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Alastor accepted the partnership with Vincent the way one accepts a particularly witty challenge. A whim. A curiosity. A social experiment, he would say, wearing that smile far too sharp to be honest.
Rosie had vanished off the radar and was ignoring him. He was living a false freedom that turned out to be a bit tedious, to his ungrateful surprise, with little progress in events. He already had plenty of power, and his name was feared enough. He didn’t know exactly what else to do to gain more. He was, as writers would say on their bad days, suffering from a massive creative block. Life was stagnant at that moment.
So, on yet another drunken night with Vincent, the small Overlord project dared to covet things far too big for his gray little tube-shaped head. Alastor found it amusing, and even noted the nervousness and anxiety in Vincent’s voice. The boy had always been a little too energetic and cheerful around him, like a puppy, but that night Vincent seemed to have forgotten he was a golden retriever and instead acted like a trembling pinscher inside a rich lady’s handbag.
He knew the boy’s potential. He just didn’t understand why Vincent wanted to do this alongside Alastor. Where was the glory in needing someone else to become what you wanted? Alastor had conquered everything the hard way—just himself and his fierce determination. When he first met Vincent, he thought the man would be the same, carving out his space and forging his own path. It was a bit disappointing to realize Vincent wanted help—the easier road.
But after laughing enough and seeing the glint of distress and anguish in the electricity demon’s eyes, Alastor ignored his rigid moral code and decided to make a bet with himself. Fine. Let’s see how far Vincent can go with this childish, idealized idea of partnership. He could very well kill some of his boredom by watching a young Overlord try to become something bigger than his own stupid TV-shaped head.
Either way, he would simply make Vincent do all the work while pretending to be around as a great partner, even if he was really just watching his private show.
Satan, he really must have been very bored to think this was a good idea.
But to hell with it. Alastor accepted, with the lightness of someone picking out a new toy at the mall. Nothing serious. Nothing emotional. Even though Vincent seemed to react with such ecstasy that he downed his drink in a single gulp and pulled Alastor into his arms.
“Thank you,” he had said, his warm breath making Alastor’s head spin just a little. He didn’t even manage to push the young Overlord away.
A strategic coexistence. Fun. Full of small cold wars and elegant victories. Vincent had the gleam of someone no longer living in the present; he had wandered off to marvel at the future, drinking every glass with a wider, more excited smile, while Alastor thought about what he could do in the meantime to entertain himself at the expense of his new little project.
—
Sharing space with Vox, observing his habits, measuring how far the Lord of Screens’ ego went… discovering his weaknesses, teaching him that one should trust no one in Hell if they don’t want to lose everything—each of those things sounded like guaranteed entertainment. The kind of distraction that made time pass faster in Hell.
The problem was that time passed far too fast.
Before Alastor realized it, sixty years had gone by. He thought it would be temporary, a passing pastime. But the years in Hell were fast and hot, and the lines blurred: what had once been a calculated experiment became something else—something dangerous, sticky, inevitably real.
Vincent’s first apartment—now Vox’s—had been small and simple, with furniture acquired little by little and not always matching. The living room blending into the kitchen. Walls full of suspicious marks, maybe a crooked frame or a poster taped up. Uncomfortable, but functional. Now it had been replaced by a penthouse. A spectacle of cold lights, screens always on, the constant hum of technology pulsing like an artificial heart. Alastor said he hated it. Said it often. But he still brought his things and moved in with Vincent. For the partnership, he said. To observe closely.
At first, he watched everything with clinical interest: the screens always on, the way Vox spoke to the world as if he were always being watched, the almost pathological need to be heard. Alastor watched him build every step of his empire of electricity and light. He was growing, becoming truly powerful… but Hell had a peculiar way of diluting certainties.
—
The house was big. Alastor thought one day. Too big. He could see the entire pentagram from the massive glass window in the living room. And Vox had the irritating habit of leaving it. He knew Alastor didn’t like getting too involved with work, meeting new people, or attending meetings soaked in drinks and illicit things, unnecessary touches and too much noise. So Vincent said he would be responsible for securing the right connections—and, of course, more souls. An Overlord was nothing without souls.
Ridiculous, Alastor thought. Gathering souls was an art. It was strategy. A game. Why should he do stupid things like that to gain more power?
Why should he let those people get him drunk, sink into parties drenched in useless excess, or touch whoever just to please them? A false illusion of intimacy over a contract? It irritated Alastor. Vincent didn’t need this. Even if the electricity Overlord always said lightly that things worked this way now, Alastor saw it as a waste of time and a degrading strategy.
—
Vox lived on nights that never ended.
For him, Hell worked better after glasses began to clink, when voices loosened and deals grew less cautious. It was there, between one sip and another, that alliances formed—fragile, shiny, dangerous. Vox navigated that territory like no one else. He drank enough to seem approachable, never enough to lose control. Always impeccable. Always in command.
At first, he left home for meetings and deals, returning only at dawn, the smell of strangers and neon clinging to his suit. Alastor pretended not to care, but every night he waited, drumming his fingers on the couch, an empty glass in hand, his mind buzzing with plans, barbs, and possibilities.
But no, it wasn’t jealousy, he told himself. It was curiosity. Or simple pride that Vox was truly becoming someone powerful.
He only began to notice the truth on nights like that one, when Vox dressed in front of the mirror for a business dinner and Alastor appeared behind him, reflected in the glass—a demon in a suit, eyes too bright, lips too silent.
Alastor didn’t complain when Vox talked about those meetings. He didn’t sneer or mock. He just listened. The smile curved like a note held too long—something that seemed harmless until it started to ache.
“Tonight I’m going out,” Vox said on yet another night, adjusting his tie in front of the mirror. “A few drinks. New, important people. You have no idea.”
Alastor sat on the couch, turning the knob of a radio that wasn’t even on.
“Drinks,” he repeated, distracted. “You drink like you’re breathing.”
“It’s networking.”
“Of course it is.”
The reply came colder than intended. When Vox grabbed his coat, he felt the gaze settle on him like an invisible hand.
“You always come back different, smelling like places that seem dirty even for Hell,” Alastor commented, without looking directly at him. “I prefer when the house recognizes you.”
Vox laughed, a bit awkward.
“You talk like I’m furniture.”
“No.” Alastor lifted his eyes, gleaming. “Furniture isn’t missed.”
The phrase surprised them both. Vox hesitated. Just a second. Long enough for the words to take root in his chest.
That night, Vox went out—but drank less. He came back early. And spent far too long standing in the dark living room, as if waiting for something, or someone. He didn’t know what had made Alastor say that, but he still didn’t understand that little deer, even after more than half a century together.
As weeks passed, nights piled up like layers of dust. Vox kept needing to go out, kept scheduling meetings in tall bars and gilded halls, but Alastor began to interfere with surgical precision.
Never directly.
“You look tired,” he’d say, when Vox already had the key in hand.
“These people always want something from you,” he’d comment, straightening Vox’s tie without being asked.
“You don’t need to drink tonight,” he’d murmur. “Your voice sounds better sober. More trustworthy. And you’re better than all of them—you don’t need to stoop to win the game.”
Always words. Just words. But placed at the exact moment Vox began to wonder if it was worth leaving.
Then he grew more insistent.
“I’m going out,” Vox announced casually, grabbing his keys.
Alastor, who had been pretending complete disinterest while flipping through a random book, lifted his gaze. The change was far too subtle to be coincidence.
“Oh?” he hummed. “Already? But the night is so rainy—who would want to go out in the cold and storm?”
“It’s work, Al. You know that.”
Alastor closed the book with a soft snap and stood. He walked toward Vox with slow, calculated steps, the sharp smile giving way to something sweeter. Almost irritating.
“Work, of course…” he murmured, stepping too close. “And here I was thinking we could go upstairs and enjoy the rain, do that movie marathon you like. But it’s fine—it looks like it’ll just be me tonight.”
Vox felt his internal system fail for a microsecond.
Alastor tilted his head, eyes shining with false innocence, fingers lightly brushing the lapel of Vox’s jacket as if fixing something that was already perfect.
“Don’t be long,” he said, his voice too low to be just a joke, too close. “The house gets… quiet when you’re not here.”
That was where Vox lost the battle. Because Alastor never said don’t go. He didn’t demand. He didn’t complain. He just stood too close, spoke too softly, looked at Vox as if he were the only thing worth attention in all of Hell.
Vox glanced from the mirror to him, his expression hardening in a futile attempt at resistance.
“Are you playing those mind games with me?” he teased.
Alastor laughed, short and melodic.
“What an absurd idea.” His fingers lingered a moment longer before pulling away. “I just… prefer it when you’re here. With me.”
The silence that followed was heavy. The keys never reached the door.
—
Vox descended the penthouse steps while reviewing a holographic agenda, speaking to an assistant about investors, influential faces, and promises of power. He was already wearing his coat, the glow of screens reflecting off the fabric.
“I’ll be late,” he said out of habit.
Alastor, leaning against the railing, tilted his head.
“How late?”
“Late enough that you’ll already be asleep?”
“What a tragedy,” Alastor replied, overly dramatic. “Especially tonight.”
Vox stopped.
“Tonight?”
Alastor walked toward him with unhurried steps, the smile far too gentle to be mere teasing.
“Tonight I was thinking of testing a new kind of magic,” he explained casually. “A new form of soul control I learned from a particularly rare book. But I’ll admit—alone, it loses its charm. It’s not the same without someone to… learn with me.”
He stepped closer, smoothing Vox’s shoulders, adjusting what was already flawless.
“What a shame. I’ll miss my partner.”
Vox hesitated. Checked the agenda. Sighed.
“I can postpone half an hour.”
Alastor smiled like someone winning a game that was far too easy. In the end, Vox postponed for the rest of the week.
—
Vox was getting ready in the bedroom when Alastor appeared behind him, reflected in the mirror like a shadow given too much detail.
“You look elegant,” he commented. “For whom?”
“Partnerships,” Vox replied distractedly.
Alastor stepped closer. Then closer still, until Vox felt heat where there had only been air.
“Do these partnerships usually touch you like this?” he asked casually, arms wrapping around Vox’s back in a warm, soft embrace, his head resting against Vox’s chest as if it were the most natural place in the world.
Vox froze. Alastor rarely initiated physical contact; it was impossible to imagine him acting like this.
“Al—”
“Hm?” Alastor didn’t pull away. On the contrary, he drew him closer, his firm, confident palm sliding up Vincent’s chest. “Am I interrupting?”
Vox opened his mouth to answer.
Couldn’t.
The touch wasn’t urgent. It wasn’t aggressive. It was deliberately slow, as if Alastor were simply reminding Vox of something.
“You can go later, if you want,” he murmured. “Just… stay a little. This house is so big and empty without you.”
Vox swallowed and stayed.
—
They fell into a rhythm—a back and forth, a tangle of needs and games. Vox understood there was something different about Alastor, that his behavior bordered on possessiveness. Alastor was never direct, never obvious.
But it was in the way he brushed imaginary dust from Vox’s jacket, in the tone of his voice when he said “You’re better here, with me,” in the way he laced his fingers with Vox’s as if it were the most natural gesture in the world. Or when he looked at him with that lonely, melancholic gaze that broke the electricity demon’s heart.
Vox, powerful and proud as he was, would never be able to say no to that person. Not to those eyes, not to that voice, not to Alastor’s entire body demanding his presence.
—
But the real test came on a night when Vox casually announced he was going out for drinks with Valentino.
Alastor felt the words like a punch to the chest. He didn’t flinch, didn’t scowl, didn’t let a single crack show. But inside, jealousy and rage coiled like venomous snakes, tightening, burning slowly.
“Valentino?” Alastor repeated, his voice perfectly neutral, almost disinterested. “That Valentino? The pimp who owns all the pornography in this damned corner of Hell?”
Vox shrugged, distracted, unaware of the storm forming in Alastor’s eyes.
“He’s interested in my ideas. Wants to talk business. I might be back late.”
“Business,” Alastor echoed, lower now, tasting the strange word. He turned to the bookshelf, running his fingers over meticulously aligned volumes. “Curious… what could a man like that understand about your plans for VoxTek? Or your work? Amazing how people in this place can be… intriguing.”
Behind him, Vox hesitated. Something in Alastor’s posture made the air in the apartment feel thicker.
“Do you mind?”
Alastor smiled—his usual sharp smile—but this time it didn’t reach his eyes.
“Of course not. Why would I mind? You’re free, Vox. Go. Have fun.”
Vincent felt a strange chill run down his spine. He knew that when Alastor called him Vox, nothing good followed.
“I’m not leaving just yet. I still have a few hours.”
“So be it.” Alastor went upstairs without looking at Vox and went to bed.
—
Vox began to get ready, checking his reflection, adjusting his tie, organizing his briefcase. Alastor watched from the corner of his eye, and when he sensed Vox was about to leave, he played his final card.
He crossed the room wearing only a hoodie—one of Vox’s old ones—far too large, skimming his thighs, sleeves covering his hands. His hair was messy, eyes bright, skin still marked by sheets. He looked like someone freshly out of bed—restless, tempting.
He stopped behind Vox, hands settling against his back, slow and deliberate.
“Alastor?” Vox asked, his voice breaking.
“I was cold. My clothes didn’t seem warm enough. I hope you don’t mind.” The tone was almost innocent, but the look in Alastor’s eyes was pure provocation.
“No—of course not—you can wear whatever you want, it’s—yeah, it’s fine…” Vox tried to respond, but his mind had melted. He couldn’t form a full sentence without stumbling, the sight of Alastor’s bare legs, the messy hair, the sleep-heavy gaze destroying his concentration.
“I heard Valentino booked an entire restaurant just for your little meeting… he must be very interested. Maybe you’ll land a big contract tonight.” Alastor said gently, but every syllable tightened around Vox’s throat like a rope.
Vox blinked, thoughts slow.
“Yeah… I guess so.”
Alastor stepped closer, letting Vox’s scent seep into the old hoodie, and whispered, lips almost brushing Vox’s neck:
“Unless…” His voice was velvet and poison. “You’d rather stay. I woke up in the mood for something different today. Thought about opening that wine you save for special occasions. Putting on that old record you love. We could dance like before—just you and me, Vincent. No contracts. Nothing between us.”
Vox froze, cold and hot all at once. His heart raced, and for a second, he forgot how to breathe.
“Or,” Alastor continued, even lower, more intimate, “we could spend the night upstairs, in your enormous bedroom. Just the two of us. Just you and me, Vincent. You understand?”
Vox turned slowly to face him. For a moment, the world vanished. There was only the two of them, electric silence, urgency, unspoken words hanging in the air.
Vox’s fingers didn’t hesitate. They gripped Alastor’s waist, feeling warm skin beneath the hoodie.
“You’re being cruel,” he murmured, voice rough. “Why do you do this? I can’t believe that after all these years you still don’t know… don’t know how I feel.”
Alastor smiled—a lazy, devastating smile.
“Because you think everything is a game. Hell, Vin, what if today I want you to stay with me instead of going with him?” The radio demon’s hands slid over Vincent’s chest. “Everyone seems to want a piece of you—the great new star… why can’t I have a little of the incredible CEO of VoxTek all to myself too?”
Vox hesitated, wondering if he was hallucinating. He looked at the door, the tie, his reflection in the mirror. But Alastor’s gaze was irresistible—a magnet, a trap made of desire and promise. He released the doorknob and pulled Alastor into his arms, their lips nearly touching.
“To hell with Valentino,” he growled softly, surrender in his voice, eyes blazing with want.
Alastor didn’t push him away. And like a beast restrained for more than half a century, Vox cupped the back of Alastor’s neck and kissed him deeply. His hands didn’t know where to start—gripping, pinching, holding Alastor’s face with affection, touching his hair, his soft ears. The wall itself could have melted from the heat and electricity racing through them.
Alastor smiled somewhere between kisses. Yes—Vincent was still that golden retriever who only had eyes for him. No one else could have this man. No one but Alastor.
For a moment, there was only silence, broken by uneven breathing and hurried kisses. The city’s hum felt distant, as if the world had withdrawn to leave space just for them.
At some point, Vox lifted Alastor into his arms and carried him upstairs to the bedroom.
Still wearing Vox’s oversized hoodie, Alastor walked to the bed with slow, almost feline steps. He sat on the edge, bare legs swinging, eyes locked on the man before him. It was impossible to tell who was more at the mercy of their own desire.
Vox hesitated in the doorway, his large frame leaning against the wall, hungry eyes tracing the exposed line of Alastor’s thighs, the messy hair, the parted lips. He wanted to dominate, to claim—but there was something in Alastor’s playful lightness that always disarmed him, kept him on the brink of surrender.
“Come here,” Alastor asked, voice low and full of promise.
Vox obeyed, crossing the room in long, tense strides, eyes fixed on the other’s mouth.
When he was only inches away, Alastor pulled him by the neck, fingers closing firmly, tolerating no distance.
“Tonight, you’re mine, Vincent. Only mine.”
Vox swallowed, his entire body responding.
“I’ve always been yours,” he murmured, one hand sliding to Alastor’s nape, thumb brushing the sensitive skin behind his ear, drawing a soft sigh.
Alastor smiled. Dangerous.
The kiss was voracious—a clash of wills, teeth, tongues, broken breaths. Vox let himself be guided, but not without resistance. His large hands explored, slid down Alastor’s back, gripped, claimed territory. The hoodie rode up, exposing more soft skin, and Vox lost himself in kisses along Alastor’s neck, each bite sending small shocks through him as he watched Alastor shudder beneath his touch.
Alastor, in turn, explored every reaction—the subtle tremor, the muffled moan, the way Vox gasped when provoked. He lay back on the bed, pulling Vox with him, legs locking around his waist, opening himself without shame.
Completely overtaken by desire, Vox gave in to every whim. When Alastor asked for more pressure, deeper, harder—he gave it. When he asked for softness—he obeyed. And every time he saw the satisfied gleam in Alastor’s eyes, possessiveness throbbed. He wanted to leave marks, to hear more sounds, to make sure Alastor never forgot who made him lose control.
Clothes were discarded across the room. Vox’s hands were everywhere—waist, hips, hair—holding Alastor’s face to watch him flush with pleasure. Alastor was pure provocation: scratching, biting, whispering filthy words, praising Vox’s body, asking for more, deeper, harder, slower, more of him.
Every thrust was a jolt of electricity racing through Vox’s body. And he was becoming addicted.
At the peak, their breathing was ragged, bodies pressed together, sweat mingling. Vox whispered Alastor’s name like a prayer, holding him so tightly it felt like he wanted to fuse them. Alastor moaned, voice hoarse with pleasure, legs locked around Vox’s hips, completely given—but his gaze was that of someone in control, someone who knew he held the other in his hands.
When pleasure finally exploded between them, time seemed to stop. For a moment, there was no past or future—only the certainty that they belonged to each other, wild, possessive, vulnerable.
Vox stayed there, holding Alastor, face buried in the radio demon’s neck, breathing deeply as if he wanted to keep that moment forever. Alastor traced his chest, chuckling softly, satisfied with the devastating effect he had on the man.
“See, Vincent?” he whispered, eyes shining. “You always give in. Always. Because deep down, you know—there’s no one but me.”
Just as there’s no one but you for me, he thought.
That moment was theirs alone. Exactly as Alastor wanted.
Vox stopped going out at night. He didn’t call Valentino. He remembered nothing but the warmth, the scent, and the taste of Alastor—and finally understood that Alastor was capable of bringing even one of Hell’s most powerful men to his knees with nothing but the sound of his voice and the weight of his desire.