toastervox

[toastervox]

Part of my Alastor hc is that he's partially mechanical. He's actually arguably more of a robot then Vox is, because Vox is mostly a hard shell but with almost completely organic insides, excluding a few specific parts or bits he amputated and modded himself.

Alastor on the other hand has a fleshy, deer exterior but his insides are mostly made of copper. In place of false vocal cords and an Adam's apple, he has a tiny voicebox in his throat that makes the staticy noises, and subsequently can break if you squeeze it too hard. He has organs, but they're either covered in a thin layer of copper coating, completely rotten, or just straight up radio parts. Most of his meat and musculature is rotten and black with sepsis, his blood is almost always coagulated and super gross. Excluding his heart which is the only normal and humanly functional part of him. The parts of his veins that aren't trying to pump 100+ year old dead blood, are just straight up copper wiring. His antlers are actually his radio antenna and are directly tied into his ears and how he processes sound. If he rips out his antlers, or it they fall out he's basically half deaf.

Anyway,

Point is, no one tell Angel that Alastor's made of copper. He'll try to strip him for meth money

[toastervox]

[toastervox]

Gone

A quick Vox character study based on @toastervox's drawing/hc!

Takes place seven years pre-canon; Vox believes Alastor is dead and grieves him.

-

Alastor's disappearance doesn't hit Vox until a week later. He's been calling it a defeat publicly, both to the other Vees and in the wall-to-wall media coverage Voxtek has run in the days since, but the word is too definite for him to believe in. There were no angelic weapons. He didn't impale Alastor on a stolen spear, or shoot him with a bank-breaking bullet; they fought fair and square with taunts and grandiose displays, without double death on the table. 

That’s what Vox thought, anyway, until a network of static charge coursed through Alastor’s body. Yowling and jerking, the slippery bastard tried to melt into the shadows like always, but Vox caught him with another wave in time to stop him. It killed him, but it shouldn't have been permanent. Any minute, he expected Alastor to stand up and resume the fight with renewed vigor, but the minutes ticked into hours as the Radio Demon's shadows frantically slithered across his prone body. Vox got bored and left. He didn't make a statement until the next day, by which time he expected retaliation.

Now, eight days have come and gone in silence. Vox's spies report no light or movement at Alastor's tower, his exaggeratedly slanderous broadcasts air unimpeded, and his shadow obeys the laws of physics with miraculous perfection: all signs pointing to a reality he had never stopped to consider before.

Alastor is gone.

Plugged into his computer terminals, Vox scours the city security footage for any sign of Alastor, but another night wasted ends with the simple realization he isn't going to find him. It's over. 

Ego has always been one of Alastor's fatal flaws--a rare commonality between them--and if he were alive, he would have corrected Vox's spun version of events by now. The fucker must be dead, which is cause for the celebration of the century but strikes Vox with a longing he's never previously known. Not to be confused with grief, of course; such a pathetic response implies affection, an emotion Vox hasn't harbored for Alastor in decades. He hasn’t lost him for the simple fact that he didn’t have Alastor to begin with.

It shouldn’t matter, which only makes it all the more poignant when the realization crashes into him. Vox can’t find it in himself to gloat when there’s an empty hour of his evening, previously reserved for Alastor’s broadcasts, spent lost in the churn of unclaimed static and surveillance footage devoid of the only sinner Vox wants to see. His body is gone, too. The last sign of the Radio Demon was his favorite glitch of interference, long enough for his corpse to vanish without a trace and for Vox to hope, for a week and a day, that he’s been planning a re-entrance: an appearance Vox now has to accept as impossible. 

Alastor’s gone. He’s fucking gone, double-dead and not coming back, vanquished like any other nothing loser, finally out of the picture for good, resting-in-piss, a future distant memory. Vox ought to be happy. Instead, he rips the connection cables from the back of his screen like they’re pumping poison into his motherboard instead of data.

Having a rival was fun, it kept things interesting, but there will be other imbeciles insistent on threatening Vox’s monopoly. He didn’t need Alastor to challenge him. He needed him, he realizes, to serve as a walking reminder for Vox not to trust other overlords. For all the benefits of his partnership with the other Vees, he doesn’t trust them with anything that doesn’t serve their personal interests; he wrote out the whole caring, having faith, believing in someone program after Alastor started his own broadcast, but the code still existed for him alone. That backdoor has been left open for years, a weakness ready to exploit but Vox has been too sentimental to remove.

He buries his face in his hands. His latest face–a flatscreen, twice as wide as his previous head and impossibly thin–is too large for them to cover his eyes entirely, but it blocks out most of the monitors towering around his chair. The world has to be smaller. It’s too big, too empty, without Alastor in it. At the thought, his cheeks begin to burn and spark with the first sign of tears.

“No, no, no no no,” he whimpers. His voice echoes over the quiet buzz of his computers, distorted and wet by his own standards. Another warning. “I don’t cry, don’t cry, dammit, no!”

If Alastor were here, the old Alastor who made grand plans for the two of them and wanted to take over Hell by Vox’s side, he would come up with an insane distraction absurd enough for Vox to forget he’d been about to cry. And, if that didn’t work, he would hold his monogrammed, moth-eaten handkerchief to Vox’s eyes to sop of the worst of the mess, and he’d help fix the water damage to the delicate biomachine of Vox’s body like it was no trouble at all. The new Alastor, the one Vox murdered, never saw him cry. 

“Fuck!”

Vox frantically swipes at his eyes, tiny webs of static shocking his fingers. He’s gotten along fine without Alastor for years. He doesn’t cry in front of anyone, doesn’t allow himself to get close anymore, but he can repair the damage himself. If it’s really bad, Velvette helps with the mechanical side while Val soothes the pain with his drugged kisses, neither of them claiming affection they don’t feel. They can be business partners, indulgent in intimacy, without the burden of trust. He doesn’t need them.

“Fuck, no, don’t fucking cry,” he scolds himself, flattening his palms into his screen as if he can physically hold the tears back. They’re slimy, more coolant than bonafide tears, and as they smear into his face he can feel the pixels shorting and scattering. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck! No! Fuck you, Alastor, fucking- asshole!”

Drool fills his mouth and drips down his screen, dancing with the broken filaments in his display as electricity seizes his hands. He shouldn’t cry over Alastor but each time he reminds himself so, another sob wracks his shoulders until his cursing and muttering is lost behind his pathetic display of weakness. Wave after wave comes until his screen is a pollock of dead pixels and frozen colors, his hands and neck jerk with waterlogged circuits, and he physically runs out of tears to cry. 

There, alone in his dim office, completely broken, Vox accepts that Alastor is gone. 

[toastervox]

the more i think about it, the more i feel like you can't really transpose charlie's redemption plan onto a modern setting like a rehab or a halfway house, because fundamentally charlie doesn't actually CARE about people sinning. she didn't start the hotel because she wanted people to stop being horrible, she started the hotel because she wanted heaven to stop murdering everybody by the billions, and thought that proving redemption is possible would be the only thing that could appeal to heaven's sense of justice. she doesn't understand what even counts as sin or why it's bad (though of course heaven doesn't either). it just fascinates me, the idea that if the exterminations hadn't been a thing, charlie wouldn't have any motivation to rehabilitate sinners. if a human/modern au is going to have a version of the hotel in it, i think it's way more interesting to have a compelling real-life reason that charlie would bother in the first place, because the internal motivation of wanting to help people just isn't enough impetus

[toastervox]

ok so @grownupchangeling and i got on the topic of alastor using a mobility scooter after being injured in the season finale and this is the result of that

[toastervox]

ducking tired

@grownupchangeling sent me a photo of these pjs and i knew what had to be done

[toastervox]

At Voxtek, we strive for nothing less than perfection ~

Or something something about feeling inadequate (totally not projecting)

[toastervox]

💅✨

[toastervox]

blub blub or whatever the hell I FINISHED SOMETHING WOOOOOOO

[toastervox]

i did these a while ago :]

[toastervox]

Valastor week day 3: FAIRYTALE (Cinderella)

It’s VALERELLA!!!!!

@valastorweekofficial

AND THEY LIVED HAPPILY EVER AFTER.

At first I wanted to do Little Red Hood, but I was unable to draw Alastor in a bed dressed as a granny. Here is a doodle I did:

The outfit and the little moth were inspired by @grimfeywizard cute doodles

[toastervox]

been having a hard two weeks. bullying this stupid tv man gives me a small boost of serotonin.

[toastervox]

I am pondering his orbs respectfully

♡Happy Halloween♡

[toastervox]

i love the concept that carmilla and velvette have their own kinda one sided rivalry where carmilla generally thinks the vees are annoying and disagrees with their way of doing things but isn't actually invested in antagonizing them, but after like two meetings where she disagrees with velvette on anything velvette is like 'this bitch HATES me LOL she wants me DEAD' because a) she takes any offense very personally b) she's got an inflated sense of her own importance on other ppls lives c) she's the biggest holder of grudges on the planet d) she has this innate sense that other women hate her and want to tear her down e) gay reasons

[toastervox]

“𝓘’𝓶 𝓪𝓭𝓭𝓲𝓬𝓽𝓮𝓭 𝓽𝓸 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓼𝓸𝓻𝓻𝓸𝔀, 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓫𝓾𝔃𝔃 𝓮𝓷𝓭𝓼 𝓫𝔂 𝓽𝓸𝓶𝓸𝓻𝓻𝓸𝔀…”

[toastervox]

did day two…I replaced like 1/3 of the list with ones I would be more comfortable with doing hdjdjfkfkf

so this day 2 is going to be plastic surgery according to moi

[toastervox]

weeeeeee heheh