Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Vox had felt a strange ache in his chest ever since he landed in hell.

Like his heart was gone and the space left behind was a void drinking in everything he had, like a fundamental part of his existence had vanished and now he couldn't even be without it, like he had lost the most important piece of his life and didn't even know what it was or that he had it.

It left a bitter taste in his mouth after everything he did, struck down deals, took lost souls, built empires, conquered the hierarchy, manipulated, made connections, made that kind of connections, adopted little sharks, drank himself stupid, laughed, cried, breathed. He couldn’t shake the feeling that something was missing, it made everything he did feel utterly wrong and hollow.

The static in his head was barely ignorable on good days, it drove him half-crazy on bad ones.

That was until he met him.

The radio demon, the boogeyman parents were scaring their kids into bed with. He was terrifying, sadistic, untouchable, and utterly divine in Vox’s eyes. A sinner who showed up out of nowhere in the thirties and became one of the most powerful overlords overnight. He had an almost disgusting sense of humor, wasn’t after fame or money or sex dolls like everybody else. It was almost like he did it all for the sake of entertainment.

The radio broadcasted poor unfortunate souls’ screams at night and by morning the radio demon would be jabbing at and mocking his latest hunts on his show. It came out so naturally that you would think he was talking about the dinner he had the other night and not about tearing human souls from limb to limb and showing them literal hell.

People realized very soon the radio demon was not to be crossed, only to be feared and respected. And then there came Vox. 

Vincent Whittman had been nothing if not obsessive all through his life and after-life, the very reason he almost managed to reach godhood on earth, but obsession finally took the best of him and became his end, literally. 

He promised himself that he wouldn’t let it get there again, but that’s what every addict says, isn’t it?

The first time he saw Alastor was the first time the constant buzz in his head shut up since he placed foot in hell. It became something almost pleasant and warm. He couldn’t help but stare at the sinner before him making conversation with the overlord, Rosie, giving Vox occasional side glances, a hint of amusement glinting at his eyes and his ever present hunting smile taking a smug turn. 

Vox had never felt so close to having everything, he couldn't explain it, almost as if he was a puzzle which finally found its last piece after decades of being incomplete. The attraction and pull he felt towards the other man was magnetic, a gigantic magnet which swallowed earth and sun and the solar system whole.

He thought to himself that he wanted this man in every way possible. Not only in the obvious aspect of wanting to jump his bones, which he did badly, but the urge to kidnap and imprison the guy for all millenia and owning him and being owned by him, look at him until his eyes burned, worship him day and night and cater to his every desire no matter how impossible or dark, sacrifice everything for him and thank him afterwards, love him and keep him and spoil him until there was nothing left of him except for Alastor, his Alastor.

Vox realized he never had wanted, needed, something like this. He would do and give anything just for this man to be Vox’s, and that creeped even himself out.

He had been staring having an existential crisis over a red deer with a creepy-ass smile for so long that he didn’t realize the whole room had gone silent, supposedly waiting for a response from the glitching TV headed man until Carmilla Carmine cleared her throat awkwardly and made Vox face her direction, finding everyone waiting impatiently and a tad bit amused. He panicked for a second but forced his ever present charm back on and continued with regained composure and confidence of a man who has been king of the airways for more than half of his life.

The meeting continued semi-smoothly afterwards, with Vox stealing glances from the radio demon and finally finding him staring back and blushing a light shade of cyan. He tried to silence his thoughts which were screaming ALASTOR in full caps every minute and focus on the current matter at hand, something about a new gang stealing off potential souls in the overlords’ territories, and try to tune out the content relieved buzz in his head.

When the meeting is finally over he looks over to find Alastor and sees Rosie looking directly at him. There’s a certain look on her face, calculating, almost accusatory. She quickly turns her furrowed brows into a pleasant expression and sweet smile which promises great malice behind it and turns away.

Vox finds it weird of course, but tucks it in the back of his mind to overlook later, instead turns his attention to conversing with Husk and Maestro. As he steps out of Carmine’s establishment he sees Alastor standing on the sidewalk, like he’s observing something very mind bugging in the red sky of Pentagram. He turns around as he hears Vox’s footsteps, his smile taking a sharper line as he sees the television demon.

“Vox, is it not? Pleased to finally meet you my good man, I’ve heard a lot about your recent… projects.”

Alastor says, tightening his eyes thinking about all the new TVs and screens around hell recently.

Vox’s wires twist together for a second, that staticy radio voice making him feel stuff. He quickly gathers himself  and extends his hand charmingly.

“Very happy to finally meet the radio demon. Your broadcasts are definitely very entertaining, that’s hard to find in this hole. I’m Vox.”

Alastor looks at the extended hand indifferently and chuckles lightly.

“That I can agree with. Is that the reason you have been filling this place up with your little picture boxes?” 

Alastor asks, condescension showing through his smile.

Vox takes his hand back, grins despite the obvious hurtful jabs and crosses his arms.

“Your broadcasts are entertaining, yes. But sometimes people aren’t in the mood for painful screams and getting mocked by their host. Also, radio is a bit outdated, don’t you think? You gotta look out for the future if you wanna  stay relevant.”

Alastor raises his brows, not expecting the response, strangers tend to run off the moment they saw him, even overlords didn’t feel comfortable indulging him, he briefly thought about tearing this loud, bold, flashy little soul and broadcasting his screams for tonight’s show. He thought a bit longer about devouring him on the spot, how his heart would taste. Electric, perhaps. Or maybe metallic.

He quickly decided that the picture box would provide more entertainment alive, or you know, dead, and with his bright screen still attached to his body.

“Never dear, relevance is not something I chase after. It is only the fear and amusement that I care about, and until I vanish off the face of hell radio will never be outdated.”

Alastor is interested now, the odd man seemed… appealing. Somehow. Vox saw it and seized the moment.

“Would you care for a drink? I’ll buy.”

He says with a too eager voice.

Alastor considers him for a moment, he could just dissolve into the shadows and not have to deal with this seemingly headache of a man, or laugh in his face for thinking he was worthy of the radio demon’s time. But he decided to indulge back, didn’t look like it would hurt.

He was wrong of course.

“Lead the way then, Mr. Vox.”

Chapter Text

The sound of pleasant jazz music came from the tacky jukebox, making the atmosphere a touch more warming and comfortable.

The bar hummed with quiet energy, sinners drinking away their problems and forgetting that they were damned to an eternity of literal hell.

 It was hard to come upon a good enough bar in hell, after all, the pit of fire didn’t exactly promise a good time and earthly delights.

 Finding somewhere where one could enjoy their evening without watching their back every two seconds, not having to suffer through skull opening trash music and make do with even worse liquor was difficult, but definitely worth the hassle after finally relaxing and finding slight comfort after a hellish day. Of course, being more privileged than your average sinner didn’t come easy. You had to pull a lot of strings to be able to set foot at Vaggi’s, prove that you weren’t looking for trouble and didn’t want to disrupt the almost peaceful flow of the place. Once the owner was convinced that you’re desperate enough for an adequate drinking place to not cause chaos, she’d welcome you with open arms as one of the regulars.

It was hell, peace didn’t come without death threats and well-needed ass whooping.

Vox had secured a spot for himself as soon as he’d heard this place existed. Vaggi was not amused when he decided to charm his way into her carefully found community, but didn’t throw him out on his ass once he stuck to his word that “he wouldn’t dare mess with a woman as captivating as herself” and also kind of begged for a decent place to forget his miseries.

Other than serving good alcohol, being recognized as a regular at such a place promised influence and opportunity, and as a fresh sinner as ambitious as himself he couldn't pass up the challenge.

Alastor was expecting somewhere more suitable to Vox’s own flashy attributes, loud, modernized, over the top and maybe a little tacky. To his surprise he brought him to one of the more respectable places in hell, he couldn’t say he was well-introduced with it but he was familiar with the concept and better than most reputation. The security nodded to Vox and sent wary looks towards Alastor. He merely snapped his neck at an unnatural angle and smiled more viciously. Ah, how he enjoyed scaring the shit out of measly little souls.

The interior decor wasn’t exactly attention grabbing, but Alastor supposed that was for the best. The walls were filled with pictures of the staff and customers, smiling awkwardly together, cackling over a man on fire, holding ugly-looking birthday cakes and more sentimental moments which made Alastor scoff.

He was however more enamoured at the music choice and the smell of bitter whiskey in the air. The bar was already filled with more than a handful of sinners, but they were seemingly keeping to themselves, not giving more than a couple stares to the odd duo. Or perhaps that was out of fear.

Alastor noticed that the Television demon was looking at him expectedly, clearly excited.

“So? Do you like it? If you don’t we can- there are other places, it’s just that i haven’t seen you around here and i love this place. It even looks like your thing, your whole classic vintage jazzy vibe.”

Alastor scrunched his nose at the last remark but reluctantly spoke.

“I suppose it’s not horrible. I have seen places worse than this. If I have to listen to your little attempts to fill more than pleasant silence, let us do it over drinks atleast.”

Vox blushed a light shade of cyan, looking caught. He sheepishly brought his hand to the back of his neck, letting out a nervous laugh and guiding Alastor to the bar. They settled comfortably, ordering from a suspicious Vaggi who gave wary glances to the radio demon as she glided behind the counter.

“Can I ask a question?”

“Haven’t you already done that?”

Vox cocked an eyebrow expectingly.

“Go on.”

“You’re Alastor Hartfelt, right? The famous radio star.”

Alastor tensed as he heard a name he hadn’t in decades, his posture straightened even more as he furrowed and faced the TV headed man directly. His eyes grew into radio dials and his smile turned even more predatory. He spat out of gritted teeth.

“Be very careful about what you say next, pal.”

Vox’s eyes grew a fraction, he didn’t look scared, just surprised and that annoyed Alastor.

“So you are the Radio Cannibal! Oh my god you don’t even know how much I admire your work. Your tactics were one of the best I'd ever seen, and the dread you drew upon New Orleans. The way everyone talked about you was delicious, you were one of my inspirations, one of the reasons i started to kill although I never presumed to eating my hunts, that’s a big no from me. Not that there’s anything wrong with it of course, you do y- .”

“What. are. You. talking. About.”

Alastor narrowed his eyes at the nonstop nonsense coming out of the TV’s mouth, and he was talking with so much passion and confidence and so animatedly that Alastor scrambled the back of his mind to maybe find a clue what the hell Vox was blabbering on about. It almost made Alastor question his own impeccable memory at the blank confused stare Vox was giving Alastor.

They both remained silent and clueless for a moment more until electricity suspiciously shaped like a light bulb formed between Vox’s little antennas.

“Ah sorry! I forgot that you, well, died and sadly weren’t there to see the terror cast on the town. So you know, you died in that accident and then the police found your little shack and the numerous amount of human bones and remains and meat, so much meat, all around the house and the bayou. The whole state was shell shocked when they figured out their beloved radio star was munching his way through New Orleans, and they started calling you the Radio Cannibal in the newspaper.”

Alastor was… pleasantly surprised you could say. This was all very new information to him, once he died he figured that people may find out about his little hobby but he didn’t really give it much thought.

“By the time I was a kid you were an urban legend parents used to spook their kids with.”

Not only did they give him a serial killer name, they were also afraid of him for decades? Made him into a legend? People were taking inspiration from his handyworks? Pride bloomed in Alastor’s chest and his smile grew even bigger and more smug, a genuine reaction for once. He took a sip from his sazerac.

“Well that was certainly a very interesting set of information. Can’t say I am not flattered. All those fools had deserved what was coming to them, each more revolting than the last. Glad to see my services are appreciated.”

He gave Vox a pointed amused look.

“So I was your inspiration?”

Chapter Text

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Chapter Text

Alastor’s back wasn’t as straight anymore, the edge of his eternal smile softer, the glance of those sharp red pupils less daring. The warm buzz of whiskey and jazz had settled comfortably within their bones. For a mere moment, one could forget that they were in fact, in hell, doomed to an eternity of torture and pain, and that was a dangerous thing, especially for Alastor.

Vox didn’t really sense that big of a difference between earth and hell, both were similar shitholes to him. He lied, manipulated, charmed, and killed on earth and now he got to do it more publicly, both were mere ground for his empire to grow until he became god.

But for Alastor, hell was an even greater heaven than paradise itself. He was shamed and cornered and outcasted his entire life on earth, too dark, too light, too talkative, too silent, too small, too big, too everything.

He realized soon enough that he was going to live his entire life under the mask of a smile, slowly and painfully charming and working his ass off to get what he wants, and indulge in private. People didn’t fear him the moment they laid eyes on him, disgust, pity, lust, and Alastor was sick of it all. 

He had to pretend to be one of them to survive, but in hell, there were no colors, no murdering in private, no holding back his sharp tongue and even sharper fangs. Everyone here was a horrible piece of shit, there was no use pretending otherwise. He got to act on his darkest desires and get the respect and fear he deserved, and now everywhere he went people ran away in fear of their heads. Nobody dared to question him, silence him, outcast him because he was him. The radio demon.

In a way he got to be his true self every single moment of his eternal life in hell, and he was enjoying it far too much for it to be damning. But that was the extent of it, it was still hell. If he wanted to keep his power and continue his fun he had to completely let go of human sentimentalities.

The little things that made Alastor, Alastor, and not just the radio demon, reading old books on his burgundy love-seat as the radio played jazzy tunes, preferring his humans raw and freshly hunted, despising the burning sun of hell waking him from his dreams every morning, thinking of his dear mother whenever he was cooking, he was ashamed to admit that even after decades he couldn’t fully let go of his human emotions. Sentiment was weakness, and there was no place in hell for weakness. 

He would keep that part of himself buried and secret, let others see him as a heartless monster and believe his only purpose in life was killing, and keep his black heart deep down, under 6 feet of sarcasm and bite, a gallon of lies and , a whole storey of malice and torture, and two trucks of immense hatred towards the world.

That was why this was getting close to dangerous territory. Alastor didn’t relax over whiskey and jazz or smile sincerely at jokes or indulge in meaningless conversation just because. He didn’t do friends.

That was what was going through his mind when Vox decided to make an impression of a producer they both knew in life and Alastor let out a genuine laugh. When he looked back at the television demon he saw a fond smile and soft eyes staring at him with something stupidly similar to affection. Alastor froze in place for a second. There had been very few people who had looked at him like that in life and death, he could count them with one hand, and he certainly didn’t expect this flashy little overlord to be a new addition to that list.

Despite his judgement telling him to laugh at the guy’s face in front of all denizens of hell and devour his heart after stepping on it and throwing a brick at it, or get out of this stupid bar and never even look at the guy for a second until the offense of a soul having the audacity to not only not fear him, but gaze at him lovingly, wash away after centuries, he stayed put in his seat.

He didn’t know why, but he couldn’t. Or rather he could, he just did not want to. That was the most strange part of the evening. There was something. A feeling? An attachment? A connection? He could not for the life of him figure out what it was, but it was something and he didn’t mind its existence.

“Do you not know it’s rude to stare, pal?”

Vox blushed a deep cyan violently and scrambled in his seat. He looked up sheepishly, his antennas sparking.

“Sorry. I’m sorry, it’s just that you’re so…”

He looked like he was searching for the word. Alastor raised his eyebrows, waiting to hear what amusing thing the TV head would blurt out.

“Beautiful.”

He said it absent mindedly, like he had figured out his search for a while and the word slipped out carelessly from the tip of his tongue. The mismatched eyes widened and he looked back at Alastor, an expression of fear on his face.

“I mean-”

Alastor started laughing. An actual warm chuckle, as he brought the back of his hand to cover his mouth, a stubborn habit from his living days, and after a second or two Vox snorted and started laughing as well.

“Ah, you are truly something, dear picturebox.”

An hour or so passed. Time didn’t really feel real anymore. Most of the sinners had cleared the tables and booths, and Vaggi was wiping the counter off. It was well into the early hours of morning, Vox was chatting Alastor’s ear off about the new tech they had used for radio in his time.

“And you know the real interesting part i- ah, shit. Sorry, I must’ve bored your ear off this evening.”

Alastor gave an acknowledging hum.

“Not as much as I thought you would have.”

Vox beamed at him.

“Shall I accompany you to your house then? I am a gentleman after all.”

Alastor’s smile grew.

“Absolutely not, though I suppose because of your great manners you can accompany me to the door.”

Vox and Alastor stood a short distance away from the bar.

“Thanks for not rejecting my offer.”

“You’re welcome.”

“You know, you’re not nearly as terrifying as they make you out to be.”

Alastor narrowed his eyes.

“Careful, Vincent. I don’t take well to disrespect.”

“Sorry no, I mean like you’re still hella scary, I think the whole bar left early because of how freaky you look. It’s just that, you’re… amusing, funny, fucked up sense of humor but i like it.”

“And who is the person who told you otherwise?”

Alastor asked bemusedly.

“Ahh I don’t want you to rip them to shreds just yet, so that’s a secret for now.”

Vox looked at him with a warm smile. Alastor was very annoyed about the finger pad of height Vox had over him. Still his smile widened just a friction as he turned around towards the road to his house.

“Good night, Vox.”

“Good night! See you around, I guess. Stay safe!”

Vox winced at the last part, he was the radio demon, of course he’d be safe. Alastor huffed out a small laugh under his breath and started walking deliberately with hands clasped at his back.