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redvexillum · 28 days ago

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Chapter 1 - Crackling Silence

A/N: So, you guys voted for bittersweet/cucking Vox in my polls. I will say, I didn't get in as much cuckolding as I would like (wow, not a sentence I thought I would ever write) but, the story sort of took off without my consent. So...🤷‍♀️

SUMMARY: In a world of static and sin, who’s really tuning in? You cuck Vox, your husband, with Alastor.

TAGS/WARNING: f!reader, married to vox, vox does love reader, infidelity, non-sex repulsed alastor, alastor is in hell for a reason, soft alastor, jerk alastor, possessive, no use of y/n, vox tries, reader tries, alastor being alastor

Cold.

Not the kind that bites at your skin or makes you shiver beneath the covers, but the kind that creeps inward, quiet and invisible, until you're numb. Until you can't feel anything but the aching absence of warmth.

You didn’t let it in. You couldn’t. Because the moment you acknowledged that hollowness, you were certain it would swallow you whole. And you wouldn’t survive that.

Not again.

“Vox…” you whispered, curling closer to him in bed, craving connection. Your hand slipped over his chest and drifted up, fingertips brushing the sharp edges of his collar. Slowly, they hovered near the top button, aching to undo it.

But his attention was elsewhere.

Vox lay beside you, propped slightly against the pillows, the glow from his screen-face painting shifting colours across the sheets. His expression wasn’t really there—just a still image of static and a loading icon in the corner. His eyes flicked rapidly as he scrolled, absorbed in whatever latest disaster needed cleaning up.

He didn’t even look at you.

A hand came up lazily to still your fingers. Not harsh, not cold, but detached.

Programmed.

“Not tonight, doll,” he muttered, voice glitching faintly at the edges from exhaustion. With a groan, the screen dimmed slightly as he flicked through the final updates. “Fucking Val turned the club scene into a bloodbath again. PR’s eating me alive.”

He tossed the phone toward the nightstand without care. The screen on his face shifted into a dimmer setting, now displaying the VoxTek logo with a sleep-cycle timer ticking in the corner.

You looked at him, watching the flickering pixels shift in gentle pulses across his face. Occasionally, he gave you that vintage smile—the one he wore when you first met, all charm and 1930s swagger—but not tonight.

Not in years.

It had been fifty years since you reunited here in Hell. A full lifetime, and then some. You’d stood beside him through fire and fame. You had been his before he was this.

“Is there anything I can do to help?” you asked quietly, leaning in, desperate for purpose, for acknowledgment. For a role beyond ornamental.

He didn't respond right away. Just static. Then his screen blinked to a grainy old test card—the kind you used to see when the broadcast ended.

Finally, his voice came soft and practiced: “You just sit pretty, baby.” A chuckle—recorded, reused, hollow. “You’re already doing more than enough.”

Then he powered into standby.

No goodnight kiss. No shared moment. Just the gentle flicker of the logo bouncing across the wall like a ghost.

You lay there stiffly, your hands close to his chest but not quite touching. The synthetic hum from his body filled the silence.

He had work tomorrow. Meetings. Branding. Control.

You had… silence.

Loneliness wasn’t loud. It was this: a life of luxury with no meaning.

He’d given you everything money could touch. But not himself. Not really. And now, lying in bed next to a man with a screen for a face and a heart somewhere buried under circuits and ambition, you realized—

You had never truly left the mortal world.

You had just found a prettier kind of purgatory.

Still, you smiled, mechanically.

You closed your eyes.

You were lucky. You were loved.

You were fine.

After everything, he loved you. He cared for you. That should have been enough. What more could you possibly want than a love like his, steady and unshaken through decades of sin and silence? The chrome wedding ring on your finger glinted under the warm lights of your home, a promise etched in silver. Proof of his devotion. Proof that you belonged to each other.

Your days bled into one another like paint smudged on canvas, soft and indistinguishable, a blur of sameness stretched out across eternity.

And you told yourself it was alright.

You told yourself this peace, this routine, was happiness.

You told yourself you were content.

Until he arrived.

Until your calm was disturbed, your still waters rippled by a crimson figure whose grin didn’t quite reach his eyes. The moment he entered your home, your world turned on its axis, and you didn’t even realize what had shifted until it was too late. Until you found your heart slipping, quietly and traitorously, into someone else’s hands. Not your husband’s.

It all began like any other quiet afternoon. You sat perched on the velvet chaise, a tabloid in hand filled with celebrity gossip you barely skimmed. The headlines screamed scandals and drama from Hell’s elite, but you only half-read, half-cared. The TV murmured in the background as the latest anchors recited tragic news and manufactured outrage. You had your nails buffed to a shine, your hair pinned and curled, your outfit carefully chosen. Everything about you was polished, pristine, perfect. Just the way Vox liked it.

You were doing what he always asked of you.

Sitting pretty.

Then came the sound of the front door unlocking. You stiffened in surprise. He was early. He never came home early. Your heart fluttered, the weight in your chest lifting with unexpected joy. Quickly, you stood, smoothing imaginary wrinkles from your dress and fixing strands of hair that were already in place. You felt a rush of warmth bloom in your chest.

“Honey?” you called, your voice lilting with anticipation, lips pulling into a bright, genuine smile.

Vox smiled in return, arms open in invitation. You stepped forward, eager, quickening your pace. But you stopped short.

There was someone else with him.

You straightened instinctively, composure settling over your frame like a mask. Just as you had been taught. You folded your hands neatly and lowered your lashes with practiced elegance.

“Hello,” you greeted softly, your tone carefully polite.

The stranger behind Vox stood tall in a striking outfit composed of deep reds and faded blacks. His coat had frayed edges, worn with time and travel, and in his gloved hands he held a microphone staff. His hair was a sharp bob, red as dried blood with black-tipped ends, and two small tufts rose from his crown, shaped almost like ears. Black bones curled slightly above his head like little antlers. His grin stretched wide, showing off yellowed teeth, and the single red lens of his monocle glimmered under the chandelier light.

“Why, hello there!” he greeted with a voice unlike anything you’d ever heard. It crackled and echoed, layered with static, like the old radio sets from the living world. His tone was cheerful, but there was something beneath it…something off, something familiar.

“Doll, this is Alastor,” Vox said, resting a hand gently on your shoulder before placing a formal kiss against your cheek. “He’s going to be my new business partner. You’ll be seeing him around more often.”

You nodded, lips curving politely. “I see.”

It didn’t really matter. You were never part of his business world anyway. Partners came and went, most of them names you only learned after they’d made themselves too familiar with your liquor cabinet or your living room furniture. Still, you had asked Vox once to introduce you, just so you wouldn't keep being startled by unannounced guests like Velvette or Valentino dropping in unexpectedly.

Better to know the devil at your door than mistake him for a stranger.

“Now, why don’t you rest up, doll, while I have a word with him,” Vox said with a practiced grin, his hand trailing lightly down your arm, the gesture as gentle as it was distant.

You would rather not rest. That’s all you ever did.

Rest. Wait. Watch.

You longed to stay just a little longer—to be near him, to catch whatever scrap of warmth he still offered. But before you could even open your mouth to protest, another voice interrupted.

“Oh, come now, old pal,” Alastor chimed in cheerfully, his tone dancing on the edge of mockery. “It’s not every day I get to see the Canary in the flesh, haha!”

You blinked—and somehow, he was standing right beside you, his grin wide and sharp. His eyes, red as dried blood, narrowed as the black slit of his pupils thinned and dilated like a predator sighting prey. He stared into you, and something cold and feral coiled deep in your stomach.

The name struck you like a slap.

Canary.

You hadn’t heard that name in decades. Not since…

“Y-you know my stage name?” you asked, your voice barely more than breath, cracking with surprise and disbelief.

“Why, but of course!” Alastor laughed, spinning his cane in a slow flourish. The smooth movement clashed against the creeping unease in the room. “You rose to fame quicker than a bullet in a speakeasy back in our day, didn’t you? A little starlet with lungs made of gold.” He turned to Vox, eyes gleaming. “Right, old chum?”

You saw it then. The flicker. The slight tightening of Vox’s smile, the ghost of irritation flashing behind the glass of his screen.

“Right,” Vox echoed, the word stiff and brittle as ice cracking underfoot.

Alastor tilted his head just slightly, his expression curious, taunting. “I must say, I’m surprised, Vox. I would’ve thought your lovely wife,” his voice purred on the word lovely, while his hand slid along the small of your back—subtle and hidden from your husband’s view, “would be part of your little entertainment empire by now.”

Vox laughed, short and sharp, a sound too pointed to be sincere. “No,” he snapped, his screen dimming for a moment, the glitch almost imperceptible. “She’s… frail.”

The word struck you in the gut.

“Oh?” Alastor cocked his head further, and you winced at the crack of vertebrae echoing like a gunshot. His hand, unnervingly steady, remained on your back. His grip wasn’t firm, yet it lingered—a reminder. A question. A threat.

You should have moved. Should have stepped away. But your legs refused to obey. The air felt too thick, as if you were sinking into tar. You weren’t sure what was happening anymore, only that something in the room had shifted.

The tension curled around you like smoke, choking and invisible.

“The Canary is dead,” Vox hissed, his tone venomous, as if even the name tasted sour on his tongue. He turned his head slowly toward you. “Right, doll?”

Your hands twisted together in your lap, knuckles paling. His meaning was all too clear.

You nodded, quickly, too quickly. “Th-that’s right.” The lie stung as it passed your lips. “I—I retired a long time ago. I wasn’t really that talented to begin with.”

Your smile cracked. It felt glued on. Plastic.

Because if you had been talented—truly talented—you wouldn’t have been an embarrassment. Vox wouldn’t have needed to shield you from the industry, from the spotlight. You wouldn’t have vanished from the headlines as quickly as you appeared.

If you had been more than a novelty… maybe Vox would still want you. Need you. See you.

But you weren’t.

You weren’t enough.

“What a shame,” Alastor murmured, and for a moment, his voice lost its playful lilt. There was something soft beneath it. Almost mournful.

Your shoulders tensed as you dared glance up at him. His red eyes were glowing faintly, pulsing like coals in low firelight.

“I still listen to your debut,” he said, almost in reverence. “The one where you blended jazz with that uptown swing. Haunting, really.”

Your breath caught in your throat.

No one had spoken of your music in years. No one remembered. Not even Vox.

But Alastor had.

There was a beat of silence… then warmth bloomed in your chest, spreading slowly like light through cracks in cold stone. You hadn’t felt it in so long. Not this flutter of being acknowledged. And that feeling? It mortified you.

Your cheeks flushed hot, and you quickly ducked your head, letting your hair fall forward in a curtain to hide your reaction. This wasn’t right. That warmth came from the wrong man’s words, spoken while your husband stood only steps away.

Vox snorted, the glow on his screen face flickering with humour. “Please,” he scoffed, “the future is now. Everyone knows EDM and trap music dominate the scene.”

Alastor tilted his head, unconcerned, and replied in a tone as light as air. “You do enjoy your little mechanical contraptions, don’t you?”

“Of course I do,” Vox said, puffing up with his usual showmanship. His voice grew louder, filled with that signature Vox-brand flair. “It’s the future! And now that you’re on my team, we’ll take over all of Hell, mark my words!”

You drifted out of the conversation like a balloon loosed from its string. You no longer felt present. That lingering hand on your back—Alastor’s—felt too intimate, too foreign. Quietly, you shifted away, the movement small, barely perceptible.

Your fingers wrung together as you searched for something, anything to say. “C-could I get you both something to drink? Tea, perhaps?”

“Coffee would be lovely, dear,” Alastor responded immediately, his tone syrupy and polite.

“Coffee for me too, baby,” Vox added, his screen flashing with a soft pink hue. “And those cookies you baked the other day? They were delicious.”

Your heart leapt. “Y-you tried them?” you asked, voice lifting with pure delight.

“Of course,” he replied smoothly. “Anything you make is the most delicious.”

A smile burst across your face, warm and genuine. “I’ll get them right away!”

You hurried to the kitchen, joy bubbling inside you. You were never a natural in the kitchen—Vox knew that—but you had worked so hard to learn. For him. You’d married him when you were alive, yet fate had robbed you of the chance to live as his perfect wife. So now, in this eternal second chance, you wanted to give him the life he deserved. To be his soft place to land. To make his burdens easier.

You poured the water into the kettle, the soft sound of it filling the silence. The scent of roasted beans hung in the air as you reached for the coffee grounds, heart still dancing with joy… until a soft crackle stopped you.

The unmistakable sound of static.

You turned around, instinctively clutching the edge of the counter. Alastor stood in the doorway, one foot already inside the kitchen.

A shiver crawled along your spine.

Still, you smiled—pleasant, practiced. “Hello… may I help you?”

Alastor strode inside like he owned the room. His fingers trailed lazily across the counter, collecting invisible dust. He glanced at his fingertip, then turned toward you, closing the space between you both until barely an inch remained.

“I thought I could lend a hand,” he said, his voice a murmur of mock innocence. “Old Voxy sounds a little… busy, doesn’t he?”

Even from the kitchen, you could hear Vox’s voice carrying from the other room, sharp and strained with frustration. Probably another call with Valentino. He always left Vox in a sour mood.

“There’s no need,” you said gently, your smile holding despite the unease growing in your stomach. “Please, make yourself comfortable.”

“I’m more than comfortable right here,” he said brightly. His tone was cheerful, but there was something off about it, like laughter hiding a snarl.

He stepped just a hair closer. You could feel the heat radiating off him, the subtle static in the air that followed him like smoke.

“I meant what I said earlier,” he murmured. “It’s not every day I get to see the Canary in the flesh.”

His grin stretched wide. Wider than it should. The edges of his lips pulled far, slicing through his cheeks with that too-sharp smile.

Your breath hitched. Somewhere deep in your chest, something began to unravel.

“W-were you a fan?” you asked, voice hesitant and low, like a bird afraid to sing in the presence of something much larger. You hadn’t spoken to anyone new in what felt like an eternity. It was always just you and Vox. Always just the two of you, in this delicate little world he made.

Alastor’s smile didn’t falter. “Something like that.”

That was all he offered.

No elaboration. No smile lines around his eyes. Just that vague, open-ended nothing. The kind of answer that left too much space for your thoughts to wander. You turned away quickly, grateful for the small whistle of the kettle signalling it was done. You reached for the mugs, ready to distract yourself with the familiar motions of service.

But before your fingers could even brush the handle, there was a sharp snap.

In a blink, a full tray—coffee, cream, sugar, and your painstakingly baked cookies—appeared on the counter beside you as if it had been there the entire time.

“Oh,” you breathed, taken aback. “Thank you…”

You reached out instinctively, but your hand froze midair as Alastor smoothly took the tray for himself. His movement was graceful, almost too effortless, like this moment had been rehearsed a hundred times before.

Your hand lingered awkwardly in the air before you folded it tightly into the other and tucked them both in your lap, suddenly very aware of how small you felt.

Alastor looked at you with a strange, amused softness. “Now that I’m your husband’s business partner, it seems we’ll be seeing more of each other.”

His voice had changed—lighter, yet still somehow heavy, as though each word carried something hidden beneath its lilt. He tilted his head, red eyes gleaming.

“I look forward to getting to know you more…” he paused, the grin never fading, “intimately.”

Your heart thudded in your chest. You opened your mouth, but no words came. You weren’t sure if you were being teased, threatened, or merely played with like a cat flicking its paw over a dying insect.

“Oh—yes, likewise,” you managed to say, unsure if it even made sense.

Alastor’s gaze lingered on you, stretching the moment until the silence itself started to feel sharp.

“I do hope,” he said slowly, “that this time, our time together won’t be cut too short.”

Then he turned and walked away, tray in hand, whistling a haunting tune you couldn’t quite place.

The sound of it wrapped around you like smoke.

And just before he reached the doorway, he stopped.

His back still to you, he said with eerie calm, “You remember, don’t you?”

He didn’t wait for your answer.

He just left you standing in the kitchen, surrounded by the scent of coffee and a memory you had once long tucked away.

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