#Vox Auxiliary

[hellscythearts]

Bandalores and Holograms

Artfight for @rockwell-light and @vinnybox

[saintsylestine]

Pit-Born

Angron x Unamed Person (2nd person POV)

Authors note: Angron/World Eaters ≡ New Hyperfixation. This was kind of a "character warm-up". I wrote a 3rd person perspective too (〃ω〃) will probably post it on here or on AO3...

Chapter 1: Old Blood

It started the same way it always did — with screaming and metal.

The forge-pit echoed like a tomb full of dying engines. Down here, sound didn't travel clean — it rattled, bounced, came back wrong. You could hear a chain whip crack a hundred meters away and still not see who screamed.

You didn't look anyway.

That was Rule One: Don't look. Don't listen. Don't care.

You shoved another data-slate into the auto-filer, its screen cracked, half the glyphs glitching. It smelled like promethium and charred bone.

Not the worst thing you’d filed this week.

The Overseer's boots scraped overhead — heavy, servo-reinforced. You tensed on instinct. Not because he always hit people.

Because sometimes he didn’t.

And that was worse.

You could still feel last week’s bruise where he’d leaned in real close and whispered, “Got a sharp tongue on you, scribe. We'll see how long it stays attached.”

You hadn’t flinched.

You just smiled, right in his rebreathered face, and said, “With respect, Overseer, I’m the only one here who can read the requisitions. Unless you’d like another thousand barrels of corpse starch instead of ammo.”

That had earned you a full day scrubbing latrines.

Still worth it.

---

Your cot — if it could be called that — was a sheet of rebar strung between two rusted wall-beams, up in the tech-shed above the arena. The pit was always visible. Always audible. The noise of violence was your lullaby.

You'd long since stopped waking up at the sound of bone breaking.

You'd been born on a ship like this — or maybe it was a hive, or a mining rig. Honestly, it didn’t matter. They all smelled the same. Sweat. Shit. Cheap oil. Despair.

You had no family. Just bruises with dates on them and the memory of learning to dodge a fist before you could read.

Your first language was Low Gothic, spoken through cracked teeth.

Your second was silence.

Your third — learned in the shadows, in whispers — was High Gothic.

You memorized texts like other kids memorized the sound of their mother’s laugh.

You didn’t have one of those.

But you had a perfect copy of the Imperial Hymn etched into your skull, and you could translate six dialects of tribal war-speak from memory.

That made you useful.

And in this place, useful was the closest thing to safe.

---

You were hunched over a dataslate when the click-hiss of metal toes on steel drew close.

You didn’t look up.

Most people looked when Astartes entered a room.

You’d learned early that looking just made it easier for them to decide where to hit you.

The voice that followed was dry. Precise.

A vox-filtered growl wrapped in High Gothic.

"Subject Delta-9-Zeta. Report."

That was you.

Not your name, of course. You didn’t have a name — just a tag on your dataslates and a serial number on your file.

You didn’t stand.

Just looked up slowly, let your gaze drag over the towering figure in red and brass plate. He wasn’t a full Astartes — not anymore. An old veteran, maybe. One eye augmetic, one hand missing.

More administrator than killer now.

That made him almost tolerable.

"Yes?" you said, dry as reprocessed rations.

"Your assignment has changed," he said, ignoring your tone.

Your heart ticked faster — just once.

Reassignment was never good.

"You’re being deployed with the XII Aggression Fleet. Oversector Caduceus."

Your stomach twisted. That was Eater territory.

"Interpreter-class auxiliary," he went on. "You’ll serve under Primarch command."

Silence.

You blinked.

Then blinked again.

"I’m sorry," you said, voice flat. "I thought you said Primarch command. I must’ve inhaled too much ceramite dust. Would you mind repeating that?"

He didn’t.

He just handed you a slate with the orders stamped in blood-red ink.

You read it once.

Twice.

Then let out a low, bitter snort.

"So what was it, then?" you muttered. "Did I piss off someone important? File the wrong report? Fuck the wrong officer?"

"Your reassignment is classified," he said. "Report to Dock H in one hour. You will be armed with a Rosette, an auto-transcriber, and a field lexicon. May the Emperor protect."

He turned and left before you could ask what language the Eaters even spoke.

---

You sat there for a long moment, staring at nothing, the data-slate still clutched in your hands.

You felt nothing.

Or maybe everything, just compressed into a needlepoint of white static.

You’d survived pits. Overseers. Starving.

You’d survived Astartes who treated mortals like flies.

You’d survived by being small, useful, and forgettable.

And now they were throwing you to him.

Angron.

The Butcher.

The Warhound.

The broken thing the Emperor couldn’t fix.

You laughed.

Just once.

Short and sharp and not very sane.

"Fuck me sideways," you muttered, dragging your hands down your face. "Guess it’s a good day to die."

You stood, grabbed your satchel, and walked toward the last job you’d ever take.

---

There was dust in the air, curling like smoke, even though nothing was on fire.

Not yet.

The forge-hold always looked like it was dying, but it never did. It just sagged. Creaked. Bled from its vents like an old animal too stubborn to fall over.

You walked slow, hands in your coat pockets, head down just enough to avoid notice — but not enough to look weak.

The air was thick with machine oil and ash. Someone was getting beaten two corridors over. You could hear the crack of a fist. The small, wet grunt of impact. The quickening rhythm. Then silence.

You didn’t flinch.

You didn’t even turn your head.

That was just Tuesday.

---

You passed the med-station loading vent — the one that smelled like shit and boiled antiseptic — and nearly missed him.

Small thing.

Pit boy.

Maybe twelve? Maybe less. Hard to say, when hunger took years off your face and added ten more to your eyes.

He was crouched under a rusted console unit, shirt drawn tight to his ribs like it could keep his bones from falling out. His mouth was open a little — not begging. Just breathing wrong.

You walked past.

Then, without looking, reached into your coat and palmed two protein tabs from your stash.

Nothing fancy. Just dry, chalky, corpse-reclaimed synth meat. The kind that kept your stomach from eating itself.

You dropped them by his foot as you passed.

Didn’t stop.

Didn’t look.

Didn’t say a fucking word.

He wouldn’t either.

Not here. Not if he wanted to keep them.

But as you turned the corner, you felt it —

that burning little spot between your shoulder blades, where his eyes were pressed like a brand.

You told yourself it was nothing.

That he'd sell them.

That he'd die soon anyway.

You didn’t stop walking.

But your jaw was tight when you reached the lift.

---

The locker room was empty when you slipped in.

Good. You hated witnesses. Especially the quiet ones.

The overhead light flickered, casting sharp silver across rows of dented lockers, a cracked tile floor, and your rust-stained cot wedged up in the corner where the wall never quite stopped leaking.

You didn’t sit.

You just pulled your coat off and hung it on the dented hook that barely held weight.

Your fingers worked on instinct — removing your worn gloves, checking your satchel’s seals, running diagnostics on your auto-slate.

Busy hands made a quieter mind.

But it crept in anyway — the thought you’d been avoiding all day:

You were leaving.

Soon.

For the XII Aggression Fleet.

For him.

The Butcher.

You exhaled through your nose. Rolled your eyes at nothing.

Then you moved toward the locker.

The back one. The one no one else touched.

It took a kick to open.

You liked that about it.

Inside:

One clean dataslate

A bent stylus

Half a rag stuffed with inksticks

A folded rag you sometimes used as a pillow

A shard of mirror, metal-backed, scavenged from an old downed servitor casing

You pulled it out and turned it in your fingers.

It still had a little rust at the edges.

Still smelled faintly of oil.

You raised it.

Looked.

Your reflection was...

Fine.

You looked fine.

Sharp face. Straight mouth. Dark-ringed eyes. Scar across the bridge of your nose where someone had slammed your head into a filing desk last year.

You didn’t remember what for.

You didn’t wince.

You adjusted your sleeves.

The red thread peeked out — fraying, thin, wound twice around your left wrist.

Not a bracelet. Not anything.

Just… there.

You didn’t remember where it started.

You’d replaced it years ago, probably.

But it was the same color. Always that color.

And it stayed.

But your eyes drifted — just a little — to the hollow under your collarbone, where the skin still bore the ghost of a branding scar.

They’d burned the designation into you at seven.

Later, they reassigned you. Gave you the Rosette.

They never scrubbed the mark.

You ran your fingers over it, once.

Then opened your satchel and pulled out the chain.

The Rosette gleamed, faintly. Cold.

You slipped it over your head and let it settle against your chest like a second spine.

Interpreter.

Liaison.

Disposal.

You smiled at yourself — a tired, crooked thing.

"Dead girl walking," you murmured.

The mirror didn’t argue.

--

The walk to Dock H felt longer than usual.

You told yourself it was the weight of the satchel. The ache in your calves. The extra rations you slipped into the locker for the kid — even though you knew he’d be robbed by nightfall.

It wasn’t the fear.

You didn’t do fear.

Not anymore.

Just… managed expectations.

The corridors stretched on, pipe-lined and blistered with rust. The scent of blood and reek-oil clung to everything. The walls sweated moisture that wasn’t water.

You passed two tech-priests arguing in Binaric over a servitor with a bent spinal frame.

You nodded. They didn’t nod back.

Good.

It meant you were still invisible.

---

Until you weren’t.

The World Eaters came around the corner like a pressure wave.

There were four of them — no escort, no fanfare. Just blood-steam and footfalls that shook the grating under your boots.

They didn’t march.

They stalked.

Armor painted in drying gore. Symbols carved into shoulder plates. Chainaxes clipped at their hips like talismans. Helmets off. One dragged a flayed corpse behind him, trailing blood like a bridal train.

You moved to the wall automatically — you weren’t suicidal — but you didn’t shrink.

Not anymore.

Just… still.

Small.

A shadow in the oil-smoke.

And then one of them looked at you.

Long, slow.

His head tilted, like a predator seeing a noise, not prey.

His face was war-scarred, with ritual cuts down both cheeks, teeth filed into points.

He didn’t snarl.

He smiled.

Just like he was already imagining how you’d look when you stopped breathing.

It was worse than a snarl.

The one behind him said something low — in a dialect you almost recognized. It sounded like Low Gothic, if Low Gothic had been spoken underwater by a dying god.

You caught a single word:

“Pretty.”

Your jaw locked.

You didn’t blink.

The third one — older, scarred across the throat, with a chainaxe in one hand and a ribcage strapped to his back like a trophy — let out a low chuckle.

It rattled your bones.

None of them stopped.

They passed like smoke through flame — too big, too loud, too close.

And when they were gone —

when their scent still burned in your nostrils like hot metal —

you realized your hands were fists.

Your pulse throbbed in your ears.

Your throat was dry.

And your left hand was pressed to your wrist.

To the thread.

Still there.

Still tight.

You released it.

And breathed.

Once.

---

The dock loomed.

Metal towers stretched overhead like broken ribs, lights flickering red in the fog. Servitors clanked in dull circles, unloading crate after crate of munitions, medicae supplies, and human bodies wrapped in tagged cloth.

No one greeted you.

A grox-skinned quartermaster waved you toward a loading bay with a metal stylus like he was swatting a bug.

You stepped into the hangar’s belly.

And froze.

The ship squatted on the far platform like a beast half-woken from hibernation.

Brass-plated. Bladed. Covered in kill-scars.

The hull was decorated in chains. Bodies. Rusted prayer plates hanging like teeth.

Red banners snapped in the oil-wind, each one stamped with a single glyph:

XII. AGGRESSION.

And there, carved deep into the prow —

etched like a curse into the bone-metal surface —

THE WARHOUND.

You felt your stomach curl.

Your knees didn’t buckle.

But they wanted to.

You adjusted your satchel.

Pulled your coat tighter.

The chain around your neck was cold.

The thread at your wrist, warm.

You took a step forward.

And the doors swallowed you whole.

---

The air inside the Warhound was colder than you expected.

Not freezing — just sharp.

Sterile.

Like someone had cleaned it, but only after too much had already rotted inside.

The ramp sealed behind you with a hiss and a hydraulic moan, drowning out the dock’s chaos.

You stood there a moment, letting your eyes adjust, heart pounding too close to your throat.

No welcome party.

Just the groan of metal bones and the sound of your own breathing.

---

The first corridor was long, narrow, barely lit — a transport vein designed for bulk cargo and soldiers too massive to care about human comfort.

You walked it like a ghost.

Boots too light. Shadow too small.

The walls were not quiet.

You could hear them.

Something. Someone. Screaming.

Deep down in the ship’s gut.

Not pain.

Pleasure.

Or whatever passed for it here.

Metal screamed too — engine parts groaning in their sockets, servitors shuffling, plasma lines weeping gas like breath.

You passed a hanging banner — black leather, red ink, stamped with the sigil of the World Eaters.

A single glyph burned into the surface beneath it, carved with a blade instead of inked:

OBEY.

You didn’t stop walking.

But your pace slowed.

---

They didn’t bother showing you to your quarters.

Just dumped coordinates into your slate.

Barracks wing. Deck 7C. Assigned scribe’s cell.

You found it after two wrong turns and one narrow hallway lined with skulls that might not have all been decorative.

The door didn’t open until you swiped your Rosette — and even then, it groaned like it hated the idea of letting you inside.

You stepped into a box of cold steel.

No bunk.

No blankets.

No personal effects.

Just a hard floor, one wall-plate for filing, and a single fixture: a half-broken shrine to the Emperor of Mankind, blackened by smoke.

You looked at it.

Didn’t kneel.

Just stood in the center of the room, flexing your hands.

The floor still smelled like blood.

---

They fed you twice over the next two days.

You didn’t sleep the first night.

Too cold. Too loud. Too full of footsteps you didn’t want to track.

No one spoke to you.

Except one of the ship-serfs, a half-bent wretch with broken fingers who shoved a tray toward you and muttered:

"Don’t look anyone in the eyes, not even the humans. And if he calls for you — don’t run. Just go."

You didn’t ask who he was.

You already knew.

---

On the third day, the vox pinged.

It wasn’t a request.

Just three words:

REPORT TO PRIMARCH.

You stared at the screen.

Then glanced at the door.

Your hand almost lifted — a half-reflex — but didn’t reach for anything.

Instead, you exhaled.

Flexed your fingers.

Rolled your neck until something cracked.

No ritual this time.

No satchel clutching.

No thread-check.

Just you.

And the sound of your own breath.

Then turned toward the upper decks —

and walked straight into the jaws of the Butcher.

---

You expected a throne.

You weren’t sure why.

Some leftover delusion, maybe. Some half-remembered pict of how a Primarch should sit — tall, clean, golden light behind him, banners fluttering.

What you got instead?

Chains.

Dozens of them.

Massive iron lengths suspended from the ceiling like a meat hook cathedral, half-rusted and rattling with every engine groan.

And in the center — seated on nothing, slouched against a pillar of blackened steel —

Angron.

No armor.

Just blood-washed skin and scars that didn’t look like they’d healed so much as calcified into the bone.

He wore a shorn-off crimson wrap around his waist, a torn pelt thrown over one shoulder like a trophy.

The Butcher’s Nails gleamed in his skull, still hot — you could smell the metal.

Smoke curled from where some of them met bone.

He didn’t move when the guards ushered you in.

He didn’t even look.

You had the brief, surreal thought that they might have brought you to the wrong place.

Then he breathed.

And the chains shifted.

---

You didn’t bow.

You didn’t salute.

You just stood there, coat grimy, Rosette heavy on your chest, arms at your sides like you were bracing to be hit.

Not for show.

Out of habit.

You weren’t afraid of dying.

Not in the normal way.

You’d seen death.

Served it coffee. Filed its reports.

What scared you was what was behind those eyes — the not-rightness, the way he looked like a man who had once had a name, a face, a soul — and someone had taken all of it and left the shell walking.

You knew that feeling.

That was the problem.

---

After too long, he looked at you.

The weight of it landed like a slab of stone between your lungs.

Not heat — not rage — not at first.

Just pressure.

Like the whole ship was holding its breath to see if you’d break.

His eyes were red.

Not glowing.

Just… raw.

Like something had been scraped out of him that was never supposed to grow back.

“Interpreter,” he said, voice low and rough, like every word he spoke clawed its way up from somewhere unwilling.

You didn’t answer immediately.

Not to challenge.

Just to remind yourself you still could.

Then:

“Sir.”

The word tasted wrong in your mouth.

---

He pushed off the pillar with a sound like a mountain shifting —

his weight slamming down into the metal with a shudder that echoed through the chains.

He didn’t walk toward you.

He didn’t have to.

He just stood there. Massive. Half-naked. Covered in old warpaint and fresh, flaking blood.

“You spoke to me,” he said.

Not a question.

“Yes.”

“You mocked me.”

You almost smiled.

“Yes.”

A sound broke in his chest.

Not a growl.

Laughter, maybe.

Ugly. Unused.

“And yet you live.”

You tilted your head.

"Not for lack of trying. Sir."

A beat.

No reaction.

Then —

a step.

Just one.

And it was too much.

Your back straightened. Muscles tensed. You didn’t move. But every instinct screamed animal. Run. Kneel. Disappear.

He stopped inches in front of you.

Looking down.

Heat coming off his skin like a forge.

Scars close enough to count.

He didn’t touch you.

Didn’t lean in.

Didn’t snarl.

He just looked.

And you felt it.

The way his eyes moved — not lazy, not leering — but scanning.

Like reading a battlefield.

Or an old map he used to know by heart.

Your face first.

The scar across your nose —

A rough line where bone had nearly split skin.

Then your neck.

The spot where your coat gaped open just slightly — not salacious, just exposed —

where the edge of your brand still flared faint and red under pale skin.

He saw it.

You knew he did.

You didn’t flinch.

Then your arms —

the sleeves too light, the shadows too obvious.

Old lash lines. Scar tissue where skin had tried to grow back wrong.

And something behind his eyes… shifted. Just slightly.

Not pity.

Not even interest.

Just that silent filing you recognized from men who used to bet on pit fighters.

What hurt.

What healed.

What didn't.

You wanted to say something.

To break it.

But what would you say?

Yes, I survived.

No, it didn’t make me stronger.

Just meaner.

So you said nothing.

And neither did he.

Only—

you watched him watch you.

And knew:

He’d seen more in those ten seconds than most men would in ten years.

And the worst part?

He didn’t look away.

His gaze traveled lower. And landed.

At your wrist.

Just a flick of his eyes.

Not long enough to be certain.

But you felt it.

Like something being filed away.

---

“Why are you here,” he said, voice quieter now.

Not soft. Just... less full of war.

You blinked.

You weren’t sure if it was a real question.

Or if he even knew what it meant.

You gave the only answer that mattered.

“Because someone wants me to die. And they thought you'd be efficient.”

Another pause.

The heat of him didn’t lessen.

But he didn’t move.

“They were wrong,” he said.

You looked up — full into his ruined face, into eyes that had seen more betrayal than the galaxy had names for.

“Why?” you asked.

His mouth moved. Slowly.

Like a man tasting language for the first time.

“Because I haven’t decided yet.”

….

You didn’t say anything after that.

What would’ve been the point?

The god had spoken.

Not judgment.

Not mercy.

Just delay.

And somehow, that was worse.

—

The guards didn't come to collect you.

No vox chirped in your ear.

No voice told you to leave.

But something in the chamber changed.

The air thinned.

The chains went still.

The pressure lifted—not gone, just... redirected.

Like the Warhound had already moved on.

Or begun listening to the next thing.

So you walked.

—

The doors didn’t creak or hiss.

They just opened.

You stepped into the corridor with your hands still at your sides.

Your jaw locked so tight it ached.

Your mouth dry with the aftertaste of blood and something older.

You weren’t sure if you’d been dismissed.

Or released.

You walked.

Slow. Deliberate.

Not because you needed to.

But because anything faster would feel like running.

And you didn’t run.

—

The halls of the Warhound weren’t made for mortals.

They were made for men the size of statues and twice as dead.

Your boots clicked on steel that bore the stains of a thousand campaigns.

Your coat scraped rust from the walls.

And the light overhead stuttered every five meters —

enough to keep you guessing if the shape in your periphery was a shadow, a machine, or a man.

You didn’t look back.

You knew better.

—

Two decks down, you passed an open bulkhead.

Inside: a war-serf chained to a data pillar, his mouth wired shut, fingers twitching over keys he couldn’t see.

His eyes flicked up as you passed.

You nodded.

He didn’t.

You kept walking.

—

The smell changed first.

Oil. Blood. Meat.

The musk of World Eaters lingered in the air like a second skin.

You turned a corner and—

Froze.

A group of astartes stood at the end of the hall like pillars made of hunger.

Their armor steamed with fresh gore. One of them held a helmet under his arm, where brain matter still clung to the visor.

They didn’t look at you. But they didn’t move either.

Like they were waiting.

You inhaled.

Walked straight past.

No eye contact. No quickening pace.

Just small, steady footsteps, echoing like prey walking through a den of sleeping lions.

One of them said something low, in that same guttural dialect.

You didn’t translate it.

You didn’t need to.

You heard the word “pet.”

And you felt the way they said it — not cruel.

Not even mocking.

Certain.

Like they’d already seen how this ends.

----------------------------- to be continued-------

I feel like I need to know more about Angron to write more dialogue for him (／＼) but thank you for reading!! Would love to know your thoughts.

[iiotic]

VOX CANON FACTS

All of the information can be found on hazbin hotel viki (You can easily google it) and VivziePops livestreams.

His name may refer to the word "vox", a shortened form of the word "vocals", or from the Latin word "vox", meaning "voice". It may also be a portmanteau of "video" and "aux" (an abbreviation of auxiliary), which are the two main components of television.

Chronologically, Vox is the oldest of the Vees.

Sometimes, he moves his face towards the audience, essentially breaking the fourth wall.

Faustisse described Vox as being a dominating force when it comes to technology.

Faustisse stated that Vox was Caucasian while living, later also joking that he was "white, like really emphasizing the phlegm in your throat white".

According to Vivziepop, Vox and Alastor do not get along due to their opposing views on technology, with Alastor disliking anything invented after he died in the 1930s, and Vox embracing new technology.

Faustisse described Vox as having something of a fixation on Alastor and that he is interested in having Alastor notice him. Alastor does not have the same interest in return.

Vivziepop's headcanon voice actor for Vox was Mark Hamill.

When asked what TV shows Vox would like, Vivziepop stated Vox does not have a specific favorite when it comes to his preferences for TV shows, but that he likes to watch commercials and enjoys game shows.

Faustisse has described Vox as not being a polite person, but whether this is true or not is unknown.

[overx]

{ The Multiverse is endless. Somewhere in it, we may just find what we're looking for. }

Multi-muse, multi-fandom RP/ASK blog. Penned by Kara. | any pronouns | 21+ All fandoms and verses are fated with @thegatesofinfinitespace. Other RP blogs: @an-alternate-light (AU sideblog WIP) @vox-auxiliary @a-fading-light

Mobile links and muse list below the cut.

Rules | Main Muses | The Pantheon | Low Activity Muses | Worlds

{Main Muses}

Verse (AU Over-1 from Rockman Xover)

Crimson (AU Zero from Megaman Zero)

Voluntas (Fandomless Demon OC)

AleXander (Fandomless Werewolf / Spellcaster OC)

Rho (Fandomless fantasy hunter OC)

Rockwell (VERY AU Protomen inspired Rock)

Cale (VERY AU Protomen inspired Copy Rock)

Xanti (AU X from Megaman X)

Vi (AU Vile from Megaman X)

{The Pantheon}

Dirge (Fandomless God OC)

Raziel (Fandomless Demi God OC)

{Secondary Muses}

Link (AU Link from Hyrule Warriors)

Amaterasu (AU Amaterasu from Okami)

Metal (VERY AU Protomen inspired Metal Man)

Omega (AU Omega from Megaman Zero)

{Test Muses}

Grim and Sable (Sonic AU versions of Rockwell and Cale)

Grima (AU Grima/Robin from Fire Emblem Awakening)

Wolfwood (AU Nicolas Wolfwood from Trigun)

[ms3ox]

w i f & e

In which, Alastor has his ego beaten into the ground, and still can't find a good reason to hate you.

Part I/???

Tags: Slow Burn, Really Petty Enemies to Lovers, Unintentional Marriage (soon)

Notes: I have a good ~40 pages of this already written. Lmk if you guys want more.

______________________________________________________________

At one point in time, Alastor could definitively say that he didn’t care what happened to his wife. 

You were… auxiliary at best and a nuisance at worst. A mess of naivety, youth, and a bumbling sense of goodness. Its truly a marvel how someone so seemingly innocent made her way down to the Pride Ring. But perhaps that was it. Pride. At least, that was his working hypothesis. He couldn’t say for certain what landed you eternal damnation, and perhaps it was none of his business anyway what with the way you kept it strictly under wraps. In another life, perhaps, Alastor would be curious, but time is wasted on flights of folly such as deducing the nature of his benefactor’s death. You had spiraling horns etched into your skull, so you were, in one way or another, just like the rest of them. 

It isn’t until he feels that tug that he realizes what he feels is nothing short of care. The phantom tugs at his chest, at his heart, a pitiful plea for help, but one that smells so familiarly sweet that he knows who it is and where its coming from.

And despite the way this growing humanity makes his fingers strain and curl, he dissolves into shadow and slithers toward your pull. 

---

Boredom is the worst part of Hell. 

Killing and eating can only be so much fun. After disposing of his… hmm, how many now? After disposing of his thousandth body, he finds that the appetite following the kill is nigh on nonexistent. He’s just… restless and bored. There are no turf wars around, no drama within the collective of Overlords, Hell, even Vox has been a doldrum of content lately- a stream of useless garbage that seems even more mind-numbing than the demon’s usual flare for juicy gossip and electric presentation. 

Deal-making is the same as it always has been, too. Alastor finds himself putting in all the work, all the fanciful and dandyish flare to impress his prey before ripping their autonomy right out of them with a handshake. And they’re all the same. Scared, hopeless, down on their luck. Reluctantly trustful of a smile before regretting it for eternity. When one owns thousands of souls… none of it feels… fulfilling anymore. The blood-red skies of Hell seem to fade to a miserable, dried brown- the same sky he’s been staring up at for the past century. 

God, he is so bored. 

This is the real torture. The real damnation. 

Rosie must see the apathy in his eyes and dullness in his smile because her face quickly contorts into something concerned the moment he enters her emporium.

“Alastor?” She would whisper with that soft concern the ladies in his life harbor for him. Even that has become dull to him. “You look all outta sorts, mister. What’s goin’ on, hah?”

And just like many of the concerned ladies in his life, Rosie is quick to offer a solution. He sits with his fingers steepled and his gaze far, far away as Rosie explains another deal opportunity to him. For once, Alastor doesn’t feel like being theatrical. Boredom has sucked the life out of this radio broadcast. Newcomer… Naive… Struggling in Hell, yada yada. 

“...I’ll consider it.” Is Alastor’s simple and placating reply. 

—

The first thing Alastor notices is that you know your way around a knife. Not necessarily how to fight, but you seem to have a keen eye for all the mortal points on a demon’s body- and when executed correctly…

“Impressive, my dear!”

The dandyish facade and wide smile return again like muscle memory- perhaps that’s what it is after decades of tricking demons into eternal bondage. Your eyes narrow suspiciously as the tall, creepy man in the red coat takes measured, clacking steps toward you. Soon enough, Alastor finds himself on the sharper end of your bloodied little pocket knife. Come to think of it, Rosie had said something about the demon being somewhat adept with a weapon… He’s sure there’s more information that his boredom has glossed over and tucked into his memory, never to be found.

“Alastor,” He says without so much as a flinch, taking the other end of the knife and shaking it as if it were your hand. “Pleasure to be meeting you, quite a pleasure.”

He pays no mind to the way his blood seeps around it. He’ll visit the tailor for new gloves later. And… perhaps a dry cleaning, what with the violent spray of demon blood that the little demoness incurred with your paltry knife skills and scarily surgical precision. But you seem to pick up on the fact that no amount of ferality and intent to kill can bridge the sloping gap in power between you. Your eyes narrow.

“Do you want something?”

Alastor hums, tapping a finger to his chin. His polished shoes clack with every circling step he takes around you, you and your tattered rags you call clothes.

“Want is a strong word, my dear.” He taps your head with his microphone, then points to the disgustingly garish Embassy as another day drops from its count. “Our annual cull is coming soon. You won’t want to be a street urchin when God’s little pests arrive.”

The mention of God seems to set you off in some way. Your shoulders square, your eyes widen, and there’s some kind of hunger in your black irises that catches him off-guard for a moment.

Interesting…

“I believe it would be in your best interests to seek protection… Shelter…” He circles you once more before arriving at your front. Alastor extends his hand, bending down to meet the sprightly thing eye to eye. Your scleras are pure, white… untainted. Something he hopes to rectify.

“Let’s make a deal.”

A blade narrowly misses the underside of his rib, and he only realizes that when he sees one of his blackened, eldtrich tendrils squeezing at your wrist, keeping it firmly steady while it hovers just before his coat. Alastor clicks his tongue, straightening his posture. He could kill you…  but that feels like a waste of resources.

“Calm yourself, dear, I haven’t even outlined the terms!”

The girl’s eyes narrow even more, if possible, your thin brows furrowing in a way that casts angry shadows over your features. This was going to be a hard sell. But… Alastor’s been known to play with words. His hand finds your straining wrist, replacing the hardness of his power with a gentle touch.

“Pledge yourself to me and I-.”

“No.”

Alastor can’t help the sharp feedback his microphone makes at your sudden dismissal. You will just not let him get a word in edgewise, hm? His jaw hangs open in shock before he quickly rectifies himself, smoothing down his suit. Okay. He can work with no. He’s walked this path many times before. They always come crawling back, one way or another. 

“Hm. I hope you keep this conversation in mind then.”

He hums a jaunty tune as he leaves the stubborn girl to the shadows.

---

[prince-liest]

Random question because Once Bitten: Back for more made me think about it: what do you think Angel Dust's interactions with the other Vees are like, when they're forced to be in the same space (for example when Valentino is in a lovebombing mood and decides to make Angel Dust "hang out" with him/be his arm candy at an event/etc)?

I think that, first of all, Angel Dust and Valentino probably had a decently lengthy honeymoon period initially for Angel to have gotten invested and trusting enough in Val's intentions to sign his soul over, so they're probably all at least relatively familiar with each other! But I also feel like the Vees are characters who don't really care much about people that they see as beneath them, and they see most people, definitely including Angel Dust, as beneath them.

In current era, I suspect that Angel just kind of gets treated as an auxiliary attachment to Valentino and gets talked over a lot. Like, sure, he gets a hello from Vox and a "Cute outfit!" from Velvette or something, but if someone's ordering food then it's all, "Val, what do you two want?" and then it's up to Valentino if he asks Angel Dust at all or just tells them that it's fine, Angie's on a diet. And Angel Dust knows what the status quo is by this point, so he's grateful (or nervous) to be pulled back into Valentino's magnetism when he's being lovey, but I doubt he's going to push back much on getting treated like something between a cute pet and an actual boyfriend.

But this is all my theorizing! I suspect (or hope, maybe, haha) that we'll learn more about that dynamic in season two.

[talizmyn]

2020 January: Keyleth Portrait

Here is a portrait of Keyleth of Critical Role's Vox Machina.

I've been trying new things with my portraits, being less afraid of hard edges and bold lines. Experimenting is fun!

Do any of you watch Critical Role? Which Player Character should I paint next? Eventually, I want to get all of them and perhaps move on to a couple of auxiliary characters after. :)

Created in Clip Studio Paint.

Find more of my work on my ko-fi page: Ko-fi.com/talizmyn

[battle-sister-ames]

Guardsman Kendra "Kenny" Pearson, Cadian 212th Attack Battalion (Inquisitorial Auxiliary).

Loudmouth. Card cheat. Sharpshooter. Loyal. Very stupid. Extremely tired. Fires for the *other* artillery school, if you know what I mean. Likely to hit the vox with her fist to get it to work.

[gloriousmonsters]

@whittertwitter the key to happy relationships is to find two people roughly as morally bankrupt and mentally ill as you (and, most importantly, as hot as you) and enable/check each other's issues to the extent where you all function remarkably well, considering how all your other relationships went! Agreed on the rough timeline thing, her dying in the 00s sounds right for sure (assuming that the show starts around where the pilot was released, that gives her a bit of time in Hell but still makes her obnoxiously new on the scene compared to other Overlords).

That said, a summation of Vox and Val's daddy issues (cw for abuse, suicide mentioned)

Vox:

I still need to flesh out details/timeline of Vox's childhood, but I know that his dad was distant to the point of seeming to forget about his existence, sarcastic and emotionally cruel--primarily to Vox's mother, but the kid would occasionally come in for some--when he did remember he lived with other people, and was overall just an. intensely negative person, like sucks-all-the-energy-out-of-a-room vibes. (vox's mom was also emotionally neglectful and uncaring, but not ''''abusive-abusive''', if you get my point). He then proceeded to have an 'accident while cleaning a gun' when Vox was a young teenager, which Vox overheard his mother talking about the truth of--that it was suicide--with a friend. probably with a side helping of 'i can't believe he would be so weak/do something that shameful'.

I think his mother probably remarried very quickly, and Vox developed some auxiliary issues around not being able to become Man of the House when he was like, fourteen (although he would have hated it, he and his mom just did not like each other lol). But his relationship with the new guy was more just teeth-gritted tolerance, helping Vox build up his fake-ass geniality--his dad left him with some of the deep shit. Always be on guard, always control what you can. Power is cruel--and it might make people hate you, so hide it behind a smile, but even so it's better to be hated than weak. Being ignored is starvation, being judged and found wanting is a gut wound.

this mainly manifests in the intense desire to be needed and appreciated and affirmed in image whilst having behavioral patterns that mean only people who don't know you will like you

also there's just like, the bigotry and sexism he soaked up, but that's on his surrounding environment as much as his dad

Valentino (his mom is also heavily involved in Issues, so this is partly about her)

extremely physically and verbally abusive father, solely focused on his mother when Val was very young, but turning to include Val the moment he got old enough you could look at him and go 'something vaguely queer about this kid' + he could be judged as not being sufficiently cowed and respectful, which only got worse over time bc Val could not avoid making him angry and so usually gave up on even trying

his mother only managed to get away when Val was around 13, partly spurred to desperation by his father injuring him badly enough she was terrified Val might actually get killed if she stayed any longer (said event caused a concussion that left Val with vision/memory problems and headaches his entire life)

due to things getting that bad and the health issues that were clearly left over from it, his mom was intensely guilty for not being able to protect him/get out sooner, and compensated by investing herself completely in him; babying him physically and emotionally, never setting proper boundaries, taking his side in literally everything, etc etc. this lasted until she finally hit a limit and tried to point out he had anger issues (Kind Of Like Someone We Knew) when he was in his mid-20s

output: mother is cruel? mother is unyielding? i must leave for California i can no longer thrive in this environment

but seriously, anger issues + downplaying of said issues because he's not like his dad, he gets angry for legitimate reasons, and he can be so nice! all he wants is unconditional love, loyalty and commitment that doesn't waver or END like SOME PEOPLE who are apparently just waiting to ABANDON YOU

[singthesongsofsin]

@outofradios | Guest muse!Vox can have a guest PA from a parallel reality!

It was one thing to know she was cutting it… close with the exterminations, the problem was they could start anywhere in the twenty four hour span, and it had seemed worthwhile to take the risk of making it back to the tower before it started than staying at the auxiliary studio.

And then the heavens had opened up, and well, that had answered that. But, in her defence she hadn’t died. Well, not properly. She’d know this apartment, however strangely different than the one she’s used to, beyond death. Which, considering the circumstances, is testing that.

Thirty seconds ago she’d been experiencing death by exorcist. Now she was standing in the middle of Vox’s (strange) apartment. “When the fuck did you redecorate? I think I’d remember that happening in the last 24 hours.”

[voxiiferous]

What’s the neighborhood like?

Living Space Headcanon | @kugel-bitch

Awwww yeah! My chance to wax poetic about the Blue Light District again. This is thrilling, I love this. Also the fun benefit of having the ability to cross-reference my own hc. This gets longer than I expected so most is under the read more!

Right, so first part is just where is it? In my hc, Vox's domain is the part in blue of the following image. His portion of the Pentagram isn't tiny.

It's somewhere thereabouts to that gray dot that is his tower, and heart of the Empire. The Vogitek tower is the tallest building in the Blue Light District (BLD), and he lives on the topmost floor.

So what is it actually like? During the day, the BLD looks like most of Hell, with a few key exceptions. If most of the buildings in Hell are in some state of disrepair, with growing ears or eyes, or other mutations born of the amount of sin, then the BLD is comparatively free of that, because of how frequent construction is. In addition, while the city itself has a lot of skyscrapers, the BLD has the tallest, and the highest percentage of them. It towers above the rest of the city, and is kept in somewhat good maintenance.

Vox keeps an increasing number of architects and urban planners on his staff for that reason. A decent amount of the inspiration comes from Tokyo, where there is a limited amount of space, but a lot of people, so instead of building out, they build up. When there is a disruption in the normal flow of things, be that gang warfare or an Extermination, it tends to be the part of the city that is the quickest at recovering.

But at night...You know how New York is described as the city that never sleeps? Well down in Hell, that's only more true. The district as a whole is the most technologically advanced part of the whole city, and where new things tend to get introduced first, like the slow-going transit system. It's the part of the city Vox has the most direct control over, and where the bulk of his infrastructure and people are. It's a lot easier to do things when you and your company own everything in this whole corner of the city.

Because that's sort of the main thing, is Vox died, and decided he didn't much like the idea of suffering, so he's just done his best to recreate New York. A large part of why it's so distinctive, is that, unlike large portions of the city that have traded hands a dozen times over the last century, or somewhere that never has a permanent Overlord presence (or, Heaven-forbid, the Hellborn nobility who have never taken into account urban luxuries or population increases).

The inner reaches of the district are the most brightly lit after dark, and it's where it shines the most. There are people, music, lights. Most of the stores are open 24 hours, and it has all sorts of modern amenities, like a dozen different tech stores, convenience stores, some cafes, restaurants. The overarching colour is blue, but the closer you get to the middle, the more muddied it gets. the outer parts of the district are still well lit, but the blue is far more the staple colour. This part is more likely to have things like apartment buildings.

As for the tower itself, there is usually someone, aside from Vox there. It's the epicentre of his Empire, and while there are auxiliary studios, often for larger movies or the 666 News, the tower itself has countless meeting rooms, offices, smaller recording studios. There's places to eat, bathrooms. It is the thing that he is proudest of, and it all works efficiently. Some nights, when he can't sleep, he's liable to wander, and more than a few of his higher ranking employees are people he found working late. It's not uncommon that will be a large part of the workforce, especially if something had recently gone wrong, or if there is a big deadline coming up. A few of those and it had become worth it to invest in some space blankets and pillows, so people could sleep there, especially for people stuck over Extermination days.

An additional benefit of keeping everything largely contained, is it makes it much easier to shuffle things around if need be. If anything happens within a production, he can take over, or assign someone else, and with a limited period of adjustment, can get back on schedule, without having to travel half-way across the city, just up or down a few floors. For something like the big blockbuster movies that need more space, they don't tend to be in the tower, but anyone who deals with R&D can, musicians, smaller shoots, like gameshows or sitcoms, and the aformentioned non-show business people like lawyers and engineers can all be found.

From his penthouse, it's the streets upon streets of blue lights that he thinks of, always lit up even at the darkest, latest points of the day.

[hellscythearts]

Hard Light - Solid hologram; functions like glass. See through, shatterable. Can be used like a weapon when formed in a sharpened state. 

@rockwell-light 's AU boy because I cannot resist drawing him ✨

[thegatesofinfinitespace]

I offer you Vox and MZ as potential friends because yes--

It is not simply looking like Rock that gives the Maverick pause. "I know this one. He... is my Mate's alternate." And yet behaves nothing like the puppy that MZ had learned to adore. He only knew of this individual through the Light-bot's conversations with... an Other so far removed, it was hard to believe they were the same person.

Red optics glance away, analyzing the data retained. There is certainly not much. "...His personality is... reminiscent of... Verse? But there are still actions..." That MZ couldn't always follow, like Rock.

He thinks for a long moment. The grin that follows is immediate, fangs baring like daggers.

"I would like to see how he fares against me. Perhaps then I will decide." If he was just as fun as the vampire's own lover, maybe that could warrant some sort of further interaction.

[ziel-soundwave]

“Vox-- Vox look at this really cool thing I found!” 

[falze-noize]

"You know me too well." (FALZE-NOIZE HEY VOXXXX)

@vox-auxiliary

The statement shouldn’t sound so ominous coming from Ziel’s lips, but it does. Everything about this felt wrong, pricking at some long dormant instinct in the back of the of Vox’s mind.

The blue one stepped backwards, green eyes searching his companion’s face. Finding not the kind softness he knew so well, but something else. Something that made his chest tight.

Until this moment, he tried to play it off as mere exhaustion. Even an alternate of his beloved partner friend must be working hard all the time. The uniform he had trouble explaining away, but he’d hoped… judging from Ziel’s face, the former rebel had caught on to the sudden distress.

Vox wanted to say something, but failed to find his voice, lifting his hands carefully to sign instead.

You are not yourself. You need help. Let me help you.

Wrong. What was with that expression? The one of horror and fear and surprise, what was that, Vox? The man, machine, Dictator frowned, a deep, unsettled and thoughtful indentation of his lips into an almost thin line. What was wrong? What was it?

It was mostly confusion that stripped at his face, eyebrows raised, eyes wide. There was no lie in that, and it only increased in intensity at the fingers cautiously making shapes at him, talking to him. Strange. He’d given the blond the impression that he could talk if that helmet was no longer adorning his face.

Hands behind his back, posture straightening as the former Rebel leaned back, eyes wide but dull... Wait. “It’s true that I need help, but it’s more that I’m realizing I’m displaced, not that there’s something wrong with me.” This was not his Vox, after all. Still gentle, caring, stormy quiet blues, just like his Knight, but...

There’s nothing to fear here.

“What are you talking about, then?” A smile that didn’t reach his eyes, or did, but did not supply the same glowing grin that he used to do, a shadow of what it-- he-- once was. “I appreciate the sentiment, but I... am fine.” I have to be. “Because you’re here.” 

[vox-auxiliary]

A4

[[-makes guilty noises- I haven’t drawn him iN SO LONG so I cleaned up the sketch a bit and slapped some colors down because VOX MY BOY I’M SORRY.]]