so.
But his bratty behavior had the desired effect at last.
One of Vox’s hands shot forward and those large fingers closed around his wrist. The tips of his metallic claws bit into Alastor’s skin, making it prickle with pain, now so dangerously close to drawing blood. Alastor felt a familiar fluttering in his stomach, an anticipation for the pain he secretly enjoyed.
“Don’t you dare,” Vox warned.
His screen had gone dark as though he’d been switched off, but his eyes were still visible, smoldering with intensity. The left one pulsed as it always did when he became truly angry. Though, to be fair, Alastor had seen that same look on his face plenty of times before – and not just when Vox was angry. There were other moments, equally as intense, when the other man looked at him like he was about to swallow him whole. And as always, the sight made a shiver roll through Alastor.
He allowed Vox to drag him inside, but as soon as they pushed through the doors, he twisted out of the TV sinner’s grasp. Letting other sinners see how he got manhandled by his partner was not a good look for the Radio Demon, no matter how much it excited him.
Without looking back, he headed straight for the bartender who was polishing glasses behind the counter while Vox followed closely behind him.
“Good evening, sir! We would like to sign up for this drinking competition you’re advertising,” Alastor announced loudly, slapping both hands on the countertop to draw the bird sinner’s attention to them.
Judging by the bland look he gave them, he wasn’t surprised to find the two partners here yet again. They came by almost every week and would either drink or dance, or both. Though, that was not to say their outings were getting boring.
In fact, Vox’s endless inventiveness and zest for adventure was one of the things Alastor cherished most about him. Whether they were out and about to torment other sinners in new exciting ways, solely for the fun of it, or when they were playing a game of billiards, they always somehow ended up here as a final part of the night.
Oh, well. Alastor was a creature of habit, and he’d never been fond of changing a running system. Lucky for him, Vox was game for just about anything as long as Alastor was there with him – that silly, devoted man.
“Uh-huh, sure. Take a seat,” the bartender replied, pointing toward their usual stools directly across.
Finally, Vox also began to show interest as he pushed to the front to stand beside Alastor and drummed his fingers on the countertop as well. The satisfying clack of metal against wood made Alastor’s ears twitch.
“Come on, birdie, you gotta give us more than that. What’s the prize?” he asked, breaking into that wolfish, salesman grin of his Alastor knew so well.
Finally, the picture box was showing the appropriate amount of zeal and asking the right questions! As a reward, he pressed his shoulder against Vox’s and felt the excited uptick of the other man’s frequency buzzing through one of his ears.
The bartender pointed at the wall behind him while still polishing the glasses. “Uh… you get your picture taken and your names go up on the board.”
Both Alastor and Vox leaned to the side in unison to peer around him. And sure enough, the scoreboard hung right there on the wall, showing all the names and faces of the winners.
Alastor pursed his lips again.
“Let’s make a deal,” he offered before Vox could answer. “If we win, we get to drink on the house for the rest of the month. If we don’t, then we’ll pay everyone’s tab tonight. Sound fair?”
He held out his hand, and although it was a low-stakes deal, the green threads of his magic still unwound to draw the other sinner in.
Getting his name and face plastered all over the wall wasn’t enticing for him. Vox was the only person allowed to have a photograph of and with him, and Alastor liked to keep it that way. Fiercely possessive as the chattering picture box was, he wasn’t even boasting about it to others or showing it around.
He’d once explained that it made him feel special – which was definitely the truth – but also, even Alastor’s camera-hungry partner understood that there were certain things the Radio Demon wouldn’t tolerate. After all, what would the papers say?
The bartender, who was no stranger to Alastor’s modus operandi, only sighed before accepting the deal.
“Fine, whatever.”
The green energy spiked briefly, lighting up both their faces before it disappeared.
What a pleasant individual he was! To be fair, the deals Alastor struck with their favorite bird-headed bartender only ever harmed the fellow financially. Despite the numerous times they’d made deals on who’d pay the tab and when, Alastor never made an attempt to own the man’s soul or swindle him out of his livelihood, which was very generous of him. But even the Radio Demon occasionally felt magnanimous. Especially when the man served such excellent drinks and even hired musicians to perform live music at least once a month.
He and Vox took their usual seats at the bar, and Alastor didn’t protest when the TV sinner hooked a foot around the leg of his stool and dragged it closer so their thighs touched beneath the counter.
Alastor was far too busy trying to decipher the ingredients that went into this mystery cocktail, but the numerous unmarked bottles the bartender kept pouring from didn’t offer any clues. When the first round of muddy liquid arrived, the two Overlords silently looked down at their drinks.
Well.. at least the glasses were small.
“What do you think is in there?” Vox asked, swirling the murky concoction around in his hand.
Alastor shrugged.
“No idea.”
It was probably best not to think too hard about what they’d been served. Even if the smell reminded him more of gasoline than whiskey, it couldn’t be worse than the copious amounts of liquor Alastor had consumed during his human years which had been distilled in someone’s bathtub – the days of prohibition be damned!
“The scoreboard says eight's the record. Surely we can beat that, don’t you think so, Vincent?” he asked, picking up his glass and raising it toward his partner.
An excited spark crackled between his antennae at the mention of his name and Alastor’s tail stirred where it was tucked into the waistband of his pants when Vox broke out into his toothy grin, displaying all those lovely sharp teeth on his screen.
“Fuck yeah, let's do it!”
Feeling even more magnanimous, Alastor leaned closer and lowered his lids, knowing just how irresistible Vox found it when he peered up at him through the dark line of his lashes.
“And remember, darling, spitters are quitters. That’s what you always tell me.”
He threw his head back right after to down the mysterious liquid in one go, snickering to himself as Vox desperately tried to hide the light blue flush that’d appeared all over his screen.
No matter how unsavory those drinks had looked at first, once Alastor got past the sour taste that reminded him too much of battery acid, the buzz of intoxication soon spread in his limbs, making his fingers tingle and his shoulders loosen pleasantly until he was all but slumped against Vox as to not land face first on the counter.
Speaking of whom, the TV sinner began to babble again, shortly after their third round.
“Fuck, I just love sharks so much,” Vox sighed dreamily. “Did you know they can recognize people? I told Baxter to let them watch my shows every day. And– and they can sense electrical fields too, isn’t that awesome?! They’re gonna fucking love me, I’m so ready to be their dad.”
Alastor’s ears twitched irritably at the familiar whinging.
As charming as he usually found Vox’s enthusiasm for these things to be, this was getting on his nerves now. Hiding his sly grin behind the glass, Alastor took another sip before asking, “Do you love them more than you love me?”
He could hardly swallow the liquid in his mouth before his face was forcibly pressed against Vox’s screen. Alastor let out a helpless and utterly embarrassing bleat when the other man’s brutish hands latched onto his arms and yanked him close. He stared into the blinding glare of Vox’s screen with wide eyes. Vox’s own eyes had grown comically large, quivering with emotion.
“How can you say that, Al? You’re the love of my life,” he breathed against him, sounding close to tears.
Oh boy, there went his idiot box again, going sentimental on him.
He hadn’t always been so outspoken about his passions. While Vox had never been subtle about his admiration for the Radio Demon, admitting to such vulnerability aloud had once required a tremendous amount of courage and lots of liquid encouragement in the form of alcohol before he’d finally managed to say he wanted their business partnership – which had been going on for little more than a year at that point – to transition into something more personal.
Well… Vox didn’t say it like that. In fact, he’d said nothing, he had simply grabbed Alastor and kissed him. That bold action had earned him a righteous smack on the head from one of Alastor’s shadow tentacles before he inevitably softened on him.
Oh yes, his Vincent had always been a very hands-on man, in every sense of the word.
But the more time they spent together and the more comfortable he apparently grew around the Radio Demon, the easier it had become for the hopelessly repressed man to say his feelings aloud – something that Alastor didn’t even demand from him.
He could tell how much Vox needed him. But alas, the man was both bold and loud by nature, so it had only been a matter of time before he started babbling his “I love you”s day in and day out.
And sometimes, Alastor even said it back. Whenever he knew Vox especially needed to hear it, or whenever Vox fucked his brain into mush.
In any case, Alastor hadn’t actually meant to question Vox’s affection for him. He only wanted to rile him up, which had once again worked remarkably well, judging by the intensity with which Vox stared at him and the fact that Alastor was now pulled flush against the other Overlord – in public, no less! What a shameless indecency.
“I really love you, Al. You don’t understand how much,” Vox repeated, his claws digging into the fabric of Alastor’s coat.
Alastor swallowed hard at the pain that was right there but still so far out of reach.
“I do understand it, Vincent,” Alastor replied, face still smushed against Vox’s screen and staring into those bright eyes that burned themselves into his own retinas.
“Even if you leave me, you’ll never be free of me, do you understand?” he growled out like a threat.
Alastor could’ve put the picture box in his place at any moment, pushed him off and broken his screen for good measure. But much like the animal he’d been cursed to resemble, he froze in the face of this one true predator.
It was the sound of two glasses scraping across wood that made both men jump apart, their heads jerking toward the counter, even if Vox’s boxy one moved much slower.
The bartender handed them two ‘fresh’ drinks with an unimpressed look on his face.
Alastor cleared his throat and slapped one hand against the side of Vox’s casing.
“Chop chop, dear! We’ve got to keep up if we want to beat the record,” he sang through his smile, very much hoping that his coat was covering the wild way his tail wagged against his back.
The nasty taste of that cocktail actually didn’t become easier to bear the more rounds they were into this challenge. If anything, it got worse.
Alastor soon found himself questioning why he’d even suggested this competition in the first place. Oh well, it was too late to back out now, no matter how badly his head was aching or how violently his stomach turned.
At one point, he simply grabbed Vox by his head and kissed him, hoping that would distract from the sour taste in his mouth.
It might’ve sounded contradictory to some, considering Vox had been drinking the same vile concoction as him, but the TV sinner’s mouth was so unique, it always was a decidedly pleasant sensation to kiss him and to feel that electric tongue singeing the inside of Alastor’s mouth as Vox lapped and licked whatever parts he could reach.
Though, aside from the pain that was so mind-numbingly sweet to Alastor’s senses, he still felt the intense glare of Vox’s screen brightness shining through his closed eyelids. The idiot box probably kept his eyes open to stare at him, creep that he was, but the Radio Demon was far too drunk to care about it at this point.
Once again, however, they were interrupted, having to pull apart with a wet gasp when some unlucky wretch whispered, “Ew, what are these homos doing?” in their direction.
While Alastor’s head kept spinning and he was left to fight the battle against the last few fingers of disgusting liquid in his glass, trying to force them down his throat, Vox sprang up to throttle the sinner who’d insulted them.
“Say that again, I fucking dare you,” Vox grunted as his brutish hands closed around the bold guy’s neck.
He’d tackled him to the floor and was now straddling him, squeezing so violently, the sinner’s eyes bulged.
“Oh, you got nothing to say now, huh?”
Vox wasn’t even using his electricity, nor did he tear through the guy’s throat with his claws, he was just using his considerable strength to choke the life out of him... how very primal.
Alastor didn’t fight the sensation of his tail wagging wildly inside his pants anymore, even when it managed to pull his dress shirt loose from where it was tucked into the waistband of his pants at the small of his back.
He was sipping his drink slowly, thoroughly enjoying this show of strength.
Why, this was far better than any of those silly films Vox so loved to watch!
Once he swallowed the last mouthful of the cocktail, his own magic tugged at him.
His ears shot up straight and he turned to stare at the bartender. He’d been so out of it at this point, he hadn’t even realized that this was his final glass, he’d won!
“Uh, congrats, you both won the competition,” the bird sinner announced, looking as blasé as always, even when that fight knocked over some of his chairs. “That was your ninth glass, the television-head already finished his too, so…”
Oh, thank Satan, the nightmare was over. Alastor’s stomach would be eternally grateful. Without letting it show that he was very close to throwing up, he got up from his stool and brushed down his coat with both hands while Vox was still choking the by now lifeless sinner.
“Always a pleasure doing business with you,” he purred with a wide grin. “We’ll be back next week. Do order a few more bottles of that good rye for us, will you?”
Alastor turned toward the door and summoned his staff to twirl it cheerfully in one hand.
“Vincent, dear! Let’s go home,” he called over his shoulder, finally snapping the other Overlord out of his violent trance.
“Oh, uh, yeah, coming,” he called, scrambling to his feet to hurry after his partner.
Once they were outside, however, Alastor could no longer pretend to be fine and dandy. He slumped against Vox, who caught him before he would tumble to the ground, one hand snaking around his waist to steady him.
“Woah, okay, I got you.”
Alastor decided not to make it too easy on Vox though, and it took some wrestling and the other man repeatedly ordering him to “stop dragging your feet, brat” and “Al, come here, for fuck’s sake” before the television sinner finally managed to wrangle him onto his back to give him a piggyback ride home.
This new position was comfortable, both of Alastor's legs were wrapped around Vox’s waist and one arm was draped down his chest. With the other, Alastor continued to play with his staff, knocking it against the side of Vox’s head from time to time.
“Would you stop that?”
Alastor ignored the picture box’s half-hearted protests and instead rested his chin on top of that warm box, letting out a satisfied groan at the buzzing of Vox’s frequency that rattled through his skull. His ears twitched whenever the antennae right beside them brushed against his fur.
“Don’t throw up on me now, Al,” Vox warned, but Alastor could still hear the big, dreamy smile in his voice.
The Radio Demon's eyes had slid shut by now and he kept rubbing his cheek against the warm top of that television head.
“Or what?” he drawled. “Will you drop me?”
His tail wagged again when Vox’s claws dug into his pants beneath the thighs.
“Of course not!” Vox denied. “Just… don’t be a dick and throw up on me, okay? This is my new sweater.”
“Mhm, I’ll think about it,” Alastor murmured, eyes still closed.
They continued their trek back to the entertainment district in silence for a while.
It was no doubt dangerous to let his guard down like this, Alastor thought. To allow himself to be seen getting carried through Pentagram’s streets on Vox’s back, drunk out of his mind and rubbing his face against the other man’s head like an affectionate house cat.
Alastor knew it, but he still couldn’t really be bothered by it.
All of Pride knew they were a team, and what harm could possibly befall Hell’s two strongest sinners?
“You’re pretty out of it, huh?” Vox asked hesitantly.
Alastor didn’t reply, not wanting to admit just how much that mystery cocktail had knocked the wind out of his sails.
“… So, uh, maybe it’s best if you sleep at my place tonight... so I can look after you,” the other man added quickly, as though this was the point he was trying to get at.
Which it probably was.
Alastor didn’t know why Vox still made such a big fuss about their living arrangement. Yes, both men had their respective apartments, but by now that distinction had become mostly arbitrary when Alastor spent most nights at Vox’s place anyway. Maybe this was just another instance of his dear, greedy Vincent needing reassurance.
A long-suffering sigh tumbled out of him.
“Yes, let’s do that,” Alastor mumbled, rubbing his head against the surface of the buzzing screen. Vox didn’t seem to mind that Alastor’s antlers had, at this point, probably torn a hole into the hat he wore.
“Heh, what would you even do if I didn’t have this big head?” Vox chuckled under him and Alastor could feel the pep in his step as he kept walking.
He frowned.
“What kind of stupid question is that?” the deer sinner mumbled, rubbing his cheek against the large picture box for emphasis.
Vox shrugged beneath him and Alastor’s shoulders lifted with the motion as well.
“I’m just saying, in the future I might not look like this anymore.”
Alastor’s eyes shot open as a heavy, sinking feeling dropped into his stomach that had nothing to do with the disgusting liquor he'd just had. He blinked a few times to clear the haze from his vision.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You know, technology advances all the time. Maybe at some point in the future, they’ll make smaller models… or flatter ones. Wouldn’t it be so cool if I upgraded my head too?” Vox chattered on, thoroughly blind to his partner’s sudden dread.
The idea of Vox not looking like this any more made Alastor’s skin crawl and his hackles rise with alarm.
Why would he want to change, wasn’t he happy with how things were going? He'd already undergone a few updates, as it were, adding new features to his head that allowed him to become sharper and his senses more perceptive.
It’s been a while since Vox arrived in Hell, so how come he wasn’t used to his appearance yet?
From time to time, he complained about the weight of his head, but on those bad days, Alastor sometimes even helped to alleviate the pain by giving him a shoulder massage – a very rare and generous treat from his devoted partner.
And if Vox decided to change his head for good, what would he change next?
That was the trouble about progress, wasn’t it? It promised improvement, and most of the time it did just that, but it also never stopped. It went needlessly on and on and on, until at last there was nothing recognizable, nothing earnest, nothing good and familiar left.
Alastor had seen it happen time and time again. Much worse than the inevitable march of time was the relentless greed and the false promises of progress.
Alastor swallowed down the bile that rose in his throat and squeezed his eyes shut.
“Don’t say that,” he mumbled into the warmth of Vox’s screen, not sure if the man had even heard him.
He wasn't in the mood to talk any longer, and when he didn't reply to Vox's next attempts at conversation, the television sinner simply assumed Alastor had fallen asleep.
They reached the apartment eventually, but despite how gently his partner tucked him into bed – helping him out of his coat, taking off his shoes and even placing a bucket right next to him should he really feel the need to empty his stomach – Alastor couldn’t shake the feeling of nausea that settled deep into his bones.
It was only tempered when, after a while, he felt that warm boxy head snuggling up against him from behind as Vox joined him in bed.