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ASSISTANCE REQUIREDA Radiostatic AU

Title Art By Startissuu
♦"This isn't just about typos, tapes, staples and pencils, is it...?"Secretary (2002)♦Smoke laps in tendrils around tender flesh; bodies pressed, mashed together in dark corners, vicious embraces on display. Vox is led like a lamb to the slaughter, held taut on a leash, his nervous eyes scanning faces as they leer at him. Alastor walks ahead, his grip never faltering on the strand of leather connecting neck to hand.“In here,” he instructs, pushing open a heavy door into a private room.Inside, Alastor sits in an expensive chair, one leg crossed over the other. Vox, of course, kneels. Sweating. Barely breathing. Still clothed, but feeling exposed all the same. Alastor yanks the leash upward, dragging Vox closer with it. A claw-tipped finger comes to trace the length of Vox’s screen; he trembles, swallowing, hardly able to meet Alastor’s gaze. When he does, he finds Alastor’s eyes filled with viridescent madness. Potent possessiveness. In the gloom of the room, it’s all Vox can see; those brilliant green dials, turning, ticking. Alastor’s grin, widening. Distilled insanity. The cloying scent of sin is all too palpable in the air. Wrath. Lust. Greed. Envy…“Who are you? What are you?” Alastor’s voice is as slick as oil.“Yours,” Vox answers.“My what?” “Your pet. Your dog.”“My everything,” Alastor corrects.Vox looks up at his master with unrestrained longing. With fear, too; but a willing kind of fear, one that tastes of salted desire and quivering anticipation. Alastor leans back, luxuriating in the moment, releasing his grip on the leash. He lights a cigarette, draws from it slowly, then blows the smoke into Vox’s glowing face. Through the haze, Alastor’s low-lidded eyes shine with deranged and dark intent. His claws wrap around a whiskey glass, agitating the liquid in circular motions. He takes a sip, savouring. Finally, he gives his attention back to Vox, looking down over his nose.Vox feels a spark of adrenaline firing in his senses; his head feeling alert and staticky, almost to the point of overheating, his veins buzzing with exhilaration. Alastor laughs, low and deep in that way Vox knows means he is pleased. “Bark for me, then,” Alastor commands, with all the detached aloofness of a chess master toying with an unwitting opponent. And as usual, as always, Vox does as he’s told.  
♦ SIX MONTHS EARLIER ♦
Vox Calloway has an adequately normal life. Well, it’s actually a little less than normal; perhaps subnormal would be a more fitting term. Unremarkable. Lowly. A life in Hell only marginally less drab than that of a bottom-of-the-food-chain imp. He keeps his shoes shined and his shirts pressed, just about, but make no mistake - Vox Calloway is, in the eyes of anyone that matters, a loser. Screen-head, his coworkers call him, and not with any real affection. It’s not like they have much going for themselves either, really; basement-dwelling IT workers perhaps shouldn’t throw stones in glass houses. Vox is good at his job, or good enough, at least. He’s always been a dab-hand with technology, having upgraded his own hardware many times over the years. His one true skill - other than diligently doing what he’s told, of course. Each night, Vox returns home to his small apartment; a water-stained and thin-walled hole of a place with dodgy electrics and several safety locks on the door. It isn’t much. It’s hardly anything, actually. Just a place to sleep. Somewhere he can eat cheap packets of instant ramen, hunched over on his collapsing couch, scrolling for hours on his phone watching far more interesting people live far more exciting lives. The hum of outdated fluorescent lights and the distant wails of sirens serve as Vox’s nightly lullaby, joining with the ever-buzzing static in his head. He dreams of whimsical fantasies - a better life, one in which he’s anyone except who he really is. But make no mistake, Vox Calloway is not a man of ambition. Ambition is best left to the cutthroats and dealmakers, those who keep their tongues sharp and their gazes sharper. Vox has seen what ambition gets people in Pentagram City, and he wants no part in any of it. No; Vox keeps his head down, keeps his work pass clipped neatly to his shirt pocket, and most importantly - he keeps his mouth shut. That’s how he survives. But survival isn’t the same as living, even for the eternally damned. And sometimes - just sometimes - Vox catches himself distracted by the broadcast screens that dot the city skyline, the ones that play looping clips of the sinner right at the top of his world: Alastor Beaumont, CEO of Beaumont Industries; a multi-layered conglomerate owning subsidiaries that cover everything from media production to hotels and fine-dining. The very same company who’s logo sits on Vox’s worker badge, the name atop the building he returns to for work every day. Alastor Beaumont: the face behind a thousand grinning advertisements. The man behind a million contracts signed in blood. The most famous Overlord in the city.The Radio Demon, the whispers still say, as he’s spotted in an expensive restaurant or avant-garde hotel. It’s a moniker that still clings to Alastor’s reputation, a title still somewhat used. Not in the old way, though - he’s too polished now, too cleaned up. Too wrapped in bespoke suits and well-orchestrated press releases. With his hair clipped back and his sights set on furthering his slick wealth, Alastor is a far cry from the demon he’d started out as. But some things haven’t changed; his eyes. His teeth. That ever-lasting smile. His ability to command a room with only his voice. Power and affluence fit Alastor like a glove.Vox doesn’t know why he watches. He doesn’t know why, in the middle of sleepless nights, he’ll stare out of his window; ignoring the bar fights on the streets below and instead gazing up at the billboards that flicker above. There’s an allure, there, in Alastor’s on-screen stare, and it calls to Vox. Within Alastor’s scarlet and unfaltering eyes there sits an unreachable beckoning, a demand to trust him, to believe every honey-coated-razor word he utters, to give over any last bit of agency Vox might have. Vox has never even met the man. Why would he have? Alastor is at the very top. Vox is so far at the bottom he may as well be scum on Satan’s heel. Vox isn’t sure if it’s admiration or loathing that keeps him transfixed to those looming screens. He doesn’t think too hard about it. Like most things in his life, it doesn’t matter. Nothing really matters much in Hell, not for sinners like Vox. Don’t get carried away. Stay in your lane. That’s what the smart ones do - that’s how the savvy, tough-skinned sinners manage to get by. Only a lucky few make their way to the top, and the rest? Well. They might try to scramble, to claw and bite their way out of the trenches, to taste something greater. Most fail in the end, and all who fail pay the price: usually their soul, taken, cast in ironclad contractual agreements. A bloodied trap, a snare snapping shut; punishment for the deluded. Vox, on the other hand, is realistic. He knows his place. He knows that the most he can hope for is a steady pay check and a mercifully forgettable existence. That comforts him, somewhat; his own willingness to be mediocre. He’s happy with his lot, isn’t he? He gets by. He’s fine. Fine. But then there are those nights, those damn nights, where sleep evades Vox and the restless chattering in his mind refuses to quieten down. There’s an itch, there; something in his psyche that secretly yearns for more. More than this. More than just surviving. Those are the nights that the glow of the city billboards dares to snake its way through the gaps in his blinds, painting the walls of his room in jagged shapes of neon red and the faintest gold. And Vox, like the feeble moth that thirsts for the flame, cannot look away. But he has his routine. His morning shower, under water that runs murky brown for the first few pathetic sputters it manages from creaking, rusting pipes. He dresses quickly; a tie threaded around his collar, tightened then checked in the mirror. He glances at his face in the reflection. Even though his features are presented through the pixels of his screen, there’s an organic-seeming exhaustion in his eyes - lines earned from his continued, nightly wrestle with insomnia. He checks his antennae. Adjusts his glasses - a small set of rounded, armless spectacles, that manage to sit atop his noseless face with the same inexplicable logic that justifies a lot of Hell’s anomalies. On his commute to work, he stops by the usual coffee cart he always does. The coffee isn’t great. It’s as thin as dishwater and has a strange, oxidised taste; bitter and tinny, like old coins steeped in hot water. But it’s strong, and cheap, and that goes a long way in Hell. Vox enters his work building, tapping his pass briefly to the keycard scanner to get through security. He says nothing to anyone - no words of greeting to fellow workers, no upward nod of acknowledgement to the security guards or reception clerk. Vox keeps his eyes to the ground.And so each day transpires the same way: a barely-lucid, autopilot-guided haze of the same predictable steps. Grab the Pentagram City subway. Get coffee. Head to the Beaumont Industries building. Tap in. Ride the elevator down to the basement. Set work bag down at desk. Turn on computer. Avoid awkward small talk with the few other sinners in his department. Check emails, answer calls. Occasionally head up to another floor to provide IT assistance to some higher-paid and better-dressed worker. Eat his lunch alone at his desk. Finish the afternoon. Wait until all his colleagues have left. Pack up for the day, turn everything off. Tap out. Ride the subway home. Pick up dinner from the corner store. Eat it alone in his shithole apartment. Try and fail to sleep a full night.Vox tells himself it’s all he needs. That this life is enough; enough to sustain him, to keep him content and safe. It’s boring and empty, but it’s at least predictable, with no venom-laced twists or turns to be wary of. No toppling heights of success from which he could fall. Really, Vox would rather not have to think about his life at all - in fact, it would be better if he didn’t have to make any choices about the direction of his future in any way whatsoever. He would prefer it, really, if someone else would take all that control out of his hands. Vox would relinquish it all, willingly. He’d like to be told what to say, all the right words that would have people laughing along with him rather than at him. He’d like to be told what to eat, what to drink, what to think - what he should be wearing, should be consuming, how he should carry himself through damnation. Oh, how he’d give up all that autonomy in a heartbeat, the relief he would feel not having to struggle alone. A guiding hand, an authoritative grip on his shoulder, pushing and leading the way: Vox can only dream…“Hey, you in there, Screen-Head?” Vox feels something hit the side of his face, pulling him out of the misting reverie he’d been lost in; the culprit, a scrunched up ball of paper, bounces onto his desk. In a daze, Vox looks up to discover the assailant. His coworker, Grim - a tall, horned sinner - leers at him from his desk. “Helloooo? You even listening?” He says, rolling his yellow eyes. A few other IT staff snicker, exchanging looks between themselves. “Or haven’t you got your receivers tuned in straight?”“H-Haha, g-good one, Grim,” Vox tries, his fingers fumbling as he straightens his glasses. The comforting fantasy that had occupied his thoughts is long gone; reality awaits. “W-What, uh… what’s up?”“We had a call in. Someone on floor forty-three has raised a ticket, something about issues with their VPN setup,” Grim says, sounding bored. “They need one of us up there, stat.”“Oh,” Vox says, nodding. “R-Right.”There’s a weighty pause. It’s that kind of awkward gap in conversation that feels burdened, thick with a discomfort Vox can’t always pinpoint the root cause of. It’s as if the whole room is invested in a secret joke that Vox hasn’t figured out yet. He wonders if perhaps he might be the punchline. As usual. Grim stares, his amusement mixing with infuriated disbelief.“So fucking go, then!” Grim snaps, and everyone else breaks into laughter. “Don’t make ‘em wait all day, Box-Face!”“R-Right! Yeah, of… of course,” Vox nods frantically, his antennae bobbing. He scrambles to his feet. “Floor forty-three. Got it.”Vox finds comfort in solitary elevator rides. He likes the vibration the metal walls make as the elevator rises or falls; the soft dings when a floor is reached. He likes that there’s no music, no sound at all, other than the buzzing hum of machinery at work. Above all else, Vox likes having a moment alone. A moment of peace. Of total mental quiet. Of no expectations from anyone, no disdainful eyes upon him. No mocking. Just him, stowed away in the elevator as it glides upward. A stolen bit of private sanctuary. The peace is short-lived. On arrival at floor forty-three, Vox steels himself as he steps out of the elevator doors, peering around. He knows this floor. He’s come up here many times. The Communications and Marketing department. It’s full of chatty demons and minor Overlords who think they know best, who talk a lot about nothing and always have something incredibly important going on. Some press event to organise. Some campaign to hold meetings over. Whatever helps them feel superior. The atmosphere of the department itself leans toward ultra-modern and unbearably insufferable, like a filtered-down, Hellish version of Silicon Valley. It’s a smorgasbord of overpriced gadgets, fancy coffee-pod machines and “focus group” rooms full of colourful bean bags. Everything is Feng Shui’d to perfection; no meeting nook or artfully arranged plant out of place. It’s chic to a fault, but the workers who litter their desks with designer toys or expensive, aesthetically-pleasing paperweights don’t seem to mind. They’re all in on it, after all. They’ve drunk the corporate Kool-Aid. Everyone on floor forty-three is attractive, powerful, or both - and all of them are on LinkedSin.Vox is intimidated by others by default; a floor full of assertive and extroverted yuppies with swollen egos may as well be a battlefield. As he drifts by desk cubicles, attempting to avoid eye contact with everyone he passes, Vox feels his insides curling with that nauseating anxiety that springs up more than he’d like. Just get in, do the job, and get out, he tells himself. “E-Excuse me,” Vox addresses a demon who looks somewhat approachable. “Someone raised a ticket about, uh, V-VPN connection issues?”“Huh?” The smartly-dressed demon lifts her gaze from her computer, an eyebrow quirking upward.“VPN… issues,” Vox tries again. “I’m… I’ve come up, f-from IT-”“The room over there,” the demon says, offering a limp-wristed and half-hearted point, her manicured finger wafting through the air for a moment. She turns her attention back to her very important document. “The head of department office.”“R-Right. Th… Thanks.”“ETTA!” The demon suddenly shouts; Vox’s entire body tenses as he flinches. “The guy from IT is here!”“Oh, fucking finally,” Vox hears, and a sour-faced demon with a pinned-up mass of red and black hair appears. She stands with her hands on her hips, her sharp features bent with impatience and mild disgust. “Do you have any fucking idea how long I’ve been fucking waiting to get this sorted? Too-fucking-long. You gonna get your arse over here and fix this or what?”Vox attempts a weak smile and a quick, breathless laugh. It falls flat, sinking along with the dread in his stomach; the demoness known as Etta isn’t impressed. She groans, turning on her heel. Vox knows he should follow her into her office, and so, he does. She’s at least a foot shorter than him, but Vox feels small as he trails behind her, wanting this interaction to be over with as soon as possible. “There,” she gestures curtly to the computer on her desk. “Sort it out. I dunno what the fuck’s gone wrong with it, my VPN has just shat the bed completely. I can’t access any of my shit remotely, on my phone or whatever else. This has gotta be sorted stat or my deadline projections are gonna go arse over tit, do you understand?”Vox nods. He understands, alright. He understands very well. “When, uh… When did this start happening?”“I don’t fucking know!” Etta throws her hands up, scoffing. “The network is bloody useless, always something going wrong with it. Was it you that set it up? Or was it another one of you mouth-breathing IT weirdos?”Ignoring this, Vox takes Etta’s desk chair seat as she hovers over him. He wakes the computer up, gestures for her to enter her password - which she does, sighing - then begins to run diagnostics. Etta scrolls on her phone as she waits, typing furious replies to incoming messages; her nails clack against the smooth glass screen so quickly it sounds like rainfall. “Ah, I see the problem,” Vox says quietly. Etta glances up from her phone, already bored. “You haven’t updated the VPN certificate, s-see? For remote access, it has to be re-authorised every year.”“Well how the fuck am I supposed to know that?” Etta spits out, her hip jutting. “We send out emails, you would have-”“Look, I don’t fucking care what you have to do,” Etta waves the conversation off, distracted by her phone bleeping. “Just sort it out.”“W-Well, actually, I c-can’t, you need to-”“What do you mean, you can’t?” Etta scowls at Vox, crossing her arms. “Do you even know who I am?”Vox feels something familiar and sickly twisting in his gut, that warning feeling that tells him he’s in risky territory. He glances quickly at the full name on the computer’s user profile: Velvette Rose. Etta must be a nickname, Vox realises. He doesn’t have time to think. There’s no opportunity to stammer out something that suffices as a reasonable reply, let alone any time to organise his thoughts properly.“Just press some buttons or do whatever the fuck it is you IT freaks do!” Etta - Velvette - says, unwilling to wait for his response. “What are they even paying you for?!”“I can’t re-authorise it on, on your b-behalf,” Vox manages. “I can sh-show you the steps, but you need to go into the staff intranet and-”“You’re taking the piss, aren’t you?” Velvette lets out a cruel laugh, her thin lips stretching in a crooked sneer. “Are you deaf or something? Sort. It. OUT!”“If you just follow the instructions in the email we-”“You know what? Fuck this,” Velvette says, forcefully shoving her desk chair to spin Vox around, away from the computer. She points to her office door. “Get the fuck out. I’ll find someone else who can actually do their job to fix it. I’m sick of looking at your stupid face anyway.”Vox should stand up for himself, he knows this. He should assert his capabilities, proving he knows what he’s talking about. He should calmly explain to “Etta” what she needs to do; he should use charm and charisma to schmooze his way through the conversation, dropping in the kind of delicious little morsels of gossip or salacious flirting that would make a demon like her cackle and smirk. He should, actually, just insist on doing the job, swooping in as the IT hero of the day. But Vox doesn’t do any of that. He doesn’t possess any charm or charisma. He doesn’t know any office gossip. Instead, he sits there blinking, his tired eyes staring up at this monster of a department manager, words trying and failing to leave his mouth. He’s frozen in place. Afraid, exhausted, unsure what the correct course of action is; stuck between what he knows he should do and what he wishes he could do instead. “Are you a total fucking moron or what? Get out!” Velvette reinforces, her rage building. “God, you fucking computer nerds are all the fucking same. What’s the matter, Flat-Face? Did they forget to give you a pair of balls when they made you in the Fuck-Up Factory? Aww, are you gonna go make a thread on Dreaddit whining about how fucking bitchless and pathetic you are? Gonna go home and cry-wank over your anime figures?”Velvette laughs at her own jokes, staring down at Vox with a hatred he doesn’t feel is truly earned. But he says nothing. He doesn’t even move. What can he do but sit there and take it? No point in arguing back. She could have him fired in an instant. She leans in closer, prodding the sharp point of her talon-like fingernail into Vox’s chest.“Now get the fuck out of my face,” she hisses.Vox, unfortunately, waits a beat too long; the limits of Velvette’s patience are reached. In a swift movement, she grabs the half-finished paper cup of coffee on her desk and tosses it abruptly into Vox’s face, her feral shriek of anger piercing the air. The coffee isn’t hot, so it doesn’t burn, but Vox’s screen begins to smoke anyway - his wiring singed and stinging from liquid contact. He winces in pain, his hands coming up to paw feebly at his blue-screening face, his glasses falling to the floor. It’s too late - the damage is done. His wires fried, Vox can hardly see, temporarily blinded by the assault. He feels the ground for his glasses, his claws finding them just in time before Velvette has a chance to crush them under her heeled shoe.Stumbling, Vox tries to ignore the tittering laughter around him as he clambers out of the office, relying on what’s left of his fuzzy vision to guide him back to the elevators. It’s not an easy journey. Some brutish, larger demon attempts to trip Vox up, sticking their foot out from under their chair. More laughter. Vox is used to this. He keeps his mind focussed on simply reaching the elevator, on escaping - he can fix the mess in his wires once he returns back to his own department. There, in the backroom filled with replacement cables and blinking server towers, he’ll be able to privately tend to his malfunctioning head. Avoiding further embarrassment is a luxury Vox would like to hope for, but one he knows he’s unlikely to be granted. Indeed, in the elevator, as he presses what he thinks is the correct button for the basement floor, Vox becomes dimly aware of someone else stood beside him. He doesn’t dare to look up. He wouldn’t be able to make much out, anyway, not with his vision so clouded. He does his best to pretend like his head doesn’t feel as if it’s on fire and tries to keep his distance from the figure next to him. Well - as much distance as he can in an elevator with limited space.“It’s a long way down to the basement from here, isn’t it?” The stranger demon says. His voice is warm, but dark and warped somehow, like old vinyl. His cadence - transatlantic, almost - is nostalgic. Oddly familiar. In his current state, Vox can’t place it. “My, my. That’s quite the ride down.”“Ha, haa…. Yeah,” Vox says, pathetically. He clumsily replaces his glasses on his glitching face, hands trembling. “Get much done down there, do you?”“I’m in IT, so…” Vox lets the sentence trail off, the implication obvious: so I’m not worth talking to.“Oh, IT…” the demon repeats, tutting gently. “Ah. The wonders of modern technology. Tell me, how did you find yourself getting hired for that particular role?”Vox chances a look up. Through the pixelated mess of glitching distortion in his vision, he can’t even make out the man’s face; only a blur of red and black. Vox glances away quickly. Better to hide his own failing modern technology before he makes an even bigger fool of himself. “I,  uh… I g-guess they took one look at my head and just assumed I’m good with computers,” Vox offers with a small shrug. “And are you?”“Well. Yeah,” Vox says, an odd, dry laugh escaping him. “Usually.”“Well, that’s reassuring, at least. But it would appear you seem to be having a spot of technical difficulties yourself, there,” the demon muses, his tone light. “I’m hardly au fait with the inner-workings of technology, I will admit, but… Even I can see that something’s gone wrong with that television head of yours. Are you usually this… glitchy?” “Oh, no, n-no,” Vox wishes the elevator floor would open up and send him tumbling down the shaft; falling to a painful crash at the bottom would still be better than twenty-or-so more floors of this. “I, uh… S-Someone threw coffee in my, my face, I… I just need to get back to, uh, to my…. I can fix it, it’s fine. It’s fine. It’s just something that happens if my, uh, h-head gets w-wet. Not a big deal.”“How curious,” the stranger says. “Hmm! Well. Do you make a habit of getting coffee thrown at you?”“No,” Vox laughs, he actually laughs; deep and genuinely amused. Startled by his own lapse in restraint, he shyly clears his throat. “No this, is, uh… The first time, actually.”“What a relief,” the demon says pithily. Vox can almost hear the grin on the stranger’s face. “Maintaining a head like that must be quite the upkeep, all those wires and confounding chips. How tedious!”“It’s not so bad,” Vox mutters. “You get used to it. I don’t have much choice, anyway.”“Always looked like that, have you?”“Yeah.”“Fascinating! I confess I’ve not met any others like you, Mr…”“Calloway. Ah, V-Vox. Vox Calloway.”“Vox! A charming name, to be sure,” the demon coos. Vox can’t tell if he’s being playfully toyed with or something far more sinister. He tenses on reflex. “Forgive me for saying this, but I can’t quite picture how someone like you, someone who would rather take a coffee to the face than stand up for himself, winds up in a place like this.” “Like I said, they-”“No, no,” the demon laughs melodically. “I don’t mean this company, I mean Hell. It goes without saying that a sinner has to have sinned to end up here, hmm? So what was your crime? Not speaking up as a witness to murder? Turning a blind eye to someone sorely in need?”Vox stiffens. This isn’t exactly a casual topic of conversation, and it’s actually kind of a rude intrusion from a complete stranger; but the way this demon approaches it makes it feel like a lighthearted chat, his tone breezy enough to gloss over any social faux pas. Vox ignores the sensation of his throat trying to close up and focusses instead on the soft, reliable thrum of the elevator. “N-Nothing like that,” he answers, quietly. “Oh?” The demon drawls, expectant.Just then, the elevator shudders to a halt, chiming as the doors open; a stop on the way down for other workers to enter, Vox assumes. But as he stands there, keeping his head down, he doesn’t feel any others stepping in, nor does he see anyone else move to stand beside him. He glances up just in time to blearily make out the shapes of the people beyond the elevator doors, simply standing there, refusing to enter. The doors slide to a close, and the elevator is in motion once more. How strange, Vox thinks.“Hmm! I must have scared them off,” the stranger-demon jokes; Vox doesn’t laugh. “Looks like it’s just us, still, Mr Calloway. I believe you were about share the details of your original sins.”Vox swallows tightly. He doesn’t owe this stranger anything, certainly not his life story. But something about the way this man speaks - the way he lets words linger on his tongue, stretching them out like a tune - makes it hard to dismiss the line of enquiry. Vox feels a cold drip of coffee slide down the back of his collar. “I made some… some bad business choices,” Vox admits vaguely. The demon beside him clicks his tongue in either disapproval or admiration; without his sight, Vox can’t really tell which. “A businessman in life, eh? How intriguing. What sort of bad choices, I wonder? Embezzling pension funds, were you?”“I d-don’t see why it matters.”“Oh, no, it doesn’t, not one bit,” the demon says, sounding completely unbothered. “I’m just making conversation. Forgive me; these elevator rides become so dull after a while. Riding from the top to ground floor and back again several times a day does get terribly old, I have to say.”“R-Right,” Vox mutters, not really registering what was said. “Yeah.”“So, I’m grateful to find a little entertainment!” The demon purrs. “You are a compelling one. A sinner in life who now lets people walk all over him without so much as a peep… Perhaps you’re more of a doormat than a devil, hmm?”Vox winces at the suggestion, but he doesn’t refute it. How can he, when he knows this stranger speaks the truth? Vox knows what he looks like, what he must seem like - what he is. Even a demon who has only known him for a few moments can see it, just as plainly as everyone else around him; Vox is weak, a complete nobody with a total lack of backbone. In the silence, the demon gives a small, thoughtful hum. “Do you enjoy living like this, Mr Calloway? Being told what to do and taking it on the chin - thrown drinks and all - without ever asserting any dominance?”The demon steps closer, and on instinct, Vox recoils; stepping backwards until his shoulders are pressed against the elevator wall. His body rigid and his screen still glitching, Vox grabs at the metal railing to his side, hoping he’ll feel some stability through it. He doesn’t. He hears a chuckle, that of the demon beside him. It’s low and delicate, like twilight birdsong. “Oh, dear. I seem to have frightened you, too,” he says, thoroughly amused. “I’m only asking a simple question.”Vox forces himself to blink, attempting to recalibrate the distortion in his vision. The glitches and bugs in his system refuse to settle, and so he still can’t see this demon clearly, no matter how hard he tries to look. He’s as blind as a creature in headlights, drowning in the moment, helpless to the whims of a complete stranger.“I…” Vox gulps a little, the sound coming out like a choke. “I don’t, I mean, it’s not l-like I-”“Oh, come now, Mr Calloway,” the demon interrupts, sounding mildly disappointed. “You don’t even try to lie, do you?”Something inside Vox clenches; something unsettled and tense. His screen flashes with a mess of bleeding pixels and attempts at reboots, involuntarily broadcasting both his discomfort and confusion amongst the static noise. Vox is humiliated, but then again, he’s used to that feeling. He’s gotten accustomed to suffering like this. The elevator hums on, descending still. It feels like it’s been moving for too long.“What d-do you want?” Vox finally asks, his voice barely audible. “Want?” The demon laughs again - in that rich, indulgent way that implies copious wealth. “Now, that’s the right question, Mr Calloway.”The sound of his name - Mr Calloway - sends a sparking chill up Vox’s spine, settling in a perplexing blooming of warmth between his shoulder blades. It’s not the use of the name itself that has this effect, but rather the way this demon speaks it - like he’s known it, has known Vox, for much longer than just this one elevator ride. It sounds so personal, almost intimate - Vox feels a sheen of perspiration begin to prickle at the back of his neck.“I want what everyone wants,” the demon continues, clearly luxuriating in the conversation. “A little amusement. A little… oh, what’s the word…? Influence,” he lets the word melt on his tongue. “And you, Mr Calloway, you seem like a rather malleable individual. You intrigue me.”Vox balls his hands into tight fists, his claws digging into the flesh of his palms. The elevator lights above flicker.“And, well,” the demon adds. “I can’t help but feel a touch of pity for you. So terribly embarrassing, isn’t it? If it had been me, well…” He pauses, deliberate and measured. “I’d have made them regret it.”A shiver runs through Vox’s entire nervous system in the beat of silence that follows, and he swears he feels the elevator slowing, just for the slightest moment. What is this guy’s agenda, even? To mock him even more? To glean some sick entertainment from watching him struggle? Vox doesn’t know. All he does know is that he should keep a tight lip and wait it out the best he can. He should just laugh and nod, should say something non-committal and non-combative; he should remain passive.“…I don’t need your pity,” is what Vox actually says, surprising himself. He follows it with a nervous-sounding cough, as if that will buffer his sudden defiance. “Oh, I believe you,” the demon agrees smoothly. “I just wonder if perhaps you could benefit from a little… guidance.”The demon closes the distance between them; in Vox’s vision, he’s still just a blur of red and black, a figure as tall as Vox but narrower in build. Vox feels a hand at his neck - claws working nimbly to adjust his tie for him. It’s such a bizarrely familiar action that Vox truly doesn’t know how to respond - all he can do is stand there, allowing it to happen, his thoughts throttling through his mind at a speed he can’t even process. “There’s something empowering about willingly letting go of all control, don’t you think, Mr Calloway?” The demon asks, slowly, giving the tie a quick yank as he finishes adjusting it. Vox feels like he might short-circuit. “It can be quite freeing, actually. When done in the right… hands.”Finally - finally - the elevator stills, letting out a soft ding as the doors glide open. Ground floor, announces the automated voice; Vox feels the stranger’s hand retreat from where it had been resting at his collar. He suddenly feels colder without it. “Ah! And so here is where I must leave you, Vox,” the demon says politely. “What a pleasure it has been meeting you! You go and get yourself all fixed up, now. We’ll talk again soon, I’m sure.”“W-Wait, I… I didn’t get your-”Name. Words catch in Vox’s throat, hitching, half-uttered but ultimately lost; too little, too late, as the stranger demon exits the elevator and leaves him standing alone. The doors close. The elevator moves. Vox is left wondering if perhaps all of that had been a figment of his imagination, a hallucination conjured by his malfunctioning mind. His own hand briefly skitters against the knot of his tie, claws tracing where the stranger’s hand had been moments before. He swallows. A strange, unknown twist of loss turns in Vox’s abdomen, as if he has been stranded somewhere unforgiving and barren.As the elevator hits the basement level, Vox walks in a daze out the doors and towards the server room, his hand brushing against the corridor wall as he guides himself. Once he’s alone in the backroom, accompanied only by the murmuring hum of machines and the gentle blinking of their lights, Vox pulls over an errant chair and collapses into it. He sighs, slumping with his screen in his hands, his shoulders finally relaxing. Here, in this sacred bit of privacy, Vox can work to restore himself, both literally and spiritually. Rarely does anyone else come into this backroom full of spare parts and humming server towers - his coworkers in the IT department rarely do anything, really, leaving all of the hands-on work for Vox. They sit at their desks, they scroll on their computers. Maybe they’ll answer a call, speaking in a bored monotone as they ask the caller if they’ve tried restarting their computer. But here, in this dingily-lit room, Vox can avoid them all. He can pretend he’s in a world of his own, left to his own devices. He prises open the back of his head, unscrewing and removing a panel, hissing in slight pain as he does so. His own inner system diagnostics tell him a wire needs replacing. Vox grabs a can of compressed air, leaning forward to reach as he haphazardly sprays it into the tangle of cables in his head, attempting to push out any remaining liquid. It both aches and feels refreshing. He works quickly, cutting out damaged wiring and replacing it from the supplies he finds in scrap drawers. Once done, he initiates a restart; entering a brief sleep state as his systems reconfigure. When he wakes, eyes blinking, Vox realises he can see again. His head still hurts slightly, a lingering rawness from the whole ordeal ringing in the corners of his screen. He does his best to shake it off. Peering down, he groans - there are coffee stains on his shirt. Great. Does he have a spare shirt stowed anywhere? No, he doesn't. Just another bit of bad luck to deal with. His coworkers will undoubtedly eke the story out of him when they notice, their eyes hungry for more ammunition to mock him with.Vox exhales slowly, mentally preparing himself to play the role of punchline, yet again. Maybe he can try and play it off as a funny story, he thinks, knowing in his heart that he could never pull that off - being the one to poke fun at himself, earning their respect, their genuine laughter. No. That is not the fate that awaits him. Better to accept the reality of it and grit and bear it.But as Vox leaves the backroom and steadies himself to face his cruel and waiting audience, he feels an echo of the elevator stranger’s words drifting in his mind; we’ll talk again soon, I’m sure. A threat? A reassurance? Vox isn’t sure how to interpret it. Perhaps it was just a passing politeness, an empty promise meant only as a social nicety, rather than any real suggestion of commitment. The words roll around in Vox’s consciousness, buzzing and lively, as if offering him something to look forward to. A reason to keep going - bumping into that stranger again, with newly cleared eyes… Is that what Vox wants?He doesn’t know. Despite the opulent darkness that had enriched the stranger’s words, Vox had felt a warmth in them, too. A feeling of being recognised, of having been seen - there’s something empowering about willingly letting go of all control, don’t you think, Mr Calloway?Vox can’t let it go. We’ll talk again soon, I’m sure. He hears it over and over, the words burrowing into his thoughts and demanding to be re-acknowledged on repeat. Vox isn’t sure why, but he believes them. He feels a glimmer of something he hasn’t felt in a long time - something like excitement, a fearful but giddy thrill, tinged with hope. Perhaps it is all delusion. Perhaps he will never encounter that stranger again, and the interaction will sit in the recesses of his mind as nothing more than a brief distraction in his otherwise unremarkable life.
And yet…
Vox holds on to that fragile shard of hope. He lets it guide him, letting it occupy his thoughts as he dissociates through his coworker’s banal teasing and jeering remarks, through the mundanity of the remainder of his work day. On the subway ride home, he festers on it. As he walks through the streets, keeping his eyes on the cracked sidewalks instead of meeting the gazes of others, he lets the memory of the stranger’s voice saturate his ruminations. Despite it all, despite the stress of his day and the whir of his overactive mind, Vox sleeps well that night. For once. He has no need to look above for something more, no desire to seek some oblivion in the neon signs outside his window. He finds rest where usually he can never derive any; against his ageing mattress, wrapped in his thinning sheets. Vox sleeps through the night, deep and drenched in exhaustion. And he dreams. He dreams of a hand at his neck, a whispered word in his ear. He dreams of the feeling he’s been longing for, that he’s sought only ever in fantasy; that of another giving him permission to exist, guiding him how to do so. Of willingly giving over his control, submitting to another from a place of trust, not fear - the relief, oh, the relief. Vox feels it, even in this disconnected and shapeless dream, all abstract sensation and ungraspable intangibility. He dreams of those words - we’ll talk again soon, I’m sure - feeling them to be what he hopes they are. A promise, a beckoning light. Comforting assurance. A guarantee. 
A deal. 
 
♦

Art by Startissuu / (Chef)

"Some sketches I scribbled down the night Bapple’s brain gears were whirling as they came up with this awesome AU"
♦Listen to the official companion playlist!♦ Assistance Required: The Playlist ♦Find me elsewhere: Tumblr  ♦ Twt ♦ Bluesky

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

♦Back and forth, back and forth. Vox watches as the roll of sticky tape gets tossed, repeatedly, speeding through the air only to collide with something before falling ungraciously to the ground. His coworkers have been attempting for the last hour or so to toss the roll of tape so that it lands successfully on the empty hook of the office coat rack, some distance away across the room. No one has managed it so far. They remain undeterred, though, with raucous laughter and cheers filling the space whenever anyone gets close.Vox, of course, is not invited to join in. He sits behind the shield of his computer at his desk in the far corner, watching the supposed “fun” taking place. He keeps his reactions minimal. He does attempt an uncomfortable, forced laugh whenever the room breaks out into a burst of noise, but it’s a nervous habit; too small and quiet to be really noticed. The team’s inbox is full of support request tickets. Vox is the only one going through them.A harsh rapping on the office door cuts through the merriment; a demon Vox only vaguely recognises, standing in the doorway, his eyebrow bent upward as he assesses the room. He’s from one of the higher floors - a friend of Grim’s, and he’s someone who occasionally comes down to deliver messages on behalf of far busier people. He grins wide, immediately let in on the joke as easily as a fish slips into water. Vox remains - as usual - dry on the figurative river bank. “Hard at work, are we?” The demon jibes, leaning against the doorway. He offers an upward nod of greeting to Grim, who rolls his eyes, laughing. “A bit of team building, I’m guessing?”“Fuck off, Vance,” Grim quips. A few others in the room giggle along. “You know how it is. Morale-boosting exercises, that kinda shit. Productivity’s best when spirits are high.”“Uh-huh,” Vance nods, chuckling, his tousle of blue hair bobbing slightly. He eyes Vox with a quick side glance. “Hey, uh, what’s up with the walking monitor over there?”Unseen by anyone, Vox’s hand clenches around his computer mouse; he braces himself for an unpleasant interaction. He waits for it, expecting nothing less than to be made to stand up, paraded around for this intruder’s entertainment - this is our resident idiot, Vox, someone will say, and the whole room will jeer and prod and laugh. Surprisingly, Vox is proven wrong - Grim merely scoffs, dismissing the question with a terse hand wave. “Whatever,” Vance says. “Alright folks, listen up. I’ve been sent down to pass along a message, as usual. Apparently head honcho needs one of you upstairs to sort out something with his laptop or some shit.”“Who?” Someone says. Vox doesn’t look up. “Mr Beaumont?”“Yeee-up,” Vance nods, casual as ever. “That’s what I said. Mr B himself. The big guy.”Suddenly, everyone wants to do their job properly; there’s a clamouring as the team mutter amongst themselves, each then rushing to stand, eager to be the one to go. Only Vox stays seated, silently eyeing the commotion over the top edge of his computer screen. “Woah woah woah,” Vance puts his hands up, shaking his head. “Hold on. He’s asked for someone specific, I’ve got a name here. A Mr Calloway?”The room falls quiet. All eyes are on Vox; heads turning in horrified stupor. Vox feels his circuits heating up. What? Grim lets out a broken laugh of disbelief, laced with bitterness. Reading the room’s surprise, Vance gawks down at the memo in his hands, double-checking it. “S’what it says here, anyway,” he mutters, shrugging. “Mr Vox Calloway is requested at the earliest convenience to attend the office of Mr A. Beaumont. His assistance is required as soon as possible. It’s right there.”“You gotta be fuckin’ joking,” Grim snorts, pacing over to the doorway. He yanks the memo out of Vance’s hands, his furious eyes scanning the text. “You’re kidding, right? Screen-head here isn’t the kinda guy the big boss would be interested in, I mean, look at him-”“You wanna take it up with him personally?” Vance says dryly, smirking. “Mr Department Manager?”“Shut the fuck up,” Grim murmurs. “No, I don’t wanna take it up with him, you fucking asshole.” He sighs, almost crumpling the memo in his claws; he holds himself back, resigned. “Well, you heard him, Screen-Head. You better get up there.”What? Vox doesn’t understand. None of this is computing in his mind properly. In a panicked reflex, he lifts himself to a clumsily abrupt stand, his office chair shoving backwards behind him so aggressively that it bashes into the wall with a thud. A muscle in Vox’s forearm twitches involuntarily - adrenaline, heady and only slightly helpful, flickering hotly in his nervous system. It offers a numbness of sorts; a wash of basal instinct, enough to carry him hazily through the next few excruciating moments of his life.“Welp! I can’t stand around here all day,” Vance says, breezily. An unsaid half-joke plays on his lips; the kind of smug, cocky demeanour of someone with an oozing abundance of unearned confidence. He nods at Vox. “So you’re him, then? This Calloway?”Vox nods.“And you know where you’re going?”Vox nods again. Does he? He thinks he does; the top floor, right? “Cool,” Vance says, clearly bored of the whole thing. “I wouldn’t leave him waiting too long, then, if you know what’s good for ya. See ya, folks!”Once Vance has left, the room is so tense with deliberate silence that it almost aches with it. The reality of the situation begins to seep into Vox, bleeding into the edges of his mind, demanding to be acknowledged; he has been requested to attend the office of Alastor Beaumont, the man in charge of the entire building. How does Alastor even know his name? He must have just skimmed the registry of IT employees and picked one at random, Vox rationalises. That has to be the only explanation. Pure chance, a complete lottery draw - one which Vox now has to bear the consequences of as the unsuspecting victor. There’s a huffing sound; Grim, exhaling out an ironic laugh as he drifts back to his desk. The handful of others that make up the rest of the IT team eye their manager warily, but it isn’t long before attentions turn back to Vox. Eyes wide. Teeth sharp. “Hey, Vox, put in a good word for us, eh?” One of them chirps up. It’s the first time that demon has ever addressed Vox by name. “Tell the boss what a good job we’ve been doing, yeah? Get us one of those juicy bonuses the uppers are always talking about.”“Yes, yes!” Another chimes in, her voice shrill as she nods feverishly. “Oh, see if you can get some dirt on him, maybe we can blackmail him into paying us more!”Their words are absorbed but not fully processed in Vox’s spiralling consciousness, their requests ignored as he tries to regain his grip on reality. The CEO of the company has asked for him by name. This could either make him a legend in the eyes of his colleagues, or - more likely - this will only further their hatred of him. This marks him, thrusting him into an unwanted spotlight; to be perceived, to be envied, to be resented. Vox just wants an easy life. This is all too much. “Cool it, guys,” Grim commands the room. He sniffs, staring at Vox, his hatred mixed with reluctant curiosity. Sighing, he shakes it off, a slow sneer taking over his features. “Hey, Screenie - maybe you’re in trouble, huh? S’probably more likely, HA! You’re finally getting fired for being such a worthless loser!”Vox does his best to let this bullet hit him without giving any reaction. He swallows tightly. “I’ll just, uh, head up, then,” he says, meekly. His shaking hand gestures a feeble point upward. “I’ll go see what, um… What he wants - w-what he needs, uh, f-fixing.”Leaving a wake of mutters and whispers behind him, Vox keeps his head down as he all but stumbles out the office door. Once alone, waiting for an elevator, he lets his shoulders slump forward - his arm reaching out for the wall just in time as his body trembles, knees almost giving out. With his breath shuddering out of him, Vox eyes the red light of the elevator call button. He hears the mechanisms at work; that slow purr, the clanging of distant machinery. He inhales slowly to steady his nerves.The elevator is mercifully empty. Very few workers ride down to the basement floor, after all. Vox takes advantage of all the alone time he can get before someone else enters on a higher floor, practicing the words he might say under his breath. Hello Mr Beaumont. Nice to meet you. I’m here to see about your computer. Yes of course, Mr Beaumont. Happy to help. His tie suddenly feels too restrictive around his neck, all too suffocating. Vox attempts to loosen it. He catches his reflection in the elevator’s mirrored back wall; his tie now looks scruffy and unkempt, too slack around his neck to be considered smart. Frustrated, and suddenly overcome with an itchy bite of irritation, Vox straightens it back up and gives up fussing over it. He sighs. Why him? Why does he have to go up and represent his department with all this expectation on his shoulders?As the elevator ascends, there are other demons who flit in and out on various floors. Vox stands towards the back, keeping his eyes fixed on his own shoes. He doesn’t speak a word to anyone, but his mind races with frantic strings of rehearsed lines - what seems to be the issue, Mr Beaumont? It’s just a computer problem, he tells himself. No different from any other support ticket. He’s been up to other floors countless times; Vox just needs to stay calm, and treat this like any other case.The elevator climbs smoothly up the building, and soon Vox is alone again, the only sinner left standing in the ascent to the very top floor. This is the highest he’s ever been - so very far away now from the shadows of the basement; far away from his small, insulated world of muddling through emails and tolerating his hostile coworkers. Despite his anxiety, Vox feels a sense of freedom amongst it all. A taste of escape. It softens the harsher edges of his fear.Finally, the elevator comes to a halt. The doors slither open, immediately revealing the pristine marble flooring of the lobby. Vox takes one last, brief look at himself in the elevator mirror, his tired and nervous eyes blinking back at him. He steps out. The elevator doors close. He is a lamb alone in a world of wolves, now.Something wispy and dark coils around his ankles, appearing into view; Vox, startled, glances down with apprehension. It’s a shadow, of sorts - one that moves of its own accord, grinning wide and beckoning with a clawed hand - transient but present, charcoal mist shifting on the bone-white floor before him. Dumbfounded, Vox stares at it. The shadow regards him in return, something knowing and pleased in its eyeless expression, fanged jaws slack and hanging like an eager dog. With the silhouette of two ears, two antlers, the shadow is unmistakably Alastor’s. Vox feels a tremble in his bandy knees as the shadow writhes and ripples around his feet, pulling at him with unseeable, tenebrous force; this phantom shadow clearly wants to lead the way. Somehow understanding this, Vox nods, and the shadow begins to creep out along the floor with glacial, sliding movement, as smoothly as oil spreads over glass. Dutifully, silently, Vox follows. The floor is deathly quiet; just a legion of neatly-dressed and sharply-featured demons typing at their state-of-the-art computers. It’s cold, far too pristine for its own good, ultra-sleek and totally devoid of clutter or noise. A few of the workers peer at Vox as he passes, their eyes flicking to assess him for the briefest of moments, no comments or murmurings made. There’s only the soft hum of the air conditioning, the gentle click-clack of typing, and the occasional ding of an email notification. Vox almost feels as if he should hold his breath, lest he make too much sound. He steps quickly, watching with dismay as the shadow slips away and then disappears under a door - one made from rich, cherry mahogany. Vox’s eyes scan upward, landing on the silvery name card: A. Beaumont. CEO. Should he open the door and let himself in? Vox doesn’t know. He flounders, fingers twitching, stuck at this apparent dead-end. Does Alastor know he’s here? Should he wait? Vox peeks around, twisting slightly to see if anyone else can assist. Nobody looks up at him; they’re all far too busy with their own work, and none of them look at all approachable. Vox turns back to the door, his anxiety increasing. As if sensing his inability to act, the door swings open by itself.“Come in,” a voice says, sounding faintly amused. Vox swallows. He steps in.The office interior is larger than any man should ever need, stretching out further than Vox’s own apartment, even. As Vox gingerly crosses the threshold, the door closes behind him, so firmly that it makes him jump. The office is, frankly speaking, ridiculous. A demon could live in it and be quite content; there’s a lounge area, a mini bar full of expensive-looking bottles of whiskey, doorways that lead to other, smaller rooms… Every corner lined with bookshelves, all costly leather tomes and rare antiques immaculately placed just so. In the centre sits a huge, heavy wooden desk. Behind this, a towering set of floor-to-ceiling windows that yawn out over the city, displaying it all in staggering clarity. The walls are panelled in something lavish and dark, framing a space so deliberately expensive that it seems designed to suffocate lesser demons beneath its weight. Vox stands in the doorway, his shoulders locked and tense. There’s only one place his eyes can now settle after their nervous room-wide assessment, and that’s on the figure sat behind the desk; Alastor Beaumont. The Overlord once commonly known as The Radio Demon sits comfortably, one arm draped against the chair’s armrest, the other propped up, his hand resting under his chin. His gaze - gleaming, scarlet, steady - cuts through the room, slicing into Vox. Alastor’s grin widens. “There you are. I trust my shadow did its duty well enough, Mr Calloway?” He purrs, eyelids lowering slightly. Oh, shit. Vox realises with a smack of brutal understanding, all shocked nerves and stinging realisation; that voice. That way of talking, of biting through to the core of him, the way his name sits on the man’s tongue… Alastor lets out a low chuckle. “Yes, well. I suppose the cat’s out of the bag now, isn’t it? Now you’ve got your sight back. At least you catch on quickly, that is a relief, I must say.”“It… It was you, in the elevator-”“Mmm! Are you surprised?” Alastor bridges both hands beneath his angular chin, leaning forward against his desk, gleeful in the reveal. “I thought it was rather obvious, personally. My voice is, after all, quite recognisable. Didn’t you ever catch any of my broadcasts, back in the day?”“O-One or two,” Vox admits. Mentally, he kicks himself; he should lie, should say he was a huge fan, should act like a devoted and adoring follower. Instead, Vox’s mouth betrays him. “A long time ago. Not really a r-radio person, uh, to tell you the truth.”Alastor laughs out loud at this, shrill and ariose. When he calms, his features relax into a light smile. “Tell me, Mr Calloway: do you consider yourself a glutton for punishment?”Vox stiffens. Alastor’s words slither into his receivers, intoxicating, all teasing silk and danger. It sounds like an innocuous question, but Vox senses the darkness beneath the words; some kind of vague, aloof threat. His pulse quickens, and he attempts to swallow against his dry throat. “I… I don’t know what you mean,” Vox manages to warble out. Alastor tilts his head, his stare washing over Vox as if appraising a particularly entertaining specimen. “Oh come now, Mr Calloway,” he says. “There’s no need to be coy! I merely asked a simple question. Or rather, I made a bit of an observation, I suppose.  You spend your time down in the basement, with all those - oh, what are they calling them these days? The tech support team? A rather uninspiring lot, if you ask me. Having to work day in, day out, with all of them… Why, that's a fate worse than purgatory!”Vox opens his mouth. Closes it again. He says nothing; this only fuels Alastor’s amusement. Vox feels as if he’s caught in a web, feet sticking to dewy strands. Despite this, he takes a willing step forward. Alastor huffs casually, shrugging as if his point no longer matters. “Where are my manners?” He says, standing. He stretches out his hand; an invitation and command combined together in one simple gesture. “Mr Calloway, allow me to introduce myself properly. Perhaps that’s where we should start, hmm?”“R-Right,” Vox nods, closing the distance between himself and the desk. He meets Alastor’s handshake, his own blue claws reaching out. Predictably, Alastor shakes Vox’s hand with all the firm confidence of an apex Overlord, swift and fluid. It’s the handshake of a demon who makes a dozen deals a day. “Alastor,” he says by way of introduction, a little redundantly. “It’s a pleasure to be meeting you formally, quite the pleasure.”“V-Vox,” Vox supplies his own name, dazed. “Oh, yes,” Alastor nods. “I’m quite familiar with you, Mr Calloway. I was wondering if perhaps-”“You, uh, raised a ticket?” Vox says suddenly, the words blurting out of him. The handshake breaks apart. “I was told, I mean, we were… An issue, you asked for me, said my assistance… I, uh…” Vox eyes the laptop on Alastor’s desk, then risks a slight nod toward it. “Something, um, wrong?”Alastor’s eyes glide over to the laptop, his eyebrows raised in mild surprise. “Getting down to business right away, I see!” He comments pithily. “Ah, yes. My computer - how very serious, how very urgent. By all means, see if you can’t ease me out of my dire predicament, Mr Calloway. Perhaps you might take a look at the damned thing, I can’t seem to get it to do, well, anything.” Vox nods stiffly, the movement jagged with tension; but feeling grateful for something to do, he shifts around to Alastor’s side of the desk, keeping a safe distance. Like everything else in this office, the laptop is sleek and high-end. It’s also, as Alastor has just explained, completely unresponsive. As Vox brushes his claws against the touchpad and presses a few keys, nothing happens. There’s no glow from the screen, no whirring of electricity. Vox tuts to himself, then just as he’s about to press and hold the power button - the most basic troubleshooting technique imaginable - something happens.The laptop flickers back to life, its screen waking up and revealing a perfectly normal-looking desktop. Vox feels static pulsing in his head, a kind of analog distortion he hasn’t felt in decades - creeping into his receivers, threading between audio channels, buzzing and ringing. He flinches, his claws retracting from the laptop as if it had burned him. Alastor chuckles, observing this reaction with far too much jolly interest. “Oh dear,” he murmurs. “Perhaps I made some sort of mistake. Look at that! All is well with it again. How fascinating! Typical vexing technology. It would appear you have the magic touch, Mr Calloway.”“R-Right,” Vox says plainly, unsure what else to say. “Yep, s-seems to be, uh, working okay now. Alright, well, I’ll just…”“Yes, yes,” Alastor waves this off, lowering back into his desk chair. “Off you go, I suppose. Scurry back to that basement floor of yours. You’re an efficient little thing, aren’t you? My, my. I haven’t seen such skilful dexterity in quite some time.”“I didn’t…” Vox’s sentence drowns in him before it can finish. He resists sighing. “Yeah, no… It’s no problem. Anytime.”“Any time, hmm?” Alastor coos, watching Vox as he readies to leave, eyes trained like a predator. “I shall certainly bear that in mind. What a generous offer. And they say chivalry is dead! Clearly not with you, Mr Calloway.”The offer had been intended as a somewhat empty bit of politeness by Vox - a courtesy, one that had tumbled out of him in the same way any mandatory office small-talk would. It hadn’t crossed his mind that Alastor would ever take it seriously - after all, nothing had really been wrong, and Vox hadn’t really assisted with anything at all.Perhaps this had been naïveté, on Vox’s part; as two days later, he finds himself summoned once more to the top floor, to Alastor’s office at his request. Another message sent down via Vance, another wave of eyebrows raised amongst his team mates. Another “issue” with Alastor’s laptop, another mysterious power shortage, just as easily fixed by Vox’s mere presence as the last one had been.The very next day after, a third request filters its way down to the IT department, once again requesting Vox by name. It’s one occasion too many for the whole thing not be recognised for what it is - a pattern. A deliberate toying. Somewhere, deep in the recesses of his mind, Vox knows it is some kind of game; he just doesn’t understand the playbook. Vox stares down at the laptop on Alastor’s desk, wondering for the third time that week how a device could be wholly unresponsive but then suddenly spring to life at the most convenient, opportune moment. The laptop sits innocently atop the glossed wood of the desk, just a normal bit of tech - annoyingly normal, in fact. Vox can’t help but feel like it’s mocking him - a willing pawn in its master’s plan.“As good as new!” Alastor says cheerfully from behind Vox’s shoulder, the words breaking the quiet. “What a marvel you are, Mr Calloway. A technological enigma, to be sure.”“Happy to, uh, help,” Vox tries, his voice shaking. He knows this is all some kind of ploy, he knows. There was never anything wrong with the laptop, Vox knows this. He plays along, anyway. “Glad I could… I’m glad I could help.”“Stay a little, won’t you?” Alastor offers, gesturing broadly to the corner of his office that houses two plush-looking sofas and a healthily-stocked mini bar. “You seem somewhat tense, Mr Calloway. Perhaps a drink might-”“No, I, I shouldn’t,” Vox stammers. “I c-can’t, I couldn’t possibly take any more of your time, Mr Beaumont, I…”“Nonsense, nonsense! Come, come. I have a very fine aged rye I’ve been keeping for just such an occasion.” Alastor waltzes over to the lounge area, his tailored suit sharp in its edges and cut perfectly, not a single crease visible as he walks. Vox hesitates, watching, feeling two competing urges wrestling for dominance in his mind; the urge to stay. The urge to run. “My team will think I’m getting special treatment,” Vox jokes nervously, a breathy laugh following. “Well,” Alastor considers this, lowering onto one of the couches. He sits with both arms atop the backrest, one leg crossed over the other. “You are, in a way.”This admission hits Vox harder than any gulp of whiskey would; he doesn’t even have time to question it. All reason leaves him as he lets the pure dopamine of the moment saturate him, pleasing him, tingling in his nerves and skin. It feels like placation, but Vox welcomes it. “Hmm. No matter, another time, then,” Alastor says blithely; Vox feels an odd twinge of disappointment. “Though perhaps I should use your personal number when I next need your technological assistance, hmm? That might be more discreet.”“Oh! I, uh, s-sure, I, yeah…” Vox fumbles, patting down his pockets in search of his phone. “I’ll just get you my number, uh-”“No need,” Alastor says. “I already have it, of course. I have everything I need to know about you, already in hand.”Another jolt to the senses; Vox blinks, rapt and confused. “H-How? We’ve… We’ve only met a few times, I don’t see how…”Vox has tried to live a life of invisibility, blending into the background as much as he can, so as not to be perceived. He lives like this in an attempt to avoid being noticed by anyone; hoping to dodge the derision of any regular sinner on the street, let alone the interest of an Overlord. But the unfortunate irony is this: it’s quite hard not to stand out when you look so markedly different to every other demon out there. Vox is, in some ways, a one-of-a-kind. An unusually-shaped head tends to have a rather eye-catching effect, especially one as inorganic as Vox’s. And so, Vox is (much to his torment) nearly always noticed.He is so rarely seen, though. Alastor pauses, his smile widening sidelong against the pallid, smooth skin of his face. He leans back, one red ear flicking slightly. When he answers Vox’s question, he does so with barely-concealed smugness; luxuriating in a delighted, lazy enjoyment of his own existence, of this moment, of the trembling wideness of Vox’s waiting eyes.“I’m very observant.”  Vox swills the warming beer in his glass. Music drifts around the bar, thrumming rhythmic vibrations in the busted cushion of his booth seat. It’s Friday night. Sloppily-dressed and tired office workers slump against tables, wanting only to get drunk as quickly as possible; as such, the bar is heaving, full to the brim with work-weary sinners hoping to drink away their troubles. Across the table from Vox sits one of the few demons he can actually consider a friend, although how they even managed to become friends in the first place is a mystery to Vox - the answers to which now lie somewhere in the mess of his long-forgotten past. Valentino, a struggling but quite talented painter, nurses a half-finished martini. He’s been lamenting his lack of paid work for about twenty-two minutes, chattering away as Vox listens and nods.Valentino creates the type of painting that nowhere in the Pride Ring seems to have a market for; flamboyant and abstract erotic paintings with a smidge too much pretension about them to really be commercially viable. How Valentino makes enough money to get by, Vox truly has no idea. Now, in the dim, faltering light of the dive bar, Vox watches as Val lights a cigarette and sighs out a billowing exhale of smoke.“And of course, no fucker came to my fucking art show,” Valentino snaps; Vox feels a flush of guilt.“Shit, Val, I’m sorry. I couldn’t get the time off.”“No, it’s fine,” Val takes another drag of his cigarette, letting out a long, languid stream of smoke. Vox watches it drift toward the stained ceiling as it dissipates, adding to the haze of the bar. “I know you’re always working, but honestly, those whore bitches on the east side have no excuse. Some friends they are. You know what I heard one of them was up to instead of coming to my show? Fucking sucking corporate dick somewhere in your district.”Valentino taps ash from the tip of his cigarette into the tray on the table, almost missing it entirely. One of his four arms hangs, slung over the back of the booth seat; another rests bent on his knee, his cigarette balanced artfully between two narrow fingers. He’s just as much of a loser as Vox is, really - but he makes it look so much more deliberate, so much more romantic. Like a chic, aesthetic choice, rather than something placed upon him by circumstance. “It was an absolute tragedy, babe,” Val continues. “Not a single hijo de puta in sight. I was this close to setting fire to the whole fucking building, I swear to God. I knew it would be a hard sell, but mierda, I kinda hoped at least ONE little lost soul would wander in, y’know? Maybe get their horizons broadened by something other than fucking snorting blow off a succubus’ tits. Hmm. Guess no one is finding meaning in MY brushstrokes any time soon.”Vox shifts uneasily in his seat, regarding Valentino with sympathetic eyes. He’s not quite sure how to approach the topic - wondering if he should offer his condolences, or simply let the moth demon continue with his venting. Vox knows that sometimes it’s better to just sit quietly and leave Val to it. He fiddles with his glasses, nervously adjusting them on his face, offering a tight smile of understanding to his friend.Val, groaning, tips the reminder of his drink down his throat, his head tilting upward, light catching briefly on the sharper edges of his face. Vox notices that Val’s cheekbones stand out a little more than he recalls from before, his frame a little thinner beneath his baggy cardigan. But, perhaps reassuringly, there’s no frailty there; only the illusion of it, the practiced allure of a demon who knows exactly how to make suffering look like a fashion statement. Val’s humble-but-flattering clothes cling to his slender frame, his sleeves rolled up just enough to reveal lingering smudges of paint on his blueish-grey skin.After a sip of beer, Vox clears his throat. “So, uh, where you staying right now?” Val smirks, somewhat wry. “Oh, you know. Around. Right now I’m cosying up with some Overlord. He deals in weapons or some shit, I don’t know. Who cares?” He waves a hand, affecting vague nonchalance. His toothsome grin tells the true story - that he delights in his own ability to effortlessly worm into the lives of others. “It’s a nice place though. This papi has expensive taste. I mean, it’s all a little boring, but, what’s a girl to do?”Vox laughs, nodding in concession. He glances down at this glass, then back to Val’s face, caught between his amusement and his genuine concern. “You, uh… You sure that’s sustainable?”“Oh honey, I give it two weeks, tops,” Val grins. “Val, that’s…”Valentino shrugs, unbothered. “I never stay anywhere too long, you know this. Besides,” he flicks his finished cigarette into the ash tray deftly. “You know how much these rich assholes simply adore having a struggling artiste to keep in their bed. I’m just playing the part they want to see, baby.”Vox grips his beer glass tighter. “I mean, that’s, uh…”“Pathetic?” Val supplies.“No! I was gonna say, uh, not ideal.”Valentino throws his head back, laughing in smoke-daubed, indulgent tones. It rumbles out of him, both low and high together, a sound far too rich-sounding for someone of his barely-scraped together means. After a beat, he eyes Vox with fondness - only slightly condescending behind his heart-shaped, rose-tinted glasses.“You do love to worry so, don’t you?” Val muses. “Hmm. I mean, let’s not dress it up then - it is completely pathetic, darling, but don’t I make pathetic look so good?”Later, when the night has progressed and booze has seeped its way into Vox’s veins, a drink arrives at the table that neither he or Val ordered. It’s a tumbler of something amber-hued, accompanied only by a single, large ice cube. The bar staff (an over-worked and nimble-footed imp) places it quickly down directly in front of Vox before darting away, no explanation given. Both Vox and Val glare at it with inebriated confusion. “Well, well, well,” Val slurs. “Usually it’s me getting sent drinks from strangers, but what do we have here? Did you order this?”“N-No, I didn’t…” Vox trails off, feeling his phone buzzing in his pocket.Carefully, and as discreetly as he can while sluggishly drunk, Vox checks his phone. There’s a message from a number he doesn’t have saved, and it takes him a moment to realise who it must be from. Alastor. The message only has two words: Drink it. Vox glances back, woozily, at the glass of whiskey sat before him. Valentino is already distracted by something else, some female sinner he recognises in the distance; he’s calling out for her, moving to stand. She squeals when she sees him, and soon Val has wandered off, eager and hungry for gossip. Vox is left alone, sat in the booth, eyes locked on this intruder drink.Drink it. The message can only have come from Alastor, right? Vox second-guesses himself. He checks the message again, trying to process the number. Who else would send this? Vox can’t think. He’s too drunk. All that’s left in him is a whirring of excitement, of booze-sodden thrill; this is all part of the game, it must be. Alastor knows where he is. He knows Vox’s number. He is watching, somehow - how? Where?Vox risks a few clumsy looks over his shoulder. He can’t make out anything telling, only the bodies of rowdy sinners as they chug down shots. He spots Valentino at the bar, two female demons hooked to whatever bitchy story he’s telling, their giggles high-pitched with faux-scandalisation. But there’s no flash of red, no perpetual grin, no crawling shadow anywhere. No Alastor. Still, the tumbler of whiskey calls to him. Vox lets his claws trace across the surface of the glass, carefully at first, before gripping it properly. In his current state, with his senses fuzzy and warm from alcohol and his inhibitions weakened, Vox can’t help but think this all feels so intimate. He knows that tomorrow, in the cold lucidity of sober morning, he will agonise over this. He’ll over-analyse it, wondering how the fuck he ended up here, convincing himself of this ridiculous delusion. Alastor Beaumont, interested in him. A joke, if ever there was one. But for now, in this moment, Vox decides to throw caution to the wind. “Fuck it,” he mutters to himself, and he downs the glass of whiskey in one daring gulp, tossing it back before he has time to change his mind.The whiskey burns as it slides down his neck, filling his stomach with spiced heat. It’s bitterly strong - but sweet, too, like singed caramel, all woodsmoke and aged molasses. Vox gasps as he draws the glass away from his screen, his pixels glitching for a second as he recovers. It leaves an aftertaste in his mouth - not unpleasant, just a slight bite of warmth, spreading across his tongue.Just as soon as he places the glass back down, Vox feels his phone buzzing in his lap. He’s almost scared to look at it, but delirious in his excitement, too. This is a game, Alastor is watching. Commanding. Involved. Present somehow, in some ethereal and intoxicating way. Vox glances at his phone screen, his pulse thrashing in his head. There’s another message. Vox’s hand clenches tightly around the fabric of his trouser leg as he reads it. The message is short - just two words; but they affect Vox so strongly that he feels another kind of heat blooming everywhere inside him - in his face, his limbs, in the base of his abdomen. Two words, blaring at him, delicious and addicting. 
Good boy.
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----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

♦“So,” Grim removes the narrow toothpick from his mouth and fails it about with a limp wrist, affecting nonchalance. “What, he’s just got you fixin’ his computer, or something?”Vox eyes his department manager with practiced neutrality, hiding his exhaustion and wariness; pulling from a well of effort he keeps aside for exactly this purpose. It takes a lot of energy, being this vigilant and protective of his true emotions. Vox works hard to ensure he gives as little ammunition for derision as possible. Keep sentences short. Don’t attempt jokes. Know your place. Perched on the edge of Vox’s desk, with no care given for what he might happen to knock over, Grim stares back with impatience twitching at his brow. There’s a symphony of mouse clicks in the background, each sounding harsher than the last - the rest of the team, pretending to be busy while they eavesdrop. Vox allows himself a small, subtle sigh.“Yeah.”“Psssh. He’s had you up there like four times in the last week, what keeps going wrong?” Grim’s yellow eyes (two sets, one larger, one smaller) all squint in unison, his confusion clear and aggravated. “His laptop made of fuckin’ cardboard, or what? What’s the deal?”“I… I don’t know,” Vox tries to shrug, like it’s a mystery to him as well. It is, sort of. “I guess he’s just not that good with technology.”“Oh please,” Grim snorts. “He’s the CEO of the biggest company in Hell, I’m sure he can work his way around a computer just fine.” He sniffs, fiddling with the toothpick in his hand. “It’s like he’s got you on speed dial or something. S’weird. Does he say anything about the rest of us?”“No.”“Nothin’?”“No,” Vox lies again, unblinking.“Huh,” Grim accepts this, looking equal parts relieved and annoyed. Alastor’s words creep into Vox’s mind. A rather uninspiring lot. “He, uh,” Vox stammers. “He just has me fix the laptop and leave. That’s it. Nothing else.”“D’ya talk to him outside of work?”“N-No!” Vox’s rebuttal rushes out of him, breathless and appalled. “No, of course not!”Another lie. Kind of. Vox hasn’t communicated with Alastor outside of work hours - at least, not directly. Not with words. But his actions, well… That glass of whiskey, ordered then placed in front of him, consumed on command and rewarded with praise… That interaction sits, boiling and burning in Vox’s core, gnawing at him in some delicious sort of way, warming him from the inside out. Now, Vox feels the memory of it threatening to paint a blush on his screen; he works hard to brush it away. “No, n-nothing like, like that,” Vox averts his eyes from Grim’s stare, flustering, suddenly very interested in his own email inbox. He tries to calm his breathing. The message that Alastor had sent him demands to be remembered, achingly so. Good boy. Vox coughs to cover the shiver that works its way through his shoulders. “It’s all s-strictly professional, Grim. I’m just doing what he asks me to.”What is he doing? Suddenly the whole thing seems ridiculous to Vox, like a bizarre dream he’s been living in without ever questioning if he’s truly awake or not. When he really thinks about it, it’s all been nonsensical - a string of strange interactions that seem to have no cause, no consequence, and no logic. Vox has been lost in it, content to be blind to reality, going along without sparing a single moment to sit back and actually assess the situation. Why is Alastor interested in him? Vox feels a stinging nip of irritability, a pulling back into reluctant lucidity as he tolerates Grim’s mocking glare. This conversation has forced Vox out of a lulling comfort; the delirious, numbing bubble of fantasy he’s been existing in for the last week or so, happily adrift in the self-delusion of it all. And now, in the cold and harsher atmosphere of his dusty, basement office, he feels like a fool. What has he been doing? Alastor is just a predator fiddling with its prey before devouring, no doubt. Another demon in the line of cursed souls ready to chew Vox up and spit him back out. Grim leans forward, his grin wide and pointed. “Are you fuckin’ him?” He whispers. Vox doesn’t startle. He doesn’t stutter out a nervous, babbling response; he doesn’t even blink. He feels something strangely melancholy blending out into his nerves, settling him. Calm and measured. Disappointed. He meets Grim’s gaze with chilled steadiness. “No,” Vox admits, sighing as if the question tires him greatly. “I’m not.”Grim blinks for a moment, taken aback by Vox’s straightforward answer; his pupils rove over Vox’s face, wide and blank, searching for a punchline that won’t come. He huffs, shaking the moment off. “HA! Of course you ain’t,” he barks, leaning back. “As if ol’ Red-Eyes would want anything to do with you. I’m laughing just thinking about it, can you imagine?! HAHAHA! In your DREAMS, Screen-Head, ahahaha!”The matter, as it would seem, is settled. Grim is satisfied - he has finally found the fraying thread on which he can tug for his own amusement, the lens to apply to his teasing of Vox for the day. Vox, the subject of Alastor Beaumont’s desires - what an outlandish and hilarious concept! Grim beats that particular dead horse with glee, unrelenting, bringing it up whenever he gets the chance; inviting the others to join in like a vicious ringleader. Vox weathers the storm admirably, ignoring both his coworker’s frothing remarks and the sickening weight of humiliation that deepens in his gut. What a concept indeed. A childish and shameful pipe dream, on Vox’s part - he’s been obsessed with those scarlet eyes that watch from above for years. Perhaps that’s what allowed him to be swept up in all this nonsense, then; that tiny, quivering hope that sits at the base of his spine, trickling, crawling up whenever Alastor requests his presence. The hope that he might be wanted. Needed. That maybe all of this was going somewhere. The stony crash back down to a slamming reality is a cruel one, as bitter a taste in Vox’s mouth as any spiteful gulp of cheap coffee. He focuses on his work, clicking through support tickets without much conscious thought, grateful when the office conversation diverts to any topic other than himself. He finds temporary refuge in those quieter moments, anxiously dreading the second Grim decides to initiate another round of ridiculing. An email marked as high-priority slides its way into the top of Vox’s inbox, the subject header reading: Immediate Assistance Required. It catches Vox’s eye instantly, setting off ripples of shivers across the surface of his navy-blue skin, and everything else in the room fades to the background of his awareness. It’s as if only Vox and this email exist together, isolated from reality in a haze of tunnel vision. Of course, it’s from Alastor, and this fact thrums through Vox like a shockwave. He gulps away the gummy thickness in his throat, unsure what to do.How can he continue this facade? It’s all going to end in an even greater fall from grace, surely? Once Alastor has had his fill of entertainment, Vox will be discarded and left bruised and gasping - he knows this. But on the other hand, any escape from the monotony of his life is a welcome one, even if it’s only fleeting. Vox risks a quick, peeking glance from above his computer screen, feeling sweat prickling at his nape. No one is paying him any attention. What left is there to lose, for Vox? Very little. Even if this taste of something more exhilarating is only temporary, it’s surely sweeter than never having bitten at all; Vox opens the email, his claw clicking against the mouse button with a level of trembling excitement that feels unwarranted for such a simple action. His eyes scan quickly, his screened mouth chewing on his bottom lip. Each word Alastor has written feels like a gift, like some kind of outstretched, beckoning hand of implicit temptation. The words are basic, but the subtext Vox chooses to read into - deluded or otherwise - shouts out something greater, some secret exchange of covert meaning.  
To: [email protected]From: [email protected]Subject: Immediate Assistance Required
Dear Mr Calloway,
If you would be so kind as to attend my office at your soonest convenience, it would be greatly appreciated. I appear to be once again in need of your particular skillset.Apply discretion where you see fit.Given your previous inclination towards obedience, I have no doubt you’ll be able to meet this request with the same compliance as before.I trust you will not keep me waiting.
Kind regards,A. Beaumont 
 Vox’s closes his eyes, slowly, inhaling deeply, his rapidly flickering pulse beating against his ribcage. The thrill that runs through him is pure static electricity, tingling in his senses and filling Vox with a heady intoxication he’s not sure any drink or drug could replicate. It’s more than just some mere bit of sexual arousal (although, admittedly, his cock does twitch) - this is a warming pour of gratification over his frazzled nervous system, a promise of authoritative relief. Vox so desperately wants to relinquish, to willingly hand over his agency and obey, especially when it feels this good.Despite this, he hesitates. He reads the email three times over, finding some new bit of tantalisation each time, his thighs clenching. Still, Vox does not move. Rigid, and unsure, he stays put in his seat, too timid now to act. The burden of indecision constricts him, paralysing Vox from acting on his most basic desire - to go, to practically run to Alastor’s side, to rejoin the game. But Vox’s strongest survival instinct, that of erring on the side of caution, is too prevalent to ignore; he remains trapped in his own fear.Vox’s hesitation is not without consequence. After a few minutes of antsy re-reading and fidgeting in his chair, Vox feels a vibration in his pocket - his phone, alerting him to a new message. It’s from the same unsaved number that had messaged him before, that night in the bar; if Vox had any remaining doubts as to the sender, this message dispels them effortlessly -  so clearly from Alastor, so unambiguous now that’s almost laughable. Vox sits up straighter in his chair. The message all but smirks at him from his phone screen.
Must I guide you through this in detail? You didn’t seem to struggle before.
A strangled but mercifully suppressed noise of anguished discomfort squeezes in Vox’s throat, and his blue claws tighten around his phone. His body is reacting so viscerally that he almost can’t believe it; these words alone are enough to send fresh pulses of excitement through his veins, adrenaline so potent that Vox can feel it surging in his wiring. He feels ridiculous - to be this easily wound up, almost breathless over an email and a text message… Anyone watching would think it was pathetic. What would his coworkers say, what would Grim say, if they all knew? If they were aware that Vox currently sits gripping his phone so tightly that it hurts, his palm clammy and hot, his nerves shaken and left wanting at just the idea of succumbing to Alastor’s authority? Vox runs his tongue over one of his teeth, contemplating his options with feverish and muddy thought. Now clouded by a mixture of confused arousal and disorientated anticipation, Vox can’t feel the full brunt of fear that he should. The fear that usually protects him from acting irrationally, the fear that keeps him in check - here, in this moment, half-hard and eager to give in, Vox can’t feel it. He’s punch-drunk on a submissive high, wriggling in the honey trap he chose to enter. Another message buzzes its arrival in Vox’s hand.
Get up. Say nothing at all; simply leave. You do not need to announce where you are going, you are perfectly capable of coming and going as you please. They do not need to know your business. Simply stand up, walk out, and come up to my office. Do it now. 
“Oh, fuck,” Vox whispers to himself involuntarily, thankfully so softly that not a soul nearby catches it. He can feel his heartbeat, like the ticking of a clock that moves too quickly, fluttering in his core. Tick, tock. Vox is running out of time. Failing to meet Alastor’s demands now will end the game, he suspects; Alastor will lose interest, will move on to find another who’s more compliant. Thinking of this creates a sourness on Vox’s tongue, a pre-emptive jealousy; oh, he is gone to it all. Addled, hooked, like a gambler who lets the sunk-cost fallacy dictate his poor, impulsive choices - pleasure, dopamine, sin, all within reach if Vox just takes the jump. He’s almost there, teetering on the edge of decision, so close now - Another message.
If permission is what you seek, then consider it granted. I won’t ask again: come, now.
And there, there it is, the final push Vox needs to be moved to his feet. Locking his computer and slipping his phone back into his pocket, Vox moves quickly, guided by a sense of confident purpose he’s never really felt before. Alastor’s permission overrides all else, making Vox something anew; held by Alastor’s insistence, Vox’s desire to please and obey has become far stronger in allure than the alternative of fearful inaction. Alastor has invited him back into the fantasy, and all Vox wants to do now is sink into it. He’ll drown in it, even, if asked to. As Vox silently moves to leave, it catches the attention of his coworkers. Some share glances, some let out giggles - Grim, irked that Vox is leaving without seeking his permission, makes a rowdy sort of scoffing noise, raising his voice over the hubbub to throw verbal daggers while he still has a chance.“Oh, off to see your lover-boy, is it, Screenie?” He yells after Vox; the room breaks into full laughter. “Got another rusty laptop for you to sort out, has he? Try not to cream your pants, eh?! Give him a smooch from me, Box-Face!”For once, Vox doesn’t hear it. Not really. The words sound out, drifting behind him as he paces down the corridor towards the elevators, but they don’t really reach him. Even the echoing clamour of his coworker’s laughter doesn’t really register; Vox is too focussed on other thoughts. Thoughts of Alastor’s pervasive smile, of that sharp angle of his chin as it tilts upward in assessment, his eyes low-lidded and looming. Vox has had a taste of praise - that fateful text of good boy - and he’d very much like to taste more. The elevator ride that follows is the longest of his life.  “Stand there,” Alastor commands coolly from his chair, with a flippant gesture in a general direction beside his desk. “Let me get a good look at you, Mr Calloway. I have so been meaning to do just that.”The luxe richness of Alastor’s office, increasingly familiar to Vox with every visit, now feels like a sanctuary of sorts. Door closed, blinds down, the office offers a haven of indulgent privacy, the atmosphere crackling lazily with the potential of what might be in store for the well-behaved. Stripped-back and sleepy-sounding jazz music plays from somewhere, and Alastor regards the scene before him with that usual, slightly sly demeanour he has; always appearing somewhat entertained.On arrival, Vox had entered the office without hesitation, and now, he stands passive and pliable, unsure what to do with his arms. Notably, there is no laptop on Alastor’s desk - no technology to fix. Vox is past the point of pretending to himself that this ever had anything to do with IT support, now; it was clearly only ever a pretence. A cover. Vox is an intelligent demon, he’s no real fool - he knows now what this is.Obediently and without a word, Vox steps forward, landing directly on the spot Alastor had vaguely pointed out. Alastor, humming his approval, leans back in his desk chair as he crosses one leg over the other. “Look at me,” He says, quietly; almost gently. Vox does as he’s told, meeting Alastor’s red eyes with his own. There’s no defiance in Vox’s unwavering gaze, no discomfort. Only open and abundant deference, vulnerable around the edges but wholly consenting, glittering with an interest that practically begs for further instruction. Alastor is pleased. His smile broadens to the point of showing teeth.“Hmm. Good,” he says, nodding once.He stands, so smoothly that the movement seems unnatural. Vox’s pupils stay trained on Alastor as he watches the Overlord begin to close the distance between them, anticipation itching in his circuits. Alastor moves with such deliberate and sleek precision, stepping lightly until he stands directly before Vox. He regards this lowly IT worker with a look that runs, up, down, across the length of Vox’s torso, lingering at the neck for a beat, before coming back up to offer a brief, thin smile. “They know you’re here?” Alastor asks lightly, as if it’s pleasant chit-chat.“Yes.”“Do you mind?”“No,” Vox answers honestly. He hates himself for how much longing he knows must be apparent in his expression.“Very good. Open your mouth for me, Mr Calloway, if you wouldn’t mind.”The command begs to be questioned, but Vox does no such thing. Instead, he obeys without any hesitation, parting his mouth open on his screen, having no idea what may come next. This immediate, overly-keen response amuses Alastor, evident in the low, closed-mouth chuckle that eddies out of him. “A little wider, please.”Vox does his best, letting his mouth loll open as far as he can without it hurting, keeping his wide eyes glued to Alastor’s face the entire time. Curiously, Alastor leans in, peering into Vox’s mouth with unrestrained interest, his brows raised. Vox finds himself distracted, taking the opportunity to get his own closer look at Alastor’s features - that neatly styled flash of scarlet hair edged with black. Those alert and full ears, two black antlers sitting between them. Vox wonders idly if Alastor might have a tail. “Fascinating,” Alastor whispers. “And it goes back, like a real throat, despite the flatness of…” Alastor draws himself back up, offering a tight and polite smile. “Forgive me, I don’t wish to insult you, it’s just…”Vox shakes his head, not daring to close his mouth yet without being told to do so. He shrugs, as if to offer the reassurance of his indifference. The fact that he’s stood here, in Alastor’s office, with the man taking any kind of interest in him is enough. Hell, Vox would let Alastor open up his entire head, if he wanted to; would let him pull the wires out and assess each one in turn, if that’s what he really wanted. This display of continued submission from Vox - keeping his mouth wide open - warms something in Alastor’s eyes, sparkling and devilish. “Ha! You can speak, if you feel compelled,” he offers.Vox swallows the saliva that had collected under his tongue. “You haven’t insulted me, sir.”“Sir? My, my, aren’t we getting formal here, hmm?” Alastor’s filter-tinged voice is warbling; a melody that Vox could listen to endlessly. “Mr Beaumont is fine, if we have to be so official. Now, I must say, this head of yours really is quite the oddity… A flat screen with a three-dimensional mouth, I can’t say I’ve ever run into something like that before, not in all my years in Hell. Do you eat?”“O-Of course I eat,” Vox says, unable to stop the slightly boyish laugh that slips out amongst the words.“Yes, I suppose you must,” Alastor nods, tutting. “You drank that rye well enough, didn’t you? Back open please, Mr Calloway. I’d like another look, if you’ve got the time.”Of course Vox has the time. He’s got all of damnation, an eternal stretch of forever - how he wishes he could spend it just here, right here, in this moment. His heart almost stutters to a full stop as Alastor’s hand suddenly reaches out - a thumb, hooking deftly in the side of Vox’s mouth, lifting the static flesh of his cheek aside to reveal a better view of fangs and tongue. Alastor’s thumb is in his mouth, and Vox realises this might be the most intimate moment he’s ever shared with another demon. He can feel the point of Alastor’s claw digging in, can taste something like salt from the pad of his thumb. A woozy and ill-advised urge to suck enters Vox’s mind; he allows this urge a few moments to soak as a fantasy before batting it away. “How ironic, to have all these sharp teeth,” Alastor mutters to himself. “When you don’t have any bite or bark, Mr Calloway. Does this tongue of yours stick out, I wonder?”Dutifully, and without a noise or word, Vox pushes his pointed, blue tongue out from his mouth, all tensile, glowing muscle revealing itself on command. It breaches the confines of his screen, existing in the space before him, as three-dimensional as anything else in the room; in the process, it brushes lightly against Alastor’s slender wrist. “How very peculiar!” Alastor says cheerfully, removing his hand from Vox’s maw. “Thank you, Mr Calloway, that’ll be all on that front. I’m quite done with my intrusions, for now. I do appreciate you being so accommodating. Why don’t you take a seat?”Vox watches wordlessly as Alastor pours them both a drink at his desk; two small glasses of what Vox suspects is an extremely expensive whiskey - a bottle costing more than his entire year’s salary, no doubt. As if noticing Vox’s starry-eyed observation, Alastor smiles smugly. “Even damnation can feel like Heaven, for those of us with enough wealth,” he says, easing back into his chair. He gives an upward nod towards the glass in front of Vox. “Do you drink much, Mr Calloway? Or was your recent excursion but a fleeting toe-dip into Hell’s nightlife?”“I drink enough,” Vox murmurs. He leaves the glass of whiskey untouched. “Mr Beaumont, may I ask-”“What you’re doing here?” Alastor says, a brow raising. “Isn’t it obvious? We’re having a conversation, Vox. Sharing a drink. Do you find that agreeable?”The casual use of his first name has a palpable effect on Vox’s senses; regrettably, he shivers visibly, a movement too obvious to go unnoticed, and a gasp cuts out into the air before he can stifle it. Embarrassed, Vox fiddles with the glass for something to do, toying with the idea of taking a sip. Alastor, cordial as ever, lets this unfold without drawing any mocking attention to it.“Do you enjoy speaking with me, Mr Calloway?”Vox doesn’t look up. He tries to ignore the thrashing of his racing pulse in his head, staring at his own claws as they scratch anxious shapes into the rivets of the glass. “I do.”“Take a drink,” Alastor commands, his voice suddenly stern. Vox looks up, surprised. “It will help calm these erratic nerves of yours. Drink.”At this, Vox finally grabs the glass properly, tipping back a small amount into his mouth. It doesn’t burn, this time - instead, it slips down his throat easily, smooth and full-bodied. Vox swallows without flinching, being careful as he sets the glass back down on the heavy desk. Alastor watches, satisfied.“Do you enjoy being told what to do?” He asks, his voice thin and direct. “Yes,” Vox answers, so quickly and candidly that it startles him. Alastor, meanwhile, doesn’t bat an eye. “B-By you, a-at least.”“Ah,” Alastor raises both eyebrows, leaning further back in his chair, luxuriating in this final reveal of Vox’s hand. All cards on the table. “A very wise answer, Mr Calloway, very wise indeed. You don’t ask a lot of questions, either, do you?”“I… guess not.”“Hmm,” Alastor considers this, pausing for a moment. “But you have questions, I’m assuming?”Vox lets his mind run, his words failing him. Yes, he has questions - none that he feels confident voicing, though. What am I, to you? What is this? Where is it going? Why me? Is this real? And then, there are the deeper, far less reasonable questions, the ones that sit rooted in the densest, most basal parts of Vox’s mind, barely coherent and driven only by hormones and feeling; will you ever touch me again? Will I ever feel relief? Would you keep me forever, doing just this always, if I told you I wanted that? Is this sexual? Am I delusional? God, christ, please fucking touch me again…“N-Nothing I can think of,” Vox manages, shaking his head. He takes another sip of whiskey, coughing as it burns, now - that first gulp had been deceiving. He feels a small surge of courage. “Actually, I do have, uh, one question.”“I’m all ears,” Alastor’s grin draws out across his face. “Where’s, um, your laptop?” Vox asks, pointing.Alastor, completely and utterly dumbfounded, follows Vox’s point until his widened eyes land on the empty space of varnished wooden desk where his laptop usually sits. He blinks, looking back at Vox with a grin that seems oddly strained; within moments, it relaxes. “In the drawer of my desk,” Alastor says, calmly. “Where it stays when not in use. Is that so unusual?”“Was it ever really broken?” Vox asks, feeling emboldened. “Or was that-”“What do you think?” Alastor asks, a genuine but playful question, dripping with saccharine intrigue. It feels like a trap. “In your professional opinion, what’s your evaluation? Your diagnostic conclusion, if you will?”“I think you know how to use a computer just fine,” Vox says, his tone mellow but with an edge of conviction. “And a phone, clearly. I don’t think you’re bad with technology at all, Mr Beaumont, but maybe you don’t particularly like it. You seem to prefer things, uh, kinda old-fashioned. Judging by…” Vox gestures around the office. “…All of this.”Alastor’s taut smile thins out. “An astute observation, Mr Calloway. I’m afraid you have caught me red-handed there! I certainly do know my way around all that fiddly technology.” He takes a lingering sip of whiskey, quite at his leisure. “Mm. You don’t get this far in business without that skill, unfortunately. A necessary evil. A small price to pay for success and power, though, if I may say so.”“Do you ever, uh, miss being on the radio?” Vox risks asking, in a way he hopes sounds polite and conversational. Alastor’s stare of mildly amused scrutiny bores into Vox, his lip twitching at one corner. There’s an intensity there, some deeper level of interest. “Yes,” he answers, simply. “Every day, in fact, Mr Calloway. But I chose a long time ago to move with the times to get ahead in Hell, and I think it worked out quite nicely. I wonder, if I’d stayed set in my ways… well. I wouldn’t be here, would I? Sharing delightful conversation with a fine demon such as yourself.”A fine demon. Vox tries and fails not to blush. “But, sir, uh, I mean, M-Mr Beaumont, I need to ask, that is, I don’t understand why, uh…” Vox cringes at himself, his features creasing in discomfort. He stares down at his hands as they twist in his lap. “If you, uh, don’t like technology, then, w-why… why would you be, interested in… in me?”Alastor lets out a dark laugh, tracing the rim of his glass with a delicate fingertip. “I admit, the whims of my mind are also a mystery to me, occasionally. But must everything be so neatly explained away? Do we all need to be so obvious, all the time?” He clicks his tongue with a light shake of his head, as if disappointed at the idea of such narrow thinking. “A man can enjoy an exceptional whiskey without needing to distill it himself, can he not?”Vox exhales slowly, not sure he follows. He feels as if he’s missed something, like Alastor has started to speak in some kind of code Vox doesn’t yet understand. It’s a feeling akin to being toyed with; Vox finds that, even through his confusion, he quite likes it, actually. Alastor sets his drink down, leaning forward and resting his chin upon his palm, watching Vox with aloof serenity. “You fascinate me,” he admits, his tone dropping lower. “You’re deliciously obedient, but also stubborn, somehow. Eager, yet uncertain. You’ve been moulded by how others have treated you, stuck in your ways, and yet… You still seem so malleable. Willing to be prodded, by the right hand. Do I have that correct?”Vox can only nod, his shyness choking his throat. “You know how dangerous this game is,” Alastor continues, his words drawling. “And yet, you still play. So happy to fit the role. So keen.”“I don’t think I understand w-what this game is,” Vox mutters.“Hmm! Then I shan’t waste any more of your time,” Alastor sits up straighter, his hands clasping together. “I need an assistant, Mr Calloway. It’s not a typical job, so it requires an extraordinary type of demon, one who can take orders and enjoy them. I happen to think that you rather fit the bill.”“Oh!” Vox says, dumbly, legitimately surprised. “I, uh, I don’t know what to s-say, I mean, I’m very flattered s-sir, um, Mr Beaumont-”“I don’t take kindly to being denied things I want, Mr Calloway, so let me be frank with you,” Alastor slides open his desk drawer, retrieves a cigarette, and lights it. “Do you enjoy working with a bunch of snivelling mouse-pushers who take your hard work for granted and spend their entire day bullying you for merely existing? Do you enjoy carting yourself up to higher floors, ready to offer your services, only to be screamed at and ridiculed by those with more influence than yourself?”Oh. So Alastor has been watching him, then, somehow. Vox suddenly feels embarrassed, like his pathetic life has been exposed this entire time. So Alastor doesn’t desire him, then; he pities him. Vox sighs, defeated. “No, I don’t,” he says tersely. “Who would?” Alastor says, exhaling smoke. “So do you understand what I’m offering you, Mr Calloway?”Vox isn’t sure, truthfully. A job role, on the face of it; but underneath all that, perhaps something more, too. Escape. Oblivion. Blissful removal of agency. Excitement. Titillation. Danger. “I… I believe I do, yes, sir.”“And?” Alastor takes another drag of smoke, his free hand drumming against the surface of his desk, impatient. “I require an immediate decision, Mr Calloway, if you’d be so kind as to indulge me.”“Y-yes,” Vox finds himself saying, much faster than he intended. Of course he was going to accept, of course he will agree to anything Alastor demands of him. He’s lost in it all now, addicted to the rush. “I’d be, uh… Yes. I’ll be your assistant.”Alastor’s sharp grin renews tenfold, arching high. “You are an absolute treat, aren’t you? No hesitation at all. I like that in a demon, Vox. A man who knows his own mind, who can be honest about what he desires… now that is valuable indeed. What do you desire, Mr Calloway?”Vox gulps. To be touched by you. To be guided. Held. Fucked. Praised. Take me, shape me, destroy me, consume me. Take me away from everything that has ever hurt me. Let me serve you. Live for you. Be the air I breathe, let me be owned by you. Those are the confessions that weave through his thoughts, unspoken but felt so strongly that Vox doesn’t trust the privacy of his own mind. Surely, it all must be so loud that Alastor hears it, just as clear as day? He gives the room a quick, distracted look around as he thinks of what he can actually say, words that will be appropriate for this moment. Vox’s eyes settle on various objects; antique vases, an ornate chess set, a record collection. God, he wants to be a part of this world so fiercely - wants to be a new piece of Alastor’s furniture, even. Just to sit there. Just to exist near him, pleasing him, offering everything he has, just so he can live away from bitter reality forever.“Tell me what to do,” Vox manages, finally. “And I’ll do it. That’s what I want.”“Anything?” Alastor purrs. “Anything at all?”“Anything,” Vox nods, firmly, finding the confidence to speak clearly from somewhere. “Anything for you.”This seems to affect Alastor, as he takes a moment to let the admission sit, his eyes closing for a few seconds as he savours it. He’s pleased, Vox can tell. The sentiment had been offered as a promise, but it had sounded like a proposition, too - a challenge, of sorts. A daring request to be pushed to limits, to be tested. When Alastor opens his eyes, there’s a rich fondness within them. Vox feels warmth licking against the softest parts of his mind. This is divine. “You are unlike anyone I have ever met before, Vox,” Alastor says, shaking his head in lighthearted disbelief. “It is quite the feat. You are so… closed up, so tightly wound. And yet, for me, you offer everything. Anything, you say? Shall we take that declaration out for a spin before making it official, hmm?”Finally, Vox thinks, excitement building in his nerves. Yes. Fucking use me. “S-Sure,” is what he says. “Very well!” Alastor chirps. He stands abruptly, and Vox begins to mirror this, moving to stand. “No, no, Mr Calloway. You stay seated, you’re quite fine where you are. Consider this your trial run in obedience, to see if you really are fit for this role. I’d like you to stay right where you are, in that exact chair, without moving at all. Can you do that? Can you remain right there, until I return?”“Yes, sir,” Vox nods, peering up at Alastor with moony, wide eyes; open and raw with silent, adoring longing. “I can.”“Wonderful!” Alastor claps his hands together. He adjusts his suit, brushing minor creases out. “I have some work to attend to elsewhere. You stay right here, palms flat on the table if you wouldn’t mind, and don’t you move until I get back.”Vox nods, placing his hands on the table, his palms pressed against the glossed wood. He should be worrying about this, really - should be panicking about what his colleagues will think, what they will say when he doesn’t return within the hour. But Vox doesn’t care about that, not when he’s right on the verge of being rescued from it all.“Good boy,” Alastor says, softly, the words sounding so natural rolling off his tongue.He gives Vox’s head a gentle pat, one that slows and softens into something lingering, more like a languid stroke. Vox is abuzz with giddy delirium, his eyes closing, a tiny, whimpering groan shuddering out of him. Alastor’s claws skitter an absent-minded caress along the straight line of Vox’s upper edge, the touch graceful but firm, slipping down to scratch a claw-point along Vox’s right side edge. Vox’s own hands tense and flex against the desk. “Until I return, then,” Alastor murmurs. In a moment, he is gone; disappearing in a wisp of coiling shadow, leaving Vox alone in his office. Vox twists his body slightly to peer around, checking to see if he is truly alone - Alastor is nowhere to be seen. He exhales, somewhat shakily, his nerves finding an outlet. Vox’s fingers press harder against the desk, grounding, steadying - this is real. This is happening. The opulent scent of Alastor’s cologne lingers in the air, mingling with the faint haze of spiced cigarette smoke. An oppressive yet intoxicating presence, even in Alastor’s absence. Music still plays from some unknown location - that misting trail of smoky, lazy jazz, probably coming from a record player out of sight, Vox thinks. He takes a slow inward breath, letting the reality of the situation sink in.He could move, if he wanted to. He could leave, even. The office door is only a few feet away. Vox could stand up, stretch his legs, walk to gaze out the window, if he felt so inclined. He could even open up Alastor’s desk drawers, nose around inside. Perhaps he would even find Alastor’s laptop, go through it, find out something to use as blackmail material.But, of course, Vox doesn’t do any of that. He knows what this is. It’s an exercise in trust and obedience. In allowing Vox to stay in his most sacred of spaces, alone and unwatched, Alastor is testing Vox’s loyalty. Alastor told him not to move, to stay and sit still, exactly where he is, until he returns. And that is precisely what Vox means to do. His inner circuits hum with a jittery streak of anticipation, unable to relax even in this ambient bit of solitude. Without moving too much, keeping his hands flat on the desk, Vox lets his eyes wander around the room - mostly just to keep his mind occupied. He listens properly to the low murmur of jazz, the rhythmic tap of the second hand on the grandiose clock in the corner. He counts. He waits. Minutes pass. These minutes stretch out, feeling infinite, bleeding into ill-defined hours. Vox forces himself to sit still, his muscles tense, even as jolts of nervous energy itch throughout his body and wiring. His claws tremor slightly, desperate for something to do - some catharsis for all this pent up excitement, the restlessness that curls in his chest. The pads of his fingers press and decompress against the smooth, cool wood of the desk, but Vox stops himself from drumming them properly.Alastor had given him an order, and he means to obey it. But, of course, Vox’s mind drifts inevitably to the why of it all - why this? Why does Vox feel so willing? It should be humiliating, really, the way he’s just sitting here; as compliant and focussed as a well-trained dog, waiting for its master to return. But, unlike when he’s under the verbal blade of his coworker’s jibes, here, Vox doesn’t feel the humiliation sting. Here, in Alastor’s office, sat in this chair, the feeling soothes him. It fits. It feels right.In all this time to think, Vox decides he doesn’t truly understand why this is what he wants, why the searing comfort of Alastor’s approval is the only drug he craves. As he rolls his shoulders, his head, attempting to relax his neck, Vox decides he doesn’t care. The reasons don’t matter. This is the single most interesting thing that has ever happened to him in all of his existence in Hell, and he’s determined not to fuck it up.Occasionally, he hears distant sounds. Movement from outside of Alastor’s office, voices, the sounds of machines working. One particularly loud jostling outside has Vox sitting up alert, his back straightening instinctively, his breath held as he strains to listen, expectant and hopeful that Alastor has returned. He remains alone, and after Vox lets the excruciatingly long pause of disappointment fade away, he settles back into his waiting. Time drags, slow and sticky, like syrup drips from an almost-empty bottle. It pools in the cracks of Vox’s patience. Any other demon would break, perhaps - one less used to practicing long bouts of silent tolerance, simply sitting and existing, testing the limits of his endurance. Vox is used to this. He’s been made for this. Stubborn. That is what Alastor had called him. In this instance, it feels apt. After a while, Vox lifts himself out of a dissociated state long enough to realise the music has stopped - the record must have reached its end. Most sound has stopped, actually, when he focuses; he can no longer hear the sounds of other workers on the floor. Vox glances over his shoulder, seeking any sign of life behind the cracks in the blinds, finding none. Lights have been turned off. The work day, Vox realises, is done. Everyone has gone home. Alastor still has not returned.The thought of getting up and leaving passes through his mind again, but only as something feeble and mildly intrusive. Vox doesn’t act on it, he doesn’t even flirt with the idea of doing anything other than what he’s been told to do. He doesn’t want to leave. He wants to wait, wants to prove his loyalty, his devotion, to this man he barely even knows. He feels like he knows Alastor, though - all those nights spent watching, waiting for a sign from those billboards. This feels fated, somehow. Vox’s mind, exhausted and drained, begins to feel foggy. As the city outside darkens to the deeper shade of maroon that means night has drawn in, Vox feels tiredness gnawing at him. His processors slow down. He resists the urge to fall asleep as long as he possibly can, but even sheer stubbornness cannot carry him through the whole night; despite his resilience, Vox falls into a deep sleep, his screen powering off. Hands still on the table.  When the office door clicks, Vox’s eyes snap open, blearily refocusing. His heart pounds as he wakes, the realisation that he’d fallen asleep feeling like a shameful discovery. The office is bright, now. Morning has arrived. Alastor steps inside, looking put-together and chic in a fresh, crisp suit. He hums a tune, low in the back of his throat, walking with a casual sway to his step. In his hands he has a paper bag and a to-go tray with two paper cups of coffee. Vox blinks rapidly, trying to clear the last bits of sleep from his muddy head.“Good morning,” Alastor says with an air of jollity. He glances at Vox, taking in the sight of him still sat in the exact same position, hands spread on the desk. “Well! You’re still here,” he adds brightly, setting the paper bag and coffee down. “Quite the testament to your work ethic, Mr Calloway. I am most impressed.”Vox opens his mouth to attempt a response, but his voice catches harshly against the dryness in his parched throat. Everything in him aches - his arms, his stiff legs. His day-old clothes suddenly feel scratchy and strangely uncomfortable against his skin. “Oh dear,” Alastor tuts, his tone amused. “You really didn’t move an inch, did you?”Vox shakes his head. Alastor watches him, coy but clearly interested. With a brief, indulgent sigh, Alastor reaches into the paper bag and pulls something out, placing it neatly down before Vox. It’s a croissant, freshly baked and looking perfectly crisp. Still slightly warm. Despite the offering, Vox keeps his hands locked to the table. Alastor slides one of the coffee cups over; it smells fantastic. “Eat,” Alastor orders, but with a softness to his tone. “Drink. You’ve done well, Mr Calloway. You can let go, now.”Slow to process, Vox stares at the croissant for a moment. Then, cautiously, he lifts his hands from the desk. The movement is jagged, his limbs rigid from disuse, but he doesn’t care. Vox’s fingers tremble slightly as he picks up the coffee first, raising the cup to his mouth - it’s richer than he’s used to, slightly sweet but also flawlessly bitter. Far more premium-quality than his usual coffee truck cup, that’s for sure. The warmth of it spreads through Vox instantly, giving a much-needed smack to his senses. His mind sluggishly begins to regain some lucidity. Alastor, standing beside the desk still, watches with unreadable attentiveness. “You must be dreadfully uncomfortable, Mr Calloway,” he says, quietly. “I do hope you aren’t suffering on my account?”Vox blinks, unsure as to what Alastor could mean at first, his thoughts too slow to catch up. But as he becomes more aware of the sensations in his body, more observant of his own needs, it hits him. The long hours of sitting motionless had made it so easy to ignore, before, but now it feels unbearable - Vox’s bladder aches, full and insistent.“I…” Vox clears his throat, shifting slightly in his seat. “Uh, I…”“Over to the right,” Alastor offers with a knowing side-nod. “I have a private en suite just through that door. Feel free to make use of it. Unless, of course, you’d prefer to keep impressing me with your admirable endurance?”Vox, decidedly, would not like to do that. He shuffles over to the bathroom door, fumbling a little on stiff legs. Dignity is not something that has been afforded to Vox many times in his life, and it certainly isn’t granted now; as he steps inside and closes the door behind him, he grapples with a barrage of conflicting feelings. Embarrassment. Relief, that Alastor has returned. Excitement. Vox feels proud, too - proud of his ability to do as asked. The bathroom is just as luxurious as the rest of Alastor’s office suite - dark marble countertops, gold fixtures, a huge and intricately decorated mirror reflecting Vox’s disheveled form back at him. After relieving himself and washing his hands, he takes a moment before leaving to brace against the sink, eyeing the gleaming faucets. He takes a rickety, exhausted inhale - one meant to fill his lungs completely, to steady his nerves. Vox straightens his tie, adjusts the suspenders that buckle to his trousers and hook over his shoulders, and gives his shirt a quick pat down. In the mirror, his own set of weary red eyes blink at him from behind his glasses. He sighs. Despite his efforts, he still looks like a mess, he thinks - crumpled, awkward, so obviously wearing yesterday’s clothes that any onlooker would turn their nose up. How can he possibly blend into a world like this? In all of Alastor’s finery and sophisticated taste, where does Vox fit in?When Vox steps back out into the office, a little sheepishly, Alastor is waiting. He lounges in his chair, unfazed, a stack of papers now sitting before him on the desk. He glances up as Vox approaches, flashing a reflexive smile. “Better?”Vox nods, pushing through his lingering embarrassment. “Wonderful,” Alastor says. He taps a claw against the documents on his desk. “Now then. We have some business to get down to, hmm?”Returning to his seat, Vox eyes the stack of papers warily. “Business?”“Yes, yes, the dreadfully boring but unfortunately necessary part,” Alastor waves a hand, as if workplace legalities are but a mere, flitting inconvenience in his life. “Your new position, Vox. You didn’t think I’d let you just dive right into it without some proper documentation, did you?” He takes a moment to nod towards the croissant that sits untouched. “Also, please. Eat. I can’t have you passing out, now.”“R-Right,” Vox nods, and grateful to be given permission, he grabs the croissant and takes a large bite. It’s delicious, of course, like everything in Alastor’s orbit - gorgeously buttery, equal parts sweet and savoury on the tongue. Vox groans through his mouthful, appreciative, and takes another huge bite. Alastor, clearly curious, watches this with alert interest, an ear flicking for a moment. He lets out a soft laugh, before averting his gaze to the documents on the desk. “A secret glutton, are you, Mr Calloway?” He says, casually, as he begins to file through the paperwork. Vox swallows before he speaks. “I like my food, y-yeah,” he admits. “This is really fuc- uh, really good. Thank you.”“My pleasure,” Alastor says without looking up. He pulls a handful of papers from the pile, then slides them towards Vox on the table. “Right, then. This is a simple contract, but one with a few… let’s say, unconventional clauses. I do like to avoid misunderstandings, if I can.”Still chewing a mouthful of croissant, Vox peers at the top page, his eyes scanning the first few lines. His pixelated brow furrows; it looks strangely typical of any employee contact. Stuffy, formal language, all the right terms and bullet points. Vox wipes his mouth with his sleeve. “But this isn’t… This isn’t a normal assistant job, is it?” He asks. Almost hopeful. Alastor laughs, delighted. “Oh, quite the contrary, Mr Calloway! Certainly not.” He leans forward, his eyes serrated and glinting. “I do require assistance, yes, but the nature of the tasks I give you may occasionally feel… peculiar. Your job, Mr Calloway, is to obey my orders without hesitation, objection or obstinance, regardless of how trivial or strange they may seem.”Vox takes a heftier gulp of coffee, feeling a lot more awake now. “Orders like sitting in this chair all night, you mean?” He says, a little cheekily. Alastor’s smile doesn’t falter. “Precisely.”Vox stares down at the contract. He assumes Alastor wants him to read through the whole thing, to understand all the nitty-gritty requirements and disclosures held within. Vox doesn’t feel a need to; he knows he’ll do whatever is asked. No disclaimers needed. “Alright,” Vox says, nodding. “Where do I sign?”“Don’t you want to read through this?” Alastor asks, a smirk on his lips. “You are adjusting quite well, Mr Calloway, but even the most robust of sinners would have questions by now. Most men in your position would be wanting some clarity, some structure, some guarantees. You haven’t even asked about the salary.”This fact only occurs to Vox the very moment that Alastor points it out. He considers this, but doesn’t speak. Truthfully, it doesn’t matter to him. The less Vox has to think about or be concerned with, the better. If he’s going to succumb, he’s going to do it fully - throwing himself into it, willing to drown in it all. The details are unimportant.“Hmm. And yet, here you are,” Alastor continues, slowly, his voice becoming quieter. “Eating from my hand. Almost literally.” He pauses, listing his head slightly, his expression still pleased but also inquisitive. “Do you truly understand what you’re getting yourself into?”Vox fidgets, frustrated, wondering why Alastor would question his intent at this point. Hasn’t he proven himself worthy? His life as it is currently isn't worth anything, not even scum scraped from the filthiest barrel in Hell; why would Vox go back to that, now, when he’s been offered this? Under Alastor’s subjugation, Vox will find freedom from the murky suffering of his drab, burdensome existence. Submission is relief, and Vox so desperately wants relief. “I do, Mr Beaumont,” he says, calmly, finding his eloquence in an unusual spurt of confidence. “I understand perfectly. I’m extremely grateful for this opportunity and I can a-assure you I will not waste it. I mean to take this r-role, um,” Vox flounders for a beat, his voice breaking. “To take this role s-seriously, and, uh… I hope my demonstration of… I hope that I’ve proven that I can…”Vox trails off, losing steam. He doesn’t know how to professionally say what he really means, which is this: that he’ll gladly be a dog, if a dog is what Alastor wants. He'll get on all fours and allow his back to be used as footrest, if Alastor truly wants that. He’ll bring him the morning paper in his teeth. Vox will do anything Alastor could possibly ask of him. He is ready to submit.“Very well,” Alastor says, busily, not waiting to see how Vox will finish his speech; Vox is startled, worried, like he missed his chance. “I think I’ve heard enough. So we’ll just-”“I’ll do anything, Mr Beaumont,” Vox interrupts, somewhat intensely, letting his needy panic fuel him. “Anything. No questions asked.”Alastor, recognising the desperate edge in Vox’s tone, allows a pause in the conversation. He offers Vox a knowing smile, something benevolent in his glassy eyes. Vox thinks - well, hopes - that it could be gratitude. There’s a thoughtfulness in Alastor’s gaze, too, just for a second. “You are so very pleasing,” he mutters. Vox feels his whole body react, nerve endings fizzling and skin prickling. “Well then! With that settled, I don’t see any need for us to delay any further. I’ll need a few signatures in a few places, Mr Calloway. We can discuss the other formalities whenever is most convenient.”Once Vox has signed his name more times than he can really recall, he waits for what he expects to come next. He prepares himself for it, even, wiping his hand on the leg of his trousers to ensure it’s not too clammy for the handshake. “Well, that’s thankfully all done with,” Alastor says, snapping his claws; all the paperwork disappears from his desk in a flash. “Congratulations, Mr Calloway, on your new promotion. I am very much looking forward to… working, with you.”Vox waits. He chews on the inside of his cheek. Alastor seems to pay no attention to this whatsoever. “So! I do believe some celebration is in order, just as soon as you’ve cleared up the matter of-”“Don’t we need to, uh,” Vox interjects, offering out his hand and immediately regretting it; he retracts the hand awkwardly, coughing, anxiously adjusting his glasses. “I mean isn’t this, it’s a d-deal, sort of, I just thought-”“HA!” Alastor barks out, his eyes manic for a second. “A deal? For your soul? Mr Calloway, this is business, what do you take me for?”Alastor’s tone is teasing, nothing more than a little playful bite; Vox knows not to rise to it, though. His true answer rings out in his mind only: The Radio Demon. A dealmaker. Taker of souls. Killer of Overlords. Broadcaster of screams.“No, y-yeah, you’re, s-sorry, I don’t-”“Think nothing of it,” Alastor says breezily. “Now. Here’s what I’d like you to do, Vox. Are you listening?” Vox nods. “Good. I want you to go downstairs, back down to your old basement floor. You’re going to collect any personal items you may wish to keep, yes? Say whatever farewells you see fit, although I suspect that you won’t have many to give. You should inform your coworkers that you have been offered a position elsewhere.” Vox nods along, listening. Alastor’s eyes narrow in contentment. “You needn’t elaborate beyond that. No unnecessary explanations, no justifications. It’s none of their business, now, is it?”“No sir.”“Hmm. And then, once you’ve done that, you come right back here, quick as you can,” Alastor grins. “My administrative staff will take care of all the systematic changes, so you needn’t worry about that. Can you handle this, Mr Calloway?”“Y-Yes, sir,” Vox says, despite the nervous bile he feels in the back of his throat. Facing his old team? “I can.”“Good. Now, off you go! The sooner you get this over with, the better,” Alastor says, lifting himself to a stand. Vox, a little abruptly, also stands. His anxiety is evident in every twitch of his antennae, every stumble he makes. Alastor sighs patiently. “You’ll be quite alright. When you’re done, you’ll come right back here, to me.”The assurance is enough to keep Vox driven has he leaves the office, keeping his head down. Nobody addresses him as he makes his way to the elevator. Not a soul would dare, he knows this. He’s sure that the entire top floor department probably already knows, somehow, that he belongs to Alastor in some kind of way, now. He may as well have it scrawled on the back of his shirt in huge, red letters.As Vox enters his own department - his former department - no one really notices him at first. It’s late-morning, and most of the IT team are slouching at their desks, muttering petty complaints under their breath about executives who can’t clear caches; the usual sort of thing. Vox is now both caffeinated and adrenalised, which is a risky mix, but he manages to keep his nerves contained as he steps inward. He walks to his desk. Pulls open a drawer. It’s mostly bare, really - only a few old handfuls of writing, a spare mouse, some half-finished bits of code scribbled in his rushed, slanted handwriting. Vox realises he doesn’t actually need any of it - the only thing he grabs is his jacket and bag, which had been left at his desk since the day before. It’s then that he’s finally noticed.“Well, well, well, what do we have here?” Grim leers. “A dirty stop-out? Surely not. Mister High and Mighty kept you up there fixing his computer until the early hours, did he?”Vox ignores this, slinging his satchel over his shoulder. A few of the team look up, interested to see what goes down. Grim is livid, Vox can tell - furious underneath all the faux-humour and beady-eyed gawking. “Not fuckin’ him, eh?” Grim continues, his arms folded. Someone lets out a tittering laugh nearby. “That’s what you said yesterday, isn’t it? But, then, I mean, this doesn’t look great, Screen-Head. Waltzing back in here at almost noon, still dressed in yesterday’s shirt and- hey! Where you goin’ now?”Vox halts in the doorway, his fists clenched. He exhales sharply, then turns back. “I’ve been offered a new job, Grim. Elsewhere. I quit.”“Oh, oh I see what’s happening here,” Grim says, snarling, finally standing up from his desk. His eyes flash with vitriol. “Got yourself a little gig on your knees for the big boss, have you?” Betraying his resolve, Vox’s body tenses, noticeably enough to be a slight tell. He glances around anxiously at the room; his ex-colleagues are muttering to one another, staring, whispering, laughing. Vox feels dread, sickly and hot, writhing in his gut. “Look at you,” Grim spits out. “All squirmy. Ain’t that something? Alastor really got you wrapped around his claw, huh? So what, you some kind of pet, now?”Vox doesn’t answer. He can’t answer. At this point, he doesn’t actually care what Grim thinks - he doesn’t care what any of them think. The fear is a reflex, a bit of muscle-memory that Vox is yet to unlearn. He clenches his jaw, still sensing the lingering aftertaste of coffee on his tongue. He knows what Grim wants - a reaction, for Vox to get flustered, defensive. Grim wants a show.Is Alastor watching this? Can he see? For all Vox knows, perhaps he can; Vox lets this saturate him with an uncharacteristic flooding of courage. He straightens himself up, turning to face Grim fully. He meets the demon’s stare with a hard look of his own, red eyes steady, his expression unyielding. “Go fuck yourself, Grim,” Vox says simply, and with that, he turns and walks away.Vox hears the gasps. He hears the laughs. He hears Grim shouting, puerile and seething insults, his voice growing higher in pitch the further Vox walks away. Vox doesn’t care. He smiles to himself, just lightly, just the faintest taste of victory expressed - he doesn’t give a second glance back. Grim doesn’t matter anymore. None of them do. None of this is his world anymore.Vox’s world is waiting for him, upstairs. Waiting to praise him for a job well done. Waiting to show him how a life can truly be lived.    ♦Find me elsewhere: Tumblr  ♦ Twt ♦ Bluesky
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----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

♦Like a shard of ice pierces cool, still waters, sending ripples out into the irresistible, untouched stretch of blue, Alastor begins to flex the muscle of his dominance. In subtle ways, at first - nothing out of the ordinary. Small things. Easy tasks. Hold this. Stand there. Straighten up that tie, Mr Calloway, we’re not running a zoo here, are we? Look forward. File these. Fetch me that report. There’s nothing suspect about any of it, really. Vox functions as any regular assistant would, on the surface. There are some things that would raise an eyebrow, if anyone was really looking; Vox’s new office, for one. It’s a small, modest room, directly accessible only to Alastor (and Vox, of course) as it sits contained within Alastor’s own sprawling office suite. The door to Vox’s office room - that he’s been firmly instructed to always keep open - is but a glance away from Alastor’s desk, just on the right hand side. Some would feel constricted, perhaps, having such an insular world - but Vox finds peace within it. It’s private. Hidden. Like sitting in luxurious bird cage, Vox finds comfort in his captivity. He enjoys the sensation of being a kept thing.He has very little interaction with anyone other than Alastor, now. Occasionally, Vox will make eye contact with one of the other top floor workers - usually as he passes by desks in the morning, on his dutiful route to Alastor’s suite. Or, he might be asked to retrieve reports on Alastor’s behalf, in which case he can barely get any nervous words out to anyone, anyway. Nobody really pays Vox much attention, to his relief. No teasing, no whispers. No prying eyes. They all know better. Vox is untouchable, here - for all except Alastor.Some days, Alastor has little need for Vox. This leaves him adrift in a sea of lonely hours at his desk, typing up some bit of menial admin work. He gets on with it, of course - never a word of objection or complaint. Still, Vox’s receivers strain, trying to listen, desperate to catch even the slightest whisper of his name from the other room. Mr Calloway. Sometimes, he swears he hears it - a phantom siren call in his mind - only to find himself standing alone in the main office, Alastor absent and off somewhere else. He’ll falter, for a moment, skittish in his disappointment, before pacing back to his own desk. But then, there are the days that Vox likes best - the ones where Alastor, with a flippant wave of his hand, will announce that having a wall between them is an inconvenience he simply cannot tolerate. Those are the days Vox is ordered into Alastor’s office proper, instructed to stand by the door and wait. Always by the door. Always facing Alastor’s desk. Anyone else might find it tedious, standing there for hours with nothing to do. But not Vox. Despite the consistent, quiet tremor in his shot nerves, the change of pace does offer some relief. It allows Vox to feel useful, even in stillness. The mere act of obeying, of existing exactly where he’s been told to be; it soothes him. It’s simple. He’s where he’s meant to be, doing what he’s meant to be doing, with so little room for ambiguity that Vox’s anxious soul can rest easy. Nothing else matters.And, of course, Vox gets to look at Alastor for long, uninterrupted stretches during these days. He watches the man work, listening to the quiet murmur of calculations muttered under Alastor’s breath. With nothing else to do, Vox lets himself stare, unabashed. He studies each minute clench of Alastor’s jaw when frustration pulls a minor snarl through the edges of his perpetual grin; the way Alastor’s ears twitch as he lights a hasty cigarette. Vox’s eyes stay trained on the precise, deliberate movements of Alastor’s hands, drinking it in with silent, shameful, voyeuristic greed. Time passes all too quickly, in these moments. Vox doesn’t even notice it slipping away.Vox learns remarkably quickly that Alastor enjoys control in all things. Not just in business, but in the small, unspoken rules of their world, too. Alastor isn’t exactly cruel, but he is absolute. Fortunately, Vox is a sharp study - surprising himself, even, with how readily he’s willing to adapt. Vox pays keen attention. He learns exactly how Alastor likes his coffee - black, naturally - as well as the temperature Alastor requires the air conditioning to be set at. Vox learns how many times he can get away with a typo in a report before Alastor will lose his temper; around three, on a good day. Vox even becomes attuned to the slightest shift in pitch in Alastor’s voice, noticing how each change in intonation can mean something entirely different, even when the words are the same.As more of Alastor’s idiosyncrasies reveal themselves, Vox begins to take pride in how quickly he moulds himself around them. He’s used to adapting to others for survival, but here, it feels more like thriving. Winning. Vox feels like a block of raw marble, slowly chipped away at under Alastor’s hand and chisel, morphing into shape. How willingly Vox sheds his excess outer layers, now; how gladly he lets a single man’s world absorb his own.“Mr Calloway,” comes Alastor’s meandering call, one weary, dragging afternoon. Vox jumps to a twitchy stand, immediately; those are the words he waits his entire day to hear. “Would you come in here, please? I do believe I have something I need you for.”“Yes, s-sir,” Vox mutters, wasting no time at all. He paces quickly into the main office, stopping just short of Alastor’s desk, his pulse rapid.“Move this chair aside, would you? It’s distracting me,” Alastor says without looking up from his work, gesturing to the empty chair opposite his side of the desk. Vox, of course, does so, with no words uttered. No resistance, no hesitation. Just quick, obedient action, never pausing to question the reasoning behind the request. Vox grips the chair by its back with both hands, lifting it off the floor; he looks around for somewhere to place it, knowing he needs to act decisively if he’s to avoid Alastor becoming tetchy. He opts for settling it down some distance across the room, lining it up neatly against a wall. When he turns back, Alastor is watching him, his amusement but a ghost on his features. “Come here,” Alastor says quietly. Vox moves without a word. “Closer, please, Mr Calloway. I won’t bite, I assure you. Here. Right here.”Alastor gestures to his left; a lazy point, slack at the wrist. Vox shuffles forward, cautious but inwardly thrilled. Alert. He keeps his hands to his sides, but his claws fidget still - absentmindedly scratching at the fabric of his slacks. “Hold out your hand,” Alastor says calmly. “Your right hand, Mr Calloway. Palm flat, faced to the ceiling, if you don’t mind.”Vox does as requested, his blue claws unfurling as he holds out his right hand. Alastor’s picture-perfect smile is calm, his manner oddly tranquil as he observes this, and he nods once, his approval voiced as a brief, gentle hum. Alastor stares up at Vox from beneath half-lidded eyes in that devilish way he always does - smug, sly, like a fox who strides five steps ahead at all times. “What large hands you have, Mr Calloway,” Alastor says teasingly. On Vox’s open palm, he traces a slow, deliberate circle with the sharp end of his index claw. Vox shivers. “All the better to type with, I suppose?”“Y-Yes, sir,” Vox manages, blinking, his muscles tensing. Alastor’s claw skates several more lax circles across his palm, like the point of a heated needle. It tickles - it burns, but not unpleasantly so - the sensation raising goosebumps on Vox’s skin and disrupting the rhythm of his breathing. Vox could easily find himself hypnotised by this, he thinks; lulled into a trance, hooked to the moreish feeling of Alastor’s feather-light touch. When Alastor ceases this bit of contact, his deviant, errant claw pulling back, Vox has to stop himself from vocalising his pathetic dismay. Please, his mind whispers desperately. More. “That will be all,” Alastor affirms, his gaze shifting back to the papers on his desk. Vox knows better than to linger.There are other moments like this, too; other exchanges with no real identifiable purpose. Requests that Alastor makes simply because he can - flexing the muscle for flexing’s sake, rather than for some other, more pertinent reason. Hold this. Change that. Make fifty copies of this document - then, when the copies are made: shred them all. It’s not Vox’s place to question any of it. He simply follows orders.The first request that leaves Vox somewhat nonplussed comes on a Monday mid-morning. He sits - silently - in on a department meeting, timidly taking notes at Alastor’s side. The meeting is tense; Alastor keeps his composure, but Vox can tell he’s frustrated at the incompetence shown by some of the executives present. After, Vox follows Alastor like a lap dog, no words exchanged as they slice across the room - not even a terse keep up. Once behind closed doors, however, safely stowed away in Alastor’s office, Alastor turns sharply on his heel, something urgent and manic in his eyes.“Take off your tie, Mr Calloway,” Alastor says suddenly, looking quite serious. He huffs in impatience before Vox even has a chance to answer. “Quickly, please. Give it to me. Now.”Alastor holds his hand out, waiting. His smile is forced, his eyes wide with pre-emptive, frenzied bewilderment, as if he already cannot believe Vox would deny him. Vox hasn’t even had a moment to process what was said, let alone act on it; he flounders only for the slightest of seconds as a result. It’s still too much. “Now, Mr Calloway,” Alastor’s tone raises. He takes a step forward, his open hand grabbing at the air to reiterate the request. “Your tie. Now.”At this, Vox’s fingers begin to work automatically, slipping beneath the knot of his tie and loosening it with a hasty dexterity he didn’t know he could possess. Alastor’s chest heaves, just barely, as he watches the silk length sliding free of Vox’s collar. Carefully, Vox places the tie in Alastor’s hand, feeling a strong desire to offer an apology with it. He stays quiet. “Thank you,” Alastor says, breathing in slowly as his hand curls around the tie. He adjusts his own collar, steeling his temper; Vox’s tie crumpled in his fist seems to ground him. “Much better.”“Sir, I-”“Back to your desk, now, Mr Calloway,” Alastor waves him off, turning away. “I will return your tie to you at the end of the day. We have work to do, hmm? Back at it, then.”Alastor works late that evening, and so, always in tandem, Vox does too. It’s one of the rules Vox had quickly learned - he may only leave when directly dismissed. Not that he minds, really. He’d spend every minute of his life sat captive in Alastor’s office, if he could; having to return to his shitty, creaking apartment is the real punishment. Still, the hour is later than Vox is used to working through, and so he yawns at his desk, only softly - but Alastor has such keen hearing.“Bored, are we?” Vox is immediately rigid in his desk chair, humiliated; when he looks up, Alastor is stood in his small side-office’s doorway. His stolen tie dangles from Alastor’s hand. “N-No! Sorry, uh, sorry sir, I just-”“Relax!” Alastor laughs. “I’m merely teasing you, Mr Calloway. I do realise how quickly the day has gotten away from us, my, my. You poor thing. I expect you’re usually safely home and eating dinner by now, are you?”Vox gives his computer desktop a quick glance, double-checking the time. It’s around seven-thirty. “Usually, sir, yeah…”Alastor tuts. “How terrible of me to keep you prisoner,” he coos. “Ah, well. C’est la vie! Such are the demands of a successful day in business. Anyhow, I thought I ought to return this to you. Can’t have you looking sloppy on your commute home, can we?”A weak smile skitters its way onto Vox’s face, and he fixes the position of his glasses self-consciously. “I su-suppose not, sir.”“Very good. Right, well! Come here, then. On your feet, Mr Calloway. Look alive.”Too eager, Vox scolds himself mentally as he stands, his awkwardness palpable in every erratic movement. He stumbles, almost knocks over a stack of books and a half-finished mug of coffee on his desk, then straightens himself up. Alastor chuckles; a low, rich growl of a laugh, flavoured with that indulgent type of mild condescension. “I shall know better than to leave you suffering with an empty stomach next time, Mr Calloway,” Alastor smirks as he steps closer. “You’ve barely any strength left in those weak knees of yours, have you? Goodness me. The fact you’re standing at all is a wonder, really!”Vox is used to being teased. He’s used to being outright mocked - bullied, even. He’s used to having people point out his weaknesses, his flaws, his bumbling mistakes. On the forked tongues of others, it’s bitter, electric venom, stinging in Vox’s veins; but here, Alastor’s teasing feels warm. Familiar. Earned. A liberty Alastor can take and apply with fondness, not cruelty. Vox doesn’t feel wounded by it. He feels drawn in. Coddled. Cocooned in Alastor’s delectable authority. “Let’s see here,” Alastor mutters to himself; Vox realises with a startle that he’d zoned out slightly, and now, Alastor is stood right before him, tie at the ready. “Now, hold still, Mr Calloway. I’ll have you looking smart again in no time.”It’s unbearably intimate, the way Alastor’s hands work so nimbly, hooking Vox’s tie back around his collar. Both hands, there, at Vox’s neck; Alastor’s face, so close, concentration and focus in the crimson edge of his stare. Vox exerts all the effort he has left just to avoid short-circuiting, his mind racing - oh God, oh fuck, oh fuck-“Nice and still, please,” Alastor murmurs, the words uttered so close to Vox’s face that he almost feels the vibration of them thrumming in his receivers. He swallows. Alastor tightens the knot. “There. Hmm. As easy as that.” Alastor assesses his handiwork, tilting his head. He pats at the length of tie hanging from the knot, flattening it against Vox’s shirt, his hand sliding downward against Vox’s chest. It’s too much; Vox, at the mercy of his own reactive body, lets out a soft whimper. Alastor looks curious, his head bobbing pleasantly like a bird’s as he regards the discomfort displayed on Vox’s screen. “Still suffering, are we?” Alastor asks lightly, withdrawing his hand. “Now, that simply won’t do. I won’t let you leave here in such a state, Mr Calloway. Please, come with me to my desk. Come now.”Seated across from Alastor, the heavy wooden desk between them, Vox feels lightheaded. A tray sits atop the varnished surface - brought and left by some other attentive staff member, long hours ago. The remnants of Alastor’s afternoon coffee. A silver dish of sugar cubes and a small porcelain jug of creamer both sit untouched, pristine and unnecessary. He likes it black, idiot, Vox thinks; a silent, scornful message to whichever unknown demon delivered this earlier. “Count them,” Alastor says softly, breaking the silence. Vox’s head jitters upward, a question written in his tired eyes. “The sugar cubes, Mr Calloway. Could you count them for me, please?”So he hadn’t misheard, then. Still confused, Vox falters. “Sir?”“I’d like you to take out each sugar cube from this dish,” Alastor slides the dish forward on the desk. “And I’d like to see you count them. Out loud.”A breathy giggle of nervous energy flutters out of Vox, but he does not disobey. He lines the sugar cubes up on the tray as he removes them from their dish, counting each in turn. “…Fifteen, sixteen, seventeen.”“Very good!” Alastor praises, his grin tightening. “Now, let’s put them all back, shall we?”Vox laughs again shyly, as if this is all just a silly, boyish game; Alastor smiles sweetly in response, watching with relaxed, feline languor as Vox returns each sugar cube to the silver dish. When Vox has finished dutifully replacing all the sugar cubes, Alastor plucks one from the dish. He rolls the sugar cube between his fingers, inspecting it. “Count them again,” Alastor says, gently, with a slight upward nod. Something about this is calculated, but Vox can’t work out the sum. He knows better than to challenge Alastor. He wouldn’t dare. But maybe, in this moment, a small, risky bit of playfulness will be allowed. “There’ll be sixteen, sir,” Vox offers, another nerve-strained laugh sighing out after. “Sixteen left in the di-”In one, fluid movement, Alastor presses the sugar cube to Vox’s lips, and the entire atmosphere of the room shifts to something far more charged. Static, frantic energy buzzes in Vox’s head. His whole frame tenses, his hands clenching in his lap. Alastor’s insistent press is a command without words, one Vox has no time to query; and so, Vox parts his lips, letting the sugar cube breach them.An instant bite of granulated sweetness rolls throughout Vox’s mouth, cloying and bright as the sugar hits his tongue. Alastor lets his claw linger, only one slight push more away from being properly inserted into Vox’s mouth; they share a pointed glance, stares meeting across the table. The room is silent, save for the tick of the antique clock. Alastor’s claw tip twitches, and for a moment Vox thinks - hopes - that he will push it in further. Vox stops breathing. Alastor’s left ear flicks - a reflexive, heartbeat-quick motion, easily missed but not by Vox. Animal instinct, a deer sensing danger, perhaps. A line about to be crossed. Alastor pulls his hand away. “There,” he says, clearing his throat. “You’ve had something to eat, now. I can send you on your way home with a clear conscience, Mr Calloway. You are dismissed.”The things that Vox begins to accept as normal in the secret world he shares with Alastor start to feel so normal, so ingrained in his daily routine that he’d find himself quite lost without them, if he was cast aside. Alastor so rarely acknowledges Vox’s compliance with direct praise - very few thanks or cheerily offered phrases like good job. Instead, Alastor’s approval is mostly wordless. A melodic hum. A flash of satisfaction in his gaze. The slightest uptick of smile. Sometimes it’s all ridiculously simple. Alastor might merely tell Vox, oh-so-casually, exactly where he’d like him to sit: there - no, not there, a little to the right. Yes. Vox likes this. Plain, direct instruction is easy to follow. Vox doesn’t have to worry about potential misinterpretation. Each command obeyed successfully, each easy win feels like another notch to add to his mental scorecard, the one he keeps locked away in the most quixotic part of his mind. A pooling, glittering collection of thoughts, sparkling mental trinkets he can pull out in the quiet hours of night and revisit - this is the reward Vox savours. Hold out your wrist, Alastor will say before reaching to feel Vox’s pulse for the briefest moments. Repeat that, Alastor will ask, wanting to hear Vox’s last words just as he’d said them seconds before, again, again. More repetitions than seems necessary. Close your eyes and stand still - this one thrills Vox most of all. Alastor will occasionally let it this request extend into several minutes, nothing spoken as Vox stands there, eyes closed. He focusses on his breathing, on the subtle but tangible energy of Alastor stood beside him. Vox’s memories will wander back that fatalistic meeting in the elevator, so many weeks ago, when he’d unknowingly conversed with Alastor for the first time, his vision blinded. Vox may be a sinner, damned in the pits of Hell; but he thanks God every day for that particular scarlet streak of luck. One particularly memorable interaction provides Vox with an even greater sense of achievement. The moment is hardly groundbreaking at fleeting glance, but to Vox, the shift feels tectonic. A prestigious and widely-discussed company event looms on the horizon, and as such, Alastor is often preoccupied with the sort of trite busy work that has him bored at best and irritable at worst. On this day, trolleys housing a selection of fancy-looking food and drink samples are wheeled into Alastor’s office by a handful of sleekly-dressed demons. Vox stands by the door, watching quietly. The event-planning team babble and fuss, informing Alastor with hurried words exactly what he’ll be sampling - and hopefully approving -  from the catering service. Vox can tell immediately that Alastor is anything but impressed; he crinkles his nose at the sight of the food, and quirks an eyebrow upward at the selection of wine.“Surely we can do better than this?” Alastor asks the room. No one answers. He lets out a lethargic sigh. “This is all so terribly uninspiring. No, this simply won’t do. Send it away, we’ll hire somewhere else.”“Mr Beaumont, would you at least care to try the wine?” One of the event-planning team suggests, their small hands holding out a bottle. “We’ve been told it’s one of the finest available in the Pride Ring.”“Oh, if I must,” Alastor waves a hand, rolling his eyes. “And then will you get all this racket out of my sight?”The wine proves to not only be an insult to Alastor’s senses, but a stoke to his temper, too. The whole room feels it - Alastor’s furious impatience, simmering hotly under all his practiced, composed stoicism. The event-planning team gawk at one another, each of them looking for a peer to blame - how could they have been so stupid? If this isn’t handled correctly, someone could get fired. Vox, rapt to see how the situation will unfold, swallows tightly. He feels a pang of sympathy for the event-planning demons, on their professional death beds as they are - but it’s laced with schadenfreude, too. At least it’s not him with his neck on the line. “H-How is it, Mr Beaumont?” A female demon queries, a little riskily. Her colleagues look at her like she’s just thrown herself off a brimstone cliff. “It’s undrinkable,” Alastor says, bluntly. His smile never leaves his face, of course, but it may as well be a grimace, now; there’s a quiet anger in the angles of it. “Do you really expect me to serve this at one of my events? Honestly. You’d have me look like a fool, would you? Did you not think to taste it yourselves before shoving it under my nose, hmm?”“We were told-”“Ah, you were told,” Alastor tuts, grinning wide as if this is all a lighthearted folly. “Of course. Well then! That settles it, doesn’t it… You were told. Hmm! And I suppose everyone can be trusted in Hell, can’t they?” Alastor’s sarcasm pours into the room. The event-planning team all but hang their heads - this is a piteous show indeed. Alastor sighs again, tapping his foot, thinking. Apparently hit with a strike of ingenuity, Alastor looks up at Vox sharply, his stare sudden as it cuts across the room.“Mr Calloway. Would you come here, please?”Vox treads carefully, in more ways than one. The other workers in the room finally look at him, surprised to see him move. He’s by Alastor’s side in moments. Alastor offers Vox the same wine glass he’d just tasted from; a slosh of blood-red liquid slicks the inside of the glass still. It smells strangely piquant, even from a healthy distance. “Here, let’s have you taste this, Mr Calloway,” Alastor nods at the glass as it passes to Vox’s hand. He crosses his arms, taking a leisurely step backwards. “Let’s see what you think. Perhaps I’m the outlier here!”The stem of the glass is warm between Vox’s fingers. The wine looks viscous and not especially inviting, but under Alastor’s watchful gaze, Vox takes a tentative sip. No sooner than the wine hits his tongue, Vox recoils, his features creasing in displeasure before he can control his reaction. “HA! Well?” Alastor urges, his eyes alight. “Do inform our adoring audience of your conclusions, Mr Calloway, don’t leave us in suspense!”“It’s… salty, sir,” Vox answers. “Salty and… sour, I think.”Alastor laughs wildly, delighted. He knew that already, of course. He hadn’t ever really needed Vox’s opinion - it’s all just a power play, Vox knows that. He feels it; how giddily Alastor reaches for him, to show the rest of the room how his most obedient and doting pet performs for him, always aligning with him. The other demons had attempted to appease Alastor with placations and reassurances, but Vox has no need for sycophantic pandering. His honesty is what pleases Alastor most. All he needed to do was speak the simple truth.“See?” Alastor says sweetly, practically batting his lashes at the other demons. He pats Vox on the shoulder, one, two, three times. “Mr Calloway never lets me down. Thank goodness at least he has some common sense - now, take this all away. And if you’d like to keep your jobs, then I suggest you find a catering service that can actually cater.”When the event-planning team have made their hasty exit, and the door is once again closed, Vox feels a wash of relief. He and Alastor, alone together again in their fantasy bubble; that is all he wants. Alastor, too, seems calmer, and as he absent-mindedly reaches to adjust Vox’s tie for him, he smiles with a warmth that hadn’t been present before.“Do you have any idea how good this all looks on you, Mr Calloway?” Alastor says, arranging Vox’s collar with meticulous care. Vox feels a surge of contentment at being preened. “Sir?”“Submission, Vox. You do wear it so well.”  “So this,” Alastor says, holding the elevator door open so that Vox has time to catch up and enter. A group of demons who had been standing within notice Alastor, their eyes widening; all of them decide to tactfully spill out and wait for another ride. “…Will be a slightly different sort of meeting to those you’re used to, Mr Calloway.”Vox nods, a folder of notes tucked under his arm. He catches the snooty eye of an aquatic-looking sinner as she exits the elevator, brushing past him. When the doors slide to a close, he and Alastor are left riding alone. “Now listen very carefully,” Alastor says, lowering his tone despite the privacy of the empty elevator. “You are to sit to my right-hand side and you must say nothing at all, understood? Not a word, even if spoken to. Do I make myself clear?”“Yes, sir.”“Good. Oh, and, Mr Calloway?” Alastor raps a claw against the surface of Vox’s folder. “No minutes needed for this meeting. I would prefer to leave this one without a paper trail.”It doesn’t take long for Vox to realise why Alastor wants to keep this meeting off record. He’s led to a floor he doesn’t recognise, one that requires passing a high level of security to access - Alastor, of course, glides through, needing only to throw a quick glance to each guard as he coasts inward. Vox follows in the slip stream, his head down and his eyes locked to Alastor’s heels. The meeting itself takes place in a dimly lit, polished boardroom, the table outlined by a veritable horde of Overlords - powerful, dangerous figures, some almost as famous as Alastor. The Overlord of Cannibal Town flashes a toothsome and hungry smile at Vox as he trails behind Alastor, one that sends a sickly shiver down his forearms. These demons aren’t here for official business, of course. This isn’t the kind of meeting that will show up in any report. Vox does as Alastor had instructed. He takes his seat to Alastor’s right side, at the head of the table, his screen flushing as he feels the unwanted, pressing heat of too many pairs of eyes branding into him. He fiddles with his pen and keeps his mouth shut. At first, the meeting flows as expected - a circus of sleazy smiles, cryptic wording, garish jokes and haughty laughter, so much meaning hidden under layers of seemingly jovial conversation. Deals are made so quickly and frivolously that Vox can’t keep up. During a small recess, in which a selection of refreshments are brought in by imps with their eyes discreetly (and sensibly) averted, one of the Overlords lets his attention linger over Vox. He’s a large, muscular, wolfish type of demon, which is fitting, given he now ogles Vox as if assessing a hunk of meat. Vox nervously gives Alastor a brief side-glance, seeking his usual bolt-hole; Alastor is occupied with another conversation. The wolf-like demon leans back in his chair, a rumbling chuckle sticking in his ribs before shaking loose. “You don’t usually bring company, Alastor. This a new pet of yours?” He says, performatively cheerful in his delivery. His accent is ruddy and rough around the edges; some coal-stained variant of British, Vox thinks. “Got any state-of-the-art features programmed in there?”Alastor either doesn’t hear this or he chooses to ignore it. Under the table, Vox rubs his left thumb with the other, a repetitive motion designed to soothe his anxiety. Undeterred, the demon laughs again, folding his arms over his gut.  “Well, who are you, then?” He prompts, leering at Vox. “C’mon. Let’s hear your name.” Vox says nothing. The demon’s smirk widens. “Ahh, can’t speak for yourself, eh? What a shame. I bet that flat little mouth of yours could be put to plenty of good use.”In his peripheral vision, Vox catches the slight twitch of Alastor’s ear. Finally, Alastor intervenes, his head twisting smoothly, an air of calm pleasantness brought with his intact smile. He glares at the demon, his manner outwardly peaceful but piercing, too, a fearsome warning dancing in his eyes. Vox feels overwhelming relief. The wolf-Overlord chuckles again, but with some uneasiness, and the topic is dropped. Unseen by anyone, Alastor’s hand briefly taps against Vox’s thigh under the table. It’s not a lingering touch by any means, nor is it a teasing one - but rather, a quick assurance of his presence. A reminder of ownership. Perhaps, even, as Vox hopes, an offering of some small bit of comfort. Possessive security.Later, with the meeting back in full swing, things start to get tense. Alastor has commanded the room thus far with all the prowess of a tenured ringleader, charming as always and effortlessly domineering in how he manipulates the ebb and flow of conversation. Vox has to stop himself from staring, even, only just able to hold back his starry-eyed admiration. One Overlord, however - a snake-like, shifty figure - attempts to assert himself. “Might I cut in?” The Overlord asks, his voice simpering. “Ah!” Alastor drawls. “Sir Pentious, why, yes, of course! Please, do feel free to speak your mind. This is, after all, as much a meeting for all of you as it is for me.” “Yesss, well. So it would seem,” Pentious says lightly. He has the easy, oily confidence of someone who thrives on subtle cruelty; now, he leans in, his tone steeped in faux-innocence. “Well I shan’t dilly-dally. Shall we sssay it like it isss, Mr Beaumont? I mean, we all know what you really are, don’t we?”The silence that hits the room enters like a cold chill; frigid, unbreathable air. Alastor tenses, but his smile is unwavering. Vox stares at the offender, this Sir Pentious, feeling something like familiarity creeping in. Doesn’t he know this demon? Aside from the fact he’s a notorious Overlord, of course, but… Vox can’t help the bell that rings in his mind. His eyes narrow as he tries to think. “And yet, you sssit here,” Pentious continues. “Dressed up ssso pretty, acting like all those sssmart sssuits make you a different man!” He lets out a condescending giggle, his forked tongue flicking out briefly. “Look how nicely you play with the ressst of usss. Does it not pain you, Beaumont? Does it not itch? That part of you, the one that isn’t so… civilised?” The hand that Sir Pentious has played is a spiteful one, heavy with petty jealousy and a foolish desire to gain some kind of superiority. Everyone knows what he’s saying; he’s not calling Alastor weak, but rather, Sir Pentious is calling out Alastor for being fake. A restrained predator, masquerading as a gentleman. The subtext is clear. Alastor isn’t like them. He’s something else, something that should be out there in the shadows of Hell, lurking in the dark, not sitting atop this tall building in this world of tycoons. The Radio Demon is a feral being, his demeanour of transatlantic poise but a mere hoax; this is what Sir Pentious is bringing to the table, now. The Overlords present watch with interest, waiting to see if Alastor will react, if the remark will get under his skin - if the expertly composed businessman will crack. Alastor just smiles, unblinking.And then, something clicks urgently in Vox’s mind; he has it, the source of that itching familiarity. Vox does know this demon - or rather, he remembers some bit of office-based gossip he heard months ago, something Grim had heard from Vance (who’d heard it from someone else.) Vox has the kind of memory that holds on to everything he hears. Knowing his intel might now be of use, he discreetly rushes to scribble a note down on a sheet of paper pulled from his folder. He folds this, then without fanfare, slides it across to Alastor.Without missing a beat or drawing any attention to it, Alastor retrieves the note and scans it quickly. Pentious owes L.M. a huge debt, big enough to get him wiped out. He’s been keeping it quiet. Vox’s heart skips like a frightened rabbit’s in his throat as he waits for Alastor’s reaction; has he gone a step too far? Should he have done nothing at all? Alastor refolds the note and slips it into his suit jacket pocket. He luxuriates in the moment, now, pouring himself a glass of water from a crystalline pitcher. He takes a sip, then leans back in his chair, his smile relaxed. “And tell me, Pentious,” Alastor begins. Vox feels static crackling between his antennae. “Speaking of… restraint. Remind me: how is your financial situation, these days, hmm?”It’s glorious, Vox thinks; how swiftly the power dynamic shifts. Sir Pentious freezes, his frills sagging, and the whole room knows once more who is boss. Alastor swills the water in its glass, his hand rocking it gently, and he arches a brow. A silent invitation. Care to try me again? Pentious, as it would seem, doesn’t have another stab in him. He wilts back into his seat, defeated. The meeting wraps soon after. Once back in his office, Alastor sets himself down wearily at his desk. Vox carefully closes the door. Usually he’d return to his own office, but something compels him to wait. Alastor is silent, bridging his hand against his temple, rubbing there as if a headache ails him. Vox steps, gingerly, closer to the desk. “I do have a temper, you know,” Alastor mutters, his tone measured. Vox doesn’t react. He just stands, a few feet away from Alastor’s desk, ready for any instruction that might come. He remembers, of course. The Radio Demon. The Overlord who clawed his way to the top of the food chain by taking other Overlords down, broadcasting their final screams for all of Hell. A killer. Renowned across Hell’s bloodied history for his violent outbursts; his true monstrous form. Alastor exhales through his nose, a small, dryly amused sound. “It wouldn’t do to lose control, of course,” he muses. “Hmm. Not in this world. Not in my position.” He tilts his head slightly, a thoughtful hum on his lips. “Hmm. Would you like to know what I wanted to do, Mr Calloway?”Vox already knows the answer, but he nods meekly anyway. Alastor reclines in his chair slightly, the leather of it squeaking as the chair back bends. His claws tap against the armrests. “It could have been so easy,” he murmurs. “To rip out that ridiculous snake’s tongue. Tear his head from his neck, or, hmm… Perhaps something cleaner, quicker…” Alastor lifts his gaze to the middle distance, lost in a reverie, and for a fraction of a second, his pupils slit into something viridescent and wholly demonic. It’s a peek of what he is, what he really is, behind all the business-like showmanship. A hint to what he’s capable of, underneath all the forced cordiality. As quickly as it had appeared, the flash of green is gone with a blink.Stretching his lithe limbs, Alastor sighs. “But we can’t have that, can we?” Vox shakes his head dutifully. “No, sir.”A slow, sidelong grin spreads across Alastor’s face. “And yet, you,” he says, pointing a claw outward. “You were quite useful, weren’t you?”A familiar heat floods Vox’s senses at the acknowledgement. Useful. The word feels like a celestial gold star, plucked right from the heavens, sent to nestle its way into Vox’s thus-far stellar track record. A nervous smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. Alastor regards Vox for a moment, then stands. “Come here, Mr Calloway.”Vox obeys. He steps forward, stopping at the edge of the desk when Alastor lifts a single hand. This hand brushes against the side of Vox’s screen, just a whispering touch, but the contact is so overtly deliberate that Vox begins to blush profusely. As if encouraged by this, Alastor holds his hand there for a moment, watching Vox’s expression carefully as he slides his thumb over the edge of Vox’s screen in a subtle caress. The action is a silent bit of praise for Vox - you did well. Alastor tilts his head to one side, eyes half-lidded, studying the way Vox doesn’t flinch, doesn’t recoil once - despite knowing how dangerous he is. Vox just stands there, blushing like a fool, his hands by his rigid sides. Waiting. “Finding you has been a blessing, Mr Calloway,” Alastor says, so softly it sounds like a lover’s utterance. “I do think I’ll keep you.”The words settle in deep, carving their way into Vox’s psyche. It’s a high reward that melts gorgeously into every one of Vox’s synapses, right into the sinew of his body. He shudders involuntarily. “Y-yes, sir,” he manages. There’s a pause, a shimmer of mirth in Alastor’s eyes, and then:“Kneel.”An order, not a request. With a slight tremble in his legs, Vox lowers himself to his knees, trying to keep his body still. Alastor’s fingers, warm and precise, press lightly against the underside of Vox’s screen, lifting his head up. The touch is barely anything - just a suggestion of force - but it commands Vox entirely. Alastor’s eyes rove over Vox’s face, tracing the corners of his screen; in turn, Vox lets his own gaze linger on Alastor’s features. The sharp, sliding lines of his jaw. The way his mouth almost parts, as if he may be on the verge of speaking. That smile, ever-present, curving upward, slow and indulgent - Alastor laughs. It’s light, airy, playful - but something about it cuts into Vox, hooking somewhere beneath his lungs, pulling at him.“My, my,” Alastor purrs, eyes gleaming. “I don’t even have to ask you to look at me anymore, do I?”Vox’s breath hitches, his fingers twitching in his lap. Alastor doesn’t elaborate. He doesn’t need to; the simple fact he’s already stated is enough to send a glittering streak of warmth oozing down Vox’s spine, ending in a jittery rabble of butterflies in his stomach. Alastor’s touch loiters for a moment longer, just long enough for Vox to really feel the weight of his attention - and then he’s pulling away, stepping backward with an approving hum. “Wait here,” he says, almost absently, as if there’s a possibility Vox might not. He disappears from view. Vox remains kneeling in place, his body thrumming with anticipation. His finds his head frozen in the position Alastor had tilted it to, as if Alastor’s fingers still hold him there. How he craves to be touched again, so fiercely - but that’s not something Vox can ever ask for, he knows that. It happens on Alastor’s terms only. A few moments pass. Vox hears the muffled click of a drawer, Alastor’s footsteps as he returns. As Alastor comes back into view, there’s something thin and dark dangling from his hand; Vox’s breath stutters. It’s a collar. A strip of sleek, smooth leather, not too thick, not too heavy - light enough to be worn discreetly, but unmistakable in its purpose. The inside is monogrammed, two serifed initials pressed into the material in elegant lettering: A. B. Alastor twirls the collar around his finger before catching it, letting out a breezy laugh. “Come now, don’t look so shocked, Mr Calloway!” He says. “Surely you knew this was coming eventually, hmm?”Vox feels his mouth drying out, and he doesn’t trust himself to speak. Alastor steps forward, beckoning Vox to stand with a quick upward hand gesture, which he does. The soft leather of the collar rests between both of Alastor’s hands as he holds it up to Vox’s neck, pre-assessing the fit. “It’s nothing too overbearing,” he explains, in the manner of a jewellery salesman. “Something simple, something light. Just a little marker, you see? A first step. You’ll wear it beneath your shirt collar and tie, neatly. Only I need to know it’s there.” Alastor’s smile sharpens. “Only we need to know.”Exhaling shakily, Vox nods, barely. He feels woozy, as if this is some honey-soaked dream, a fugue state induced by his own fantasies and wishful thinking. A thrill ripples through him as Alastor’s deft fingers begin to loosen his tie, undoing the first few buttons of his shirt, peeling back fabric. The top of Vox’s chest sits slightly exposed, just the lines of his collarbone, deep blue skin. Alastor lifts the leather collar, curling it around Vox’s throat with steady, practiced ease. The leather is cool against Vox’s skin at first, but the heat of Alastor’s touch trails after it, tracing along the curve of his neck, brushing the sensitive hollow between his collarbones. Vox shivers. Alastor fastens the collar into place. He doesn’t step back immediately, though. He lets his hands linger, his fingers smoothing over the leather, adjusting it here and there, fussing slightly. He presses his thumb into Vox’s throat for a moment; perhaps just to feel it move as Vox swallows.“There,” Alastor says, voice dropping to something hushed and intimate. His fingers graze against the edges of the collar one final time. “That’s much better, don’t you think?” Vox nods, his pulse hammering. Alastor can see it there, beating, flickering under the skin of Vox’s neck. Hot blood in veins. Tender flesh, bare. Alastor’s stare hovers there for an intense moment. Vox almost wishes he would bite. “Very good,” Alastor affirms, redoing Vox’s shirt buttons and tie. He steps back, satisfied. “You’ve earned this, you know. It suits you, very much so. Yes, I believe this will do quite nicely.”Even after he’s long since left the office, Vox keeps the collar intact around his neck. He doesn’t even take it off when he arrives back home; instead, he relishes the feeling of it, letting it excite him. As he lies in his bed that night, the streetlights outside his only company, Vox touches the collar against his skin, claws skittering where Alastor’s had been earlier that day. The feedback loop of Alastor’s praise is all too addictive. It’s a rush. A drug. It feels good, tastes good, filling Vox with a level of stimulation he’s never felt before in his life or damnation. And Vox, with a shiver in his heart, realises he’s willing to do anything to earn more.  ♦Find me elsewhere:Tumblr  ♦ Twt ♦ Bluesky
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♦A sleepy and uneventful day drags on into an equally dull late afternoon. Vox, underutilised and bored because of it, melts in his desk chair. His elbows have gone numb from where they sit pressed against the desk, his drooping head in his hands. He’s had nothing to do all day. It has been torture. Alastor hasn’t called for him once. If only Alastor had simply ordered him to sit at his desk and do nothing, to wait indefinitely for further instruction that may never come - maybe Vox could have tolerated this better, if that had been the case. If this had just been part of the game from the start, Vox could have at least accepted his boredom as a byproduct of obedience. As it is, he aches. What had started as an eager itch in the morning - waiting, keenly, as always, for any kind of direction - now festers in Vox’s gut as a brattish bit of irritation. He’s been conditioned over several weeks to expect and attend to Alastor’s every beck, call and whim, and now, left to his own devices, Vox feels abandoned. The day has felt unfairly stretched out, pulled too taut over too much time with nothing to offer any glint of excitement. He looks dolefully at the time on his computer desktop. It’s almost five - he’ll be clocking out soon, heading home, without so much as a simple come here. Vox leans back in his chair, carefully. If he angles the lean just right, he can get a view of Alastor’s desk through his doorway - it takes some finessing, a little scooting, but he can manage it. He does this as quietly as he can. Alastor is still deeply engrossed in his work, as he has been all day - muttering to himself, typing emails, making handwritten notes, disappearing off to meetings and then coming back looking agitated, taking calls. Too busy to need an assistant today, apparently. For a second, Vox considers stepping out of his office unbidden, but he quickly flits this notion away. That would be an insolence, one Alastor would not stand for. Vox sighs, returning to slump across his desk. He slides his mouse around, just to see something move, watching the cursor lazily drift across his computer screen. Maybe he’s gotten bored of me. The thought that Vox has been trying to dodge all day finally forces its way in. He flinches, distressed at the idea. Now that it’s taken hold, it gnaws at him, latching on like a pestering insect. To self-soothe, Vox begins to nervously and absentmindedly chew the inside of his cheek, only stopping when he suddenly tastes blood. He whispers a curse at himself, annoyed, and tongues the wound to gauge the damage done.“Mr Calloway,” Alastor is in the doorway; Vox startles, biting his tongue in surprise. “I know you are no stranger to occasionally working a few hours late, but I wonder if I might request your assistance for something somewhat… above and beyond.”“S-Sir?” Vox is a cluster of nerves, all firing at once; fireworks of panic, joy, euphoria. “It would entail working some overtime hours this evening,” Alastor drawls, leaning against the doorframe. “As you probably know, I am occasionally required to show face at the various establishments I own. Tonight, I'm obligated to socialise with other elites at one of my more prestigious nightclubs - a tedious affair, I’m afraid, but a fine opportunity for networking, at least…”Alastor sighs theatrically with affected self-deprecation, hinting to some wry level of self-awareness. Alastor clearly knows this is a ridiculous thing to complain about; being so rich and powerful, having to spend his nights cavorting around, rubbing shoulders with high society. To be able to complain about such a thing is a luxury only a man like Alastor Beaumont can afford. Vox nods along, his mouth slightly parted, words of willing acceptance already readying in his throat. “I was wondering if you would join me,” Alastor says casually, inspecting his claws. “You’ll be working much later than usual, of course. Well into the night, in fact. I’ll ensure you’re paid the appropriate compensation for such an inconvenience, naturally. It would benefit me greatly to-”“Yes, sir,” Vox interjects, unable to stop the burst of energy that drives him to do so. “I’d, uh, be happy to.”“Ah, your eagerness to please is music to my ears as always, Mr Calloway!” Alastor straightens himself up, clapping his hands together once as if to punctuate the decision. “Wonderful. I’ll need you back here in around an hour, in that case. Until then, I advise you to go fetch yourself something to eat, hmm? Can’t have you drinking on an empty stomach, now, can we?”“Yes, sir- I, I mean n-no! Sir.”Alastor laughs, delighted. “Although, I suppose it is Friday,” he says, tapping his chin. “Hmm! Your chance to let loose a little, then. Not too loose, though. I still need your wits nice and sharp, Mr Calloway. You are to be my extra set of eyes and ears, tonight!”  It’s the smell that hits Vox first; like a flighty slap to his senses, unavoidable but not unpleasant. There’s something plummy about it, almost - rich fruit, the sharp tang of expensive and luxurious alcohol, the perfume of high-class succubi clinging to the arms of the men that keep them well-fed and well-paid. Vox may as well be one of them, although he doesn’t possess the same charms - as he follows behind Alastor into the depths of the nightclub, he feels every inch of what he is. A lesser demon who’s been invited, like a vampire, beyond a threshold and into the secret world of the elite. Music pulses at just the right volume, tantalisingly bass-heavy but not too throbbing - something suitable for classy clientele. Not too classy, Vox thinks dryly, as he’s escorted past a group of besuited demons snorting lines of cocaine from a glass table. Alastor weaves through the mass of dark opulence with ease, occasionally muttering sly words of greeting to those he knows well as they pass. He leads Vox to a private VIP booth, high up like an imperial box, with a balcony overlooking the throng of sinners dancing below. A security demon unfastens a section of velvet rope, nodding as Alastor enters, but pushes Vox back with a hand flat against his chest. Alastor turns, surprised but only light-heartedly so, a larkish chuckle slipping free when he realises. “Oh, do settle down,” he pats the security guard’s shoulder. “Mr Calloway is with me, it’s quite alright. Let him through.”The VIP booth is luxe, and Vox blinks as he drinks the scene in. It offers a perfect view of the entire nightclub when standing, to an almost dizzying degree. The most ornate-looking booth seats Vox has ever seen create a curving crescent moon of red leather, interrupted only in the centre by a low, sleek table, carved out of something ebony. There are tiny spotlights on the floor, like fallen stars; otherwise, the space is fantastically gloomy and intimate, drenched in darkness. The strobe lights from the dance floor below kiss the walls with gliding, intermittent colour, occasionally illuminating the space in a brief wash of light.“In you go,” Alastor shepherds Vox inward, gesturing for him to take a seat. Vox slides himself along the booth seating, feeling the pulse of music vibrating gently against its surface. Alastor slips in beside him, and within moments an imp has appeared, alert and ready to accept orders. Alastor barely acknowledges the imp, waving his hand as he reaches into his jacket pocket for cigarettes. He holds one between his teeth, flicking open a heavy lighter. The embers ignite. He pulls on it, inhaling, then speaks through the exhale of smoke.“Yes, we’ll start with Absinthe Verte, I think, something with a little bite, hmm?” Alastor closes the lighter with a deft wrist movement. “And then an Old Fashioned, mine a rye, extra bitters. Oh, and something sweeter for Mr Calloway - a Clover Club, I think. Yes, that will do just fine.”Alastor tosses the cigarette carton onto the table and leans back in his seat. Vox has no clue what a Clover Club is, but he feels a jolt of excitement, anyway. Having something so casually decided for him, with such fluid immediacy… Vox wishes he could feel that always, in every aspect of his life. In the dim booth, Vox’s backlit screen casts a soft glow, highlighting the sharpest points of Alastor’s face. He watches Alastor smoke, unable to look away, at the mercy of his own repressed desire. A sudden dart of Alastor’s pupils has Vox flustered; Alastor smirks, side-eyeing him coolly. “Keep watching like that, you might learn a thing or two,” Alastor shrugs, amused. “You’ll see a lot of faces this evening, Mr Calloway, and I’ll be counting on you to forget them by morning. Mine is the only one you need remember, understood?”A Clover Club, as it would turn out, is a deliciously sweet and gummyish sort of cocktail, smooth on the tongue and laced with gin. Vox thinks he tastes flavours akin to lemon and raspberry - or Hell’s closest variants - as the drink slinks down his throat, white froth lingering on his teeth. It’s the kind of pinky-hued cocktail that would look more suited in the delicate hand of a femme-fatale, but Vox doesn’t mind. He’s happy to drink as many as Alastor orders for him - which ends up being several. Sweet drink, hot air, spiced smoke, beating rhythm; the night begins to blur muddily, everything smearing together the more Vox drinks. As each fresh cocktail is brought to the table, an otherwise-distracted Alastor pushes it silently to Vox, too busy with his visitors to pay his assistant any true attention. Various Overlords come and go, pausing for a drink or two along with a stretch of lavish conversation. Alastor greets and schmoozes each with steady aplomb, steering conversations, swapping anecdotes. Tipping his glass in the kind of self-congratulatory toasts only the wealthy make. Vox sits in total silence, drinking what he’s been given, watching. Alastor holds court with all the ease of a puppeteer who knows his strings incredibly well. “Your notoriety precedes you, Mr Beaumont,” one Overlord croons, obvious in their flirtation; they lean forward, tapping a hand to Alastor’s knee. Vox almost snorts his current sip of drink. “Tell me, how does a man like yourself manage such unbearable levels of success and fame?”Alastor shakes his head, laughing, indulging the joke for what it is; the two Overlords share a knowing smile. Vox feels some shy, sickening twist of turmoil, harshly cold and blooming quickly in his chest. Alcohol has softened his already-feeble edges and strengthened the childish parts of him that want, want, want. He wants Alastor to give him knowing looks and conversation. Why won’t he?Still. Vox sits there, resigned to his inebriated frustration, tolerating the night as best he can. He listens to as much of Alastor’s business talk as his focus will allow, but it becomes hard to follow, messy with music, voices and the static that buzzes in his head. Vox huffs to himself, staring out over the edge of the balcony, watching sinners below smash their bodies together as they dance. Smoke machines mist their plumes of fog across the room. He doesn’t long to be down there, but he can’t look away, either. Vox’s view gives him booze-sodden snapshots. Fanged, smiling faces. Laughter, sharp and braying. Legs and breasts and long hair. Expensive shoes, dainty wings, tall horns. A couple pressed together, mouths moving, the words lost. Reds. Blues. Flashes of violet. The sunglasses-clad demon on the DJ deck, expression flat, unbothered. A leopard-print dress. Glasses raised. Vox is woozy as he scans it all. Breathing with the kind of thick heaviness that only comes with being drunk, Vox turns his focus back to his glass on the table. It’s empty. He realises, then, that he and Alastor are alone for the first time in hours, with nobody sat opposite. He glances at Alastor, blinking slowly, watching as a fresh cigarette is lit between Alastor’s lips. Alastor draws on it with a kind of sultry weariness, sighing out the exhale. He meets Vox’s stare, not even trying to conceal his quiet exhaustion. “Don’t think I can’t see what you’re doing,” Alastor says slyly, his voice low. He taps ash into a tray. “Sulking like a forgotten puppy. Throwing quite the tantrum there, aren’t you?”Oh, fuck. Vox is blushing, hot and obvious, a snap of electric embarrassment crackling between his antennae. Alastor laughs at this, all in good humour - clearly fondly entertained despite the seriousness in his tone. “You need to learn to behave yourself. Your job right now is to sit there and look pretty, understand? Don’t be spoiled.” There’s a pause, in which Alastor takes another drag of smoke and Vox urges his heart to start beating again. “You know, under all that frightened noise in your head, I think there might be a demon with great potential, Mr Calloway. What a pity you don’t see it.”What? Vox doesn’t understand; he’s too drunk, too confused, too muddled between the thrill of finally being addressed and the humiliation of being scolded. What does Alastor mean? Before Vox can even attempt to reply, there’s movement - the velvet rope, unclipped and held aside by security as another Overlord enters the booth. Only it isn’t an Overlord. Vox swallows tightly. While he hadn’t been overly familiar with most of the faces drifting through the last haze of hours, he recognises this one immediately. Even the drunkest of fools would know what he looks upon, now. An Ars Goetia - demon royalty - saunters into the booth, closely followed by a hook-horned imp.“Not a word,” Alastor whispers to Vox from the corner of his mouth. His grin widens tenfold, his eyes brightening as he stands. “Ahh, Stolas! How fortunate that you could make it! Please, join us, won’t you?”Vox hasn’t ever been in the presence of a Goetia before. This one is obscenely tall, dressed exquisitely in finery, his feathered form and thin limbs the very image of grace. His two pairs of red eyes shine against the dark of the nightclub, filling Vox with a sort of haunting, instinctual fear. The Goetia outrank both him and Alastor by quite some margin.As pleasantries are exchanged between Stolas and Alastor, Vox stares up, astonished and rigid in his seat. His gaze drifts downward, towards the imp by Stolas’ side; his scarlet face half-scarred in milk-white, his yellow sclera glowing, the imp is doting. He looks to the Goetia for command, shifting himself into the booth seat only when told. Vox says nothing. The imp sits across from him, bored eyes running up and over Vox’s frame in assessment. A single brow raised. The imp grins. Wide, salacious. Knowing.So you’re a pet too, the grin says. What the fuck is happening? Vox’s trembling lips ask, silently. The imp scoffs out a laugh, rolls his eyes, then refuses to pay Vox any more attention. He leans back cockily against the booth seat as if he owns it, but one firm word from the Goetia has him snapping back to sit up straight. “And who is this delightful fellow?” Stolas’ head twists, inspecting Vox with keen, pleasant interest. His owlish eyes widen. “I must say, Mr Beaumont, I never quite pictured you as the sort to keep such… close company. What a fascinating development!”“Well, you know what they say,” Alastor says, bleeding charm. “There’s a first time for everything.”“Obedient, is he?” Stolas asks, cheerily, seeming genuinely intrigued. “He certainly does his best!” Alastor replies, somewhat charitably. He pats Vox on the thigh, like a proud collector might adoringly touch a vintage car. “Why, Mr Calloway here is very devoted to his craft. A most loyal companion indeed!”“Well, it would seem we have more in common than I first thought!” Stolas remarks amiably. “How charming. I didn’t realise sinners came in varieties such as this. I do love a rare find myself, Mr Beaumont, as you well know.”Vox realises, with a sinking of weighty comprehension, that this is why Alastor asked him to be here. To mirror the imp currently sat across from him, to balance the scale. This is a calculated, social chess-move, in which Vox is the pawn; Alastor’s pet for the night, so that he mind find some helpful common ground with this absurdly powerful demon. Vox is an accessory. A tool. This is all about optics.The imp knows it, too. He stares at Vox with some unsaid joke in the air around them, a cruel smirk on his lips. This imp is no real submissive, Vox feels that much, at least. There’s too much defiance in his posture, too much bolshy attitude in the glint of his eyes. The imp’s stare is a challenge to Vox, one which he fails; feeling pathetic, Vox looks down at his hands instead. Vision blurry. Head swimming.“Now, about this business you wanted to discuss,” Stolas says, sipping at his drink. There it is. There’s the play; Alastor has drawn him in. “I must admit I am curious, Mr Beaumont, as to your proposal. Do enlighten me on the finer details, although perhaps we should save the more formal talk for a less… leisurely occasion. I’ve got my eye on one of those nifty little backrooms for some fun later, so do try to keep this brief, hmm?”Time passes, Vox isn’t sure how much. He’s too sleepily distracted by other things. A nagging ache in his head. Cold veins, tingling with the ice-bite of gin. Too many heartbeats. Inward breath tasting of fruit. Vox has been staring at one particular spot on the table for a while, paralysed in his feelings. He hasn’t been processing any of what was said. God, he wants a cigarette, but he doesn’t dare ask Alastor for one. Hey, wait, he knows this song! Beat, beat, beat. He knows this song. The words won’t come to him, though. They’re stuck somewhere marshy and buried. Is the table moving? No, no. Vox is moving, only slightly, just the tiniest wobble in his seat. He focusses on holding himself still.Surely they’re nearly done? Vox pulls his eyes from the table to flick quickly over the space opposite - there’s no one sat there, now. Only Alastor sits beside him, and he’s muttering something to the security guard. Vox struggles to hear. He hears the words grown tired, turn the rest away, and that will be all. Are they done? Is Alastor done networking? Vox thinks that must be the case. He doesn’t look at Alastor, though. Not until he feels Alastor’s hand on the edge of his screen; it sends a spark of live-wire heat through him, the effect somewhat sobering.“Oh you poor thing, look at you, so forlorn,” Alastor’s words are a tonic, even if they sting to hear. “How terribly neglectful I’ve been, hmm? Come now, don’t pout, Mr Calloway. The night isn’t over yet.”Vox realises he’s following Alastor, his feet moving. He looks back over his shoulder; when did they leave the booth? Oh, it was moments ago, wasn’t it? He did get up, it just happened, he remembers. He’s so drunk, he could laugh about it, but he won’t. His arms and legs have that fizzing, tingling sensation, aerated muscle, happy to finally be stretched in movement. Where is Alastor taking him? Down, down. Stairs Vox thankfully manages to avoid tripping on, somehow - he follows, breathing hard. Down a shaded, narrow corridor. Through doors. It’s quieter, now; they’re away from the fray. Vox thinks briefly of his college days, always goaded by others to join some party somewhere, dragged by his sleeve. Alastor ushers him into a private room, and blissfully, gloriously, they are completely alone.“There,” Alastor says softly, slipping off his suit jacket. He hangs it on a hook by the door. “You have me all to yourself now, hmm? Isn’t that what you want, Mr Calloway?”Yes, of course it fucking is, Vox thinks. His mouth doesn’t move. Alastor smiles patiently, walking until only a foot of space sits between them. That smile, so knowing - knowing what? What game is this, Vox wonders? Alastor always knows. Vox feels like a fool. Some idiotic, basal part of him, now unsuppressed by alcohol, runs amok in his mind. You want him to kiss you, it says, gleefully; you want to taste the smoke on his lips. The Radio Demon stands with his hands behind his back, waiting. “Well, Vox?”“Yes, sir,” Vox answers finally, the words slurring more than he’d like.“There, that wasn’t so hard, was it? Now,” Alastor pulls a length of something from his pocket - thin leather, longer than a collar. “Hold still, Mr Calloway. This is just a small test. A proof of concept, if you like! Nothing too strenuous tonight.”It’s a leash. Vox’s body is electric, his cock twitching. Oh, God. What should he do? What can he do? Helpless and intoxicated - no, no. He wants this, Vox desperately wants whatever this is, he can’t even put into words how much he wants this, but still, he’s… He’s going to let Alastor down somehow, he feels it, he fears it, he’s not enough, he’s inadequate, a disappointment. Vox has waited all night for something like this to happen, dreaming of it, and now that it’s here, he feels unprepared. Alastor attaches the leash to Vox’s collar with slow, deliberate dexterity. His eyes, flicking up to Vox’s for just a second, their faces close. A grin. Vox is tense. Alastor tests the fastening, giving it a soft pull at the top. Satisfied, he stands back, the end of the leash in his hand. He gives it a tug. Vox, of course, moves, stepping forward. “Oh, look at that,” Alastor purrs. “You’re a natural.”There’s a wide, floor-length mirror against the wall on one side of the room. Vox, swaying slightly, his nerves frazzled, follows Alastor’s guidance towards it. There’s no harsh yanking of the leash involved, only a gentle pull - benevolent, almost. Vox moves until he’s stood directly before the mirror, staring at his own reflection. Alastor stands beside him, the end of the leash twisting in his fingers. “What do you see, Mr Calloway?” Alastor asks lightly. He brushes at Vox’s shirt sleeves casually, fussing like a tailor might. “S’just me,” Vox murmurs.“Come now, we can do better than that,” Alastor laughs, the breath of it against Vox’s neck. “Try harder. Really look, Mr Calloway. Stand up straight now, come on. Have another go. What do you see?”This time, Vox looks harder, through drink-addled, heavy-blinking eyes. He sees himself blushing back, of course; his shirt, his slacks, the suspenders over his shoulders. His tie. The collar, the leash. His screen, his antennae. His glasses. The lines under his eyes. His mouth, parted. Technology and flesh, fabric and elastic, sweat and leather. Alastor’s eyes, gleaming, beside him. A hand on his shoulder. Vox swallows. “I see us, sir,” Vox tries again, hoping this is the right answer. “Well, yes of course you see us,” Alastor rolls his eyes. “But I’m talking about you, Vox. What do you make of the demon in the mirror looking back at you, hmm? What do you see in him?”Alastor gives Vox’s shoulder a small, cajoling shake, something meant as an encouragement. It pushes a nervous giggle from Vox’s chest, and he breaks eye contact with himself in the mirror, abashed. “I… I d-don’t know, sir.”“Alright,” Alastor says, drawing the word out. “Then I’ll tell you what I think, shall I? Let’s see.” Alastor moves his hand carefully, tilting Vox’s head up gently, easing him to look at his reflection once more. “I see a demon who is far more capable than he gives himself credit for. You’re loyal, Mr Calloway, and that goes a long way in a place like this. And despite all your fretting, you’re shaping up quite nicely, aren’t you? Under the right guidance.”Alastor maintains eye contact through the reflection, his hands on Vox’s upper arms with steady grip. He gives Vox a moment to process, clearly enjoying the reaction - Vox’s quivering frame, the slight glitch on his screen. His inability to reply. Alastor is patient. Pleased. Savouring the moment for exactly as long as he likes. His claws dig into Vox’s arms, just enough to feel firm, but not painfully so. Vox stares into the mirror, his thoughts tangled and thick. He hopes for more, so much more, even if he can’t voice it - silent pleading in his eyes, in the sharp inhale of his breath, in the tremor of his hands.With infuriatingly nonchalant ease, Alastor lets go. Warmth disappears from Vox’s arms as Alastor withdraws, the clasp released. Alastor rolls his shoulders, straightening his own tie. Vox waits. He hopes. He’s left wanting. Alastor steps forward again for a moment, only to pluck the leash from where it drapes against Vox’s chest. He unclips it casually, pocketing it without a word. “That will be all for tonight, Mr Calloway.”The words land harshly against Vox’s senses, stirring bitter disappointment. Already? Vox’s hands clench at his sides. This is a final page turned over too soon, and Vox is itchy with unresolved anticipation. He turns away from the mirror to look at actual Alastor, not the reflected version, unable to conceal the frown on his screen. Vox doesn’t need to speak, his expression says it all - what the fuck? Alastor ignores this, already busy putting his suit jacket back on. “I will call for a car to come and collect you, take you home,” he says calmly. Red claws fastening buttons. He glances up at Vox, coolly detached. Business as usual. “You’re dismissed, Mr Calloway. Enjoy your weekend. I shall see you on Monday morning.”Vox is left standing in the room, alone. Devastated.   Perhaps naively, Vox assumes this moment with the leash will prove itself to be a pivotal one, an upgrading shift to some higher state of play awaiting him on Monday morning. A promise - albeit one that feels unfairly agonising - that he need only wait patiently for more of Alastor’s call and reward, and that it will come. Monday reveals itself to be blue, however; a disappointing start to the week. Alastor seems too distracted, too busy and frustrated with urgent work. Vox writes this off as an unlucky start, but Tuesday rolls around without much to offer, either. Alastor is pulling back from their games, and Vox feels it in every empty hour.When the whole week passes by in a depressingly unremarkable crawl, Vox begins to feel some real concern. The weekend that follows, he saturates in his anxiety, ambling around his apartment with an antsy lack of direction, ruminating on what he might have done wrong. It feels like withdrawal, true withdrawal; like nausea in his gut and a tanging sting of need on his skin, on every scar and untouched freckle.What went awry? Vox tries to run an audit on the last few weeks of his life, searching for clues. It had all been going so well, hadn’t it? The routine, the rhythm. Alastor commands, he obeys, they both get something out of it, even if that thing is never mentioned or even fully understood - it was easy, wasn’t it? It was fun. Vox has never felt so free in all his life - so why, why now? Why is Alastor taking it away?If only Vox can provoke Alastor into paying attention again, maybe all will be well. And he tries, he really does - shaping himself into the image of an extra attentive assistant, coffee always ready, reports consistently on time. It’s no use. Alastor is irritable, snippy, dishing out a platter of needling comments instead of praise: stop that fidgeting. This coffee is cold. Stand up straight. Vox can’t help but feel demotivated. This lack of morale feeds into the most unsettled parts of him, making him anxious. His focus starts to slip. He forgets things, makes more typos than usual. A few times he even misses a deadline. For this, Vox expects punishment; he expects Alastor to order him into the main office and scold him, or worse. Even this would be preferable to no attention at all. But Alastor doesn’t seem to even notice. At a loss of what to do, Vox becomes desperate. In the same way that any addict will eventually be driven to extreme measures to scramble for a chance at the high, Vox finds his thirst encouraging a new drive of innovation. He needs to be obvious, he decides - no ambiguity left on the table. Vox must try communicating with Alastor the only way he really knows how.One mid-week afternoon, Vox stands in his usual waiting spot by Alastor’s door. Alastor, as is the case most days now, sits at his desk, his attention swallowed by some high-priority task. He scrolls his laptop, tutting. Glances at paper reports. Makes terse, clipped phone calls. Vox may as well be another of Alastor’s antique vases, that’s how little he’s been acknowledged. In a rare display of disobedience, Vox walks over to Alastor’s desk without any order given. Alastor, only half-paying attention, glances briefly upward. There. Vox has it. Alastor’s interest. He holds it, maintaining eye contact as he moves, slowly, to Alastor’s side behind the desk. There, on the floor beside Alastor, Vox kneels, his hands in his lap. Alastor is intrigued, now. He sets down his pen. Vox feels a surge of determination. He gazes up at Alastor, doeish-eyes begging for something, anything - any kind of play at all.Alastor sighs. “Get up.” Vox doesn’t move. Alastor rolls his eyes, impatient, clearly not in the mood to play games. He taps his foot to the carpeted floor, his claws clenching around the arm of his chair. Vox holds tight.“If you are tired of standing, then you may sit yourself over there,” Alastor says, nodding towards the plush couches in the lounge area. Ignoring this, Vox opens his mouth. Wide. He tilts his head, deliberately, offering Alastor a complete view inside, all the way down his throat. Vox doesn’t quite know what exact impulse pushes him to do this, it just feels right. He even lets his cyan tongue loll out, the tip pointed and tense.Alastor’s attention is certainly caught now. He stares, furious, maddened, heat in his eyes as Vox pants misting breath into the space between them. Alastor looks pained, Vox thinks; desperate to act. Vox wiggles his tongue - an insolent invitation. “No,” Alastor says firmly. Vox closes his mouth, huffing softly. “I thought you liked me like this.”Alastor sighs again, but this time with concession. His expression softens. “I have work to do, Mr Calloway. It can’t all be fun and games, now, can it? Do you really think I got to where I am now by fooling around all the time?”“Please,” Vox whispers. “I n-need… I need…” The sentence trails off, unfinished, but the implication is so obvious that the room reeks with it. Vox needs the game. He needs the push and pull. He needs Alastor to dominate him. Immediately compelled by the sound of Vox begging for the first time, Alastor suddenly sharpens. His eyes fill with a fiery edge of mania, a subtle shift; a killer, relishing the joy of knowing it can corner the prey.“Again.”
“Please.”
Alastor inhales slowly. “You…” he says, finally reaching out to stroke the side of Vox’s screen. “Are very bad for business, do you know that?”Vox shudders, his eyes closing, his inner wiring screaming. Everything within him rejoices. He finally feels complete. Perfect under Alastor’s touch. Blessed rainfall after astringent drought. When Vox opens his eyes to look at Alastor once more, there’s a glassiness there in the Overlord’s expression. Cold, calculated. Delighted. “Open up,” Alastor commands.Fuck yes, Vox thinks, as he parts his lips once more. He opens his mouth, tongue hanging, his breath spilling out in hot, heavy sighs. On instinct, he moves his arms behind his back, holding them there, earning a quick smirk from Alastor. Vox is drunk on euphoria. Gone. Malleable abandon. Alastor’s eyes glaze over, settling on Vox’s open maw.“Nice and wide, please, Mr Calloway,” he mutters, somewhat distant. “Head up.” He slides his chair closer. “That’s right. Now. Keep it all good and relaxed for me, hmm?”Without much warning, Alastor slides two fingers into Vox’s mouth, his claws brushing along the upper side of Vox’s tongue, a slow graze against the surface there. Vox groans, feeling like he might pass out. The sensation of Alastor’s claws stroking against him sends pulses of unavoidable desire leaking into his bloodstream, manifesting as soft whimpers in his throat. Enjoying the delectable torture of it all, Alastor moves his fingers, in, out. Delicate repeated motion. Provocative. Obscene. So clearly mimicking something else that could be there instead that Vox feels dizzy, his cock growing painfully hard, his moans vibrating around Alastor’s hand. Alastor observes this all with half-lidded, satisfied contentment; but just as Vox begins to really salivate, he removes his fingers. Vox whines, his hips giving the slightest buck. Alastor, unaffected, retrieves a handkerchief from his pocket and wipes his hand with meticulous control, signifying the end of play.Vox is struggling, though. His body has now reached a point of pressing arousal so explicit that he certainly can’t hide it, let alone deny it; his erection strains against the fabric of his slacks, so obvious that it’s almost comical. Vox’s face is flushed with want and humiliation. He doesn’t even really know if this is meant to be sexual - is it, to Alastor? Is Alastor even aware of the effect he has?As if to answer his question, Alastor’s eyes flick downward, lingering for a moment on the bulge between Vox’s thighs. He glances back at Vox, grin widening. He knows. They both know. Nothing is said about it. Alastor just smiles.“Now, I really do need to get some work done, unfortunately,” Alastor says, pithily. He pauses for a moment, thoughtful. Considering. Vox is still on his knees. “Mr Calloway, I’d like you to take the rest of the day off. I will find it difficult to focus with you… here. So, I’d like you to take yourself home.”“Sir?”Alastor returns his attention to the work on his desk, but continues. “Now listen closely. When you get home, you’re going to draw yourself a bath. Do you have a bathtub in your apartment, Mr Calloway?”“Y-Yes, but-”“Excellent. Then you’ll do just that, hmm? A nice, long, hot bath. Then I want you to eat something proper for dinner this evening, a decent meal. Then early to bed, do you understand? I will call you at nine, sharp, to ensure you are right where you should be. You will wait for my call. Have I made myself clear?”“Yes, sir.”“Very well. You may go, Mr Calloway. That will be all for today.”With everything still in play and the game now bleeding its way outside the limits of work, Vox is beside himself. At home, he follows Alastor’s instructions to the letter, an unsupervised but dedicated display of perfectionist obedience. He feels guided, somehow, by Alastor, even as he runs the bath entirely alone. In the water, Vox imagines Alastor’s hands running over his wet skin. Red claw tips trailing shapes. Vox’s thoughts are soaked in lust.After, he dries himself off, redressing into comfortable loungewear. As asked, he makes himself a somewhat substantial meal - a can of soup, a grilled cheese sandwich. It’s nothing special, but it suffices. As his evening winds down, Vox can hardly contain his excitement. He practically counts down the hours until he can get into bed, knowing that Alastor’s call awaits him.As Vox slips himself between his bedsheets, he finds them starchy and cool to the touch, but he doesn’t mind. It’s oddly refreshing. Sounds from the city outside drift in. Traffic, mostly. The odd shout or catcall. Distant music pulsing from somewhere. Vox waits. As promised, right as the clock strikes nine, Alastor calls. Hands shaking, Vox answers. “H-Hello?”He can hear Alastor’s wispy draw of cigarette smoke on the other end. “Mr Calloway. How has your evening been?”Vox thinks hard for a moment, his heart pounding. “G-Good,” he finally lands on.“Good?” Alastor repeats, amused. “Are you in bed as I requested?”“Yes, sir.”“Wonderful. How about a little conversation before you sleep, then?”The surreality of the situation suddenly hits Vox. He hasn’t really spoken to Alastor over the phone like this before at all, let alone outside of working hours. Alastor is talking to him while he’s at home. In his bed. It’s too much. Vox takes a second to regain as much composure as he can, putting his phone on speaker so that Alastor’s voice will fill the air around him. He gulps. “S-Sure, what… What do you have in mind, sir?”“How about a game?” Alastor says. “It’s very simple, Mr Calloway. A child’s game, really. Four truths, one lie,” Alastor pauses briefly to take a drag of smoke. “You must tell me five things about yourself, one of them true, the rest a complete lie. And I,” another pause. When Alastor speaks again, Vox can hear his smile. “I will determine which is which.”This feels dangerous, somehow. Vox is shivering slightly against his bedsheets, perspiration tickling the back of his neck. He’s hard, again. “O-Okay,” he says with an unnecessary nod.“Take a moment to think, Mr Calloway,” Alastor offers. “No need to rush.”Through the phone, Vox hears a clink of glass on wood - a tumbler of whiskey, no doubt, Alastor’s go-to late night vice. He’s probably still in the office, staying late. Alone. Vox clears his throat.“Alright, I… I have them.”“Wonderful! Do go on,” Alastor encourages. “Indulge me.”Vox fiddles with a loose thread on his bedsheet. “Five f-facts about me, h-here I go, okay, um…” he glances around his room in slight panic, feeling like an idiot. “I can play the piano,” he lies. “In l-life I considered training to become a priest. I used to get into fights a lot when I was a kid. I actually… hate working with computers. And…” Vox fingers the collar on his throat, swallowing hard. “I’ve never wanted s-something I wasn’t allowed to have.”There’s a pause. Vox worries Alastor either didn’t hear him or is choosing to ignore him, and he can’t decide which is worse - but then Alastor laughs, bright and trill. “You’re a terrible liar, Mr Calloway.”“Am I?”“Oh, simply awful,” Alastor continues. “For starters, considering priesthood? Really? I don’t think so. That one is an obvious lie.” Vox says nothing. “Now, the piano? Mmm. That one I rather like. You’ve certainly got the hands for it. But I think you made that up.”Vox blushes, peeking down at his free hand. He flexes it, turning it, trying to view it through Alastor’s eyes. His claws are trembling. He lets it fall to a limp rest on the bed. “You don’t hate computers,” Alastor carries on. “You find comfort in them, don’t you? The blessed predictability of machines. Now, you might have hated the people you worked with, before, but… You wouldn’t have been so good at what you did if you’d hated it. Another lie, then.”Vox fidgets in his bed, his skin feeling hot and prickling. “Never wanted anything you weren’t allowed to have…” Alastor repeats. “That was your worst lie of all. But we both know that, don’t we…?”Oh, fuck. God. Vox has fucked this up, he was so stupid, to say something so candid and honest and raw in the heat of this ridiculous, worked-up moment - how could he? A chill runs through him, sickly punishment for his foolishness, and his pulse thrashes in his chest. Alastor laughs on the other end. “The fighting,” he says. “That was the truth.”Vox pushes his mind to work. “It… it was.”“Hmm. Shame I never got to see that,” Alastor jokes. “What happened to your fighting spirit, Mr Calloway? Beaten out of you, was it? Took one too many hits?”“S-Something like that.”“A pity. Although, I do like you knowing your place, of course.”There’s a long break. Vox can hear a fight escalating on the streets outside. Glimpses of neon light peek through the gaps of his blinds. Vox doesn’t dare to leave his bed, but if he ducks his head just right, he can catch a slither of red - one of Alastor’s glowing billboards on the skyline. Watching, always. “By the by. Do you still require relief, Mr Calloway?” Alastor asks suddenly. Vox is startled. “Relief, sir?”“Mmm. Earlier. You were quite inconvenienced, weren’t you?”Vox can’t breathe. His hand grips hard around his phone, the other fisting a handful of bedsheet. “Sir, I-”“Oh, oh no, it’s quite alright,” Alastor says lightly. “It’s to be expected. You poor, worked up thing. All my fault, I suppose. Tell me, Vox: have you laid a hand on yourself since becoming my assistant? Answer truthfully.”Holy fuck. This is real. Vox’s arousal throbs between his hips. A shimmer of excitement trickles down his spine, all the way to the base. His cock twitches. “N-No, I haven’t,” he answers. A truth. “My, my! Quite the show of restraint,” Alastor coos. “I’m impressed. And why would that be, hmm?”Drunk on the thrill of it all and his blatant desire, now, Vox decides to be bold. “It’s n-not something I’d do without your permission, s-sir.”He hears Alastor take a deep inhale on the other end, a sharp but slow gasp, as if he needs to steel himself after these words. Vox waits, his heart rate soaring. Has he pleased him? He’s not sure. So this is sexual then? Has it always been? Or is this just another cruel tease? The tension is unbearable. Vox clenches his thighs together, trying to ignore the searing longing building in his abdomen.“Well,” Alastor says finally. “I think that’s something I could grant, this one time, hmm? I wouldn’t want you suffering needlessly. I do believe there’s something about this in your contract, actually… Ensuring all needs are met so you can provide peak performance, that sort of thing.”Vox is trembling, beyond the point of flustered and into the realm of pathetically glitching, his screen flickering. His glasses fall from his face, landing somewhere into the bedsheets below. His erection is now rock hard, demanding attention, but a part of Vox is still worried that he’s misunderstanding - what if Alastor means something else? Surely, surely, he can’t mean what Vox thinks he does? “Stay on the line,” Alastor says calmly. “You’re going to touch yourself to completion, Mr Calloway. Let me hear you while you do it. Do you understand?”It takes Vox several moments to process what’s been asked of him, his mind blanking completely. He’s numb, in total shock, hardly able to believe it but… hungry, too. Itching. Desperate. The moment feels suspended in time. “Y-Yes,” he whispers. Alastor’s approving hum is the final push, the only one Vox needs to hear. Before he can overthink it, Vox fumbles at his waistband with his free hand, still holding his phone in the other. He loosens the tie there, clumsy in his frenzy, rushing it too much, acting on feral, needy instinct. Swallowing the last of his nerves away, Vox fists his cock, gripping hard, groaning immediately. Alastor is completely silent on the other end of the phone, offering no encouragement or praise. Vox doesn’t need it.Weeks of tense anticipation and edging bouts of arousal have brought Vox to this helpless, feverish state, grunting pathetically as he works his fist against himself; this is only going to take a few minutes, if that. He’s needed this for so long. Every command Alastor has given him, every liquid-silk slip of praise, it’s all here now in Vox’s mind, in each stroke he works against his cock. The feeling is already so intense, so blinding. Vox whimpers against the phone receiver, his eyes scrunched shut, his breathing stuttering and ragged. He’s so close already. It almost stings, that’s how sharp it feels - razor-edged pleasure building, creeping closer. If it was Alastor touching him, well… It would all be over by now. This thought sends a fresh wave of desire directly to Vox’s loins, and he gasps, nearly sobs, as he holds himself through it. He knows Alastor can hear him. What does Alastor think of this? What does he make of the pitiable mewls Vox is currently choking out down the phone line, or the slick, repeated slaps of his hand against his swollen cock?  Vox has no patience to draw anything out. This is the urgent, panicked behaviour of a creature who has lost all control, at the mercy of his begging flesh and distant master. He’s going to come, any moment now, it’s right there, right there, rising as his breath hitches, head a rush of signals and static - is Alastor listening? Oh, fuck, he can’t hold on to it even if he tries - Vox is coming, so intensely that he cries out, voice a high-pitched keen, muffled by a mouthful of pillowcase. His cock pulses as he finishes, spilling over his hand, sticky and hot. Sweat clings to each slight curve of Vox’s back, and as he recovers, panting, he feels it cooling against his skin. He’s trembling, still. Muscles still tense. What the fuck has he done? A bizarre mixture of endorphins and anxiety buzzes around in Vox’s head, confusion and clarity merging together. His breathing begins to slow. “Much better now, yes?” Comes Alastor’s voice, low and lilting from the phone speaker. There’s something there in his tone, strained and different. A thinning out of the words; as if he, too, suffers with some edge of desire. “Such pretty sounds you make, Mr Calloway. Most pleasing. I do hope I’ll get to hear those in person, eventually. Something for another time, hmm?”Vox can’t speak. He doesn’t try to. He can only sigh out something that sounds like a handful of half-words, stammering and spineless. “Now,” Alastor says. “You’re going to get yourself all cleaned up. Then I want you to have a good night’s rest. I’ll need you nice and fresh for tomorrow, Mr Calloway, we have a big day ahead of us. Is that understood?”“Y-Yes, sir,” Vox manages, still shaking. “Excellent. Until tomorrow, then. Goodnight, Vox.”With a click, Alastor hangs up. Vox is left lying, curled and bent over in his bed, his sweatpants halfway down to his knees, antennae still twitching. So this is sexual. It has always been sexual. Something for another time - it’s going to continue to be sexual. Vox realises with a giddying surge of shellshocked, spent delight that he is completely, utterly fucked. There’s no escaping any of this now. Not that he’d want to, anyway.   ♦Find me elsewhere:Tumblr  ♦ Twt ♦ Bluesky
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