The air thrummed with a raw, electric tension, thick and suffocating after Valentino's departure. The lingering scent of cheap cologne and desperation still clung to the silk sheets of Vox's bed, a stark contrast to the sharp, metallic tang of ozone that now filled the space. Vox's screen flushed a bright, indignant blue, mirroring the furious blush creeping across Alastor's pale cheeks. They stood, or rather, Alastor sat, bound and fuming, inches apart. His arms remained cinched to the back of the rolling chair, his trademark grin stretched thin, a fragile shield against the indignity of his situation. Vox, still reeling from Valentino's crass suggestion, kept his hands braced on the chair's arms, trapping Alastor in a cage of his own making. Their breaths mingled, hot and ragged, a silent testament to the fury simmering beneath their carefully constructed facades.
A low, buzzing hum emanated from Vox's chest, his internal processors whirring as he struggled to regain composure. The blue flush on his screen slowly receded, replaced by the usual vibrant expressions. He pushed away from the chair, the slight resistance of Alastor's bound form a fleeting sensation against his palms. His glowing red eyes, usually so sharp and calculating, now lingered on Alastor, tracing the familiar, yet newly vulnerable, lines of his form. The chaos of the past few hours—the parade, the news broadcast, the forced humiliation—all culminated in this moment. Alastor, the elusive, the untouchable, the one who had always slipped through his grasp, was finally *his*. A flicker of a grin, sharp and predatory, animated Vox's screen.
"Look at you, Al," His voice, usually a smooth, synthesized baritone, held a rough edge, a barely contained glee. "All tied up in my room, nowhere to go. It's kinda unbelievable." His words, meant to sting, were delivered with a casual cruelty, a venomous sweetness.
Alastor's ears, usually perked and alert, twitched. His smile tightened, a barely perceptible tremor in his jaw. "My, Vox, such language. One might think you're attempting to... *flirt*." His voice, a low radio warble, dripped with condescension, a challenging lilt that only served to fan the flames of the demons irritation. "And here I thought you preferred grand gestures to such crude displays. How terribly *common*."
A jolt of electricity, sharp and sudden, crackled between Vox's fingertips. He took a step forward, his movements slow, deliberate, like a predator circling its prey. He reached out, his large, claw-tipped fingers brushing Alastor's shoulder. The touch was feather-light, yet it sent a shiver through Alastor, a reaction he desperately tried to suppress. "Oh, I can do grand, Al. Believe me." His fingers tightened, a possessive squeeze against the expensive fabric of Alastor's coat. "But y'know sometimes, the simple pleasures are the most rewarding." His voice dropped, a low, intimate rumble that vibrated through Alastor's shoulder. "Especially when they involve you."
With a deliberate motion, Vox pulled open the lapels of Alastor's coat, the fabric rustling softly. Alastor's eyes, usually fixed in a confident stare, darted, a flicker of genuine surprise crossing them. Vox's fingers, surprisingly deft, unbuttoned the top buttons of Alastor's undershirt, revealing a sliver of skin, and then, stark against it, the jagged, angry red scar from Adam's attack. It stretched across his chest, stitched in green thread, a brutal testament to his recent near-demise. Alastor's breath hitched, a barely audible gasp. His ears flattened slightly, a tell-tale sign of his discomfort, a crack in his carefully maintained composure.
"I needed a better look at this." Vox's voice was a purr, his screen displaying a wide, sharp grin that bordered on maniacal. His finger, still crackling with a faint blue electricity, traced the angry line of the scar. "Damn, looks pretty deep, must hurt." His eyes locked onto Alastor's in mocking sympathy. "Not as much as your wounded pride right now though." He pressed slightly, just enough to make Alastor flinch from the pain, a subtle tremor running through his frame. "Tell me, Al, How's it feel having a constant reminder of getting your ass handed to you?"
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Distorted Signals
أدب الهواةIn the aftermath of Vox and Alastor's heated battle, followed by their deal. Alastor sits a willing prisoner in the demons room, faces mere inches apart. Valentino's words linger in the air upon his departure. Both men now left alone, the silence en...
