(Alastor x Vox) Knife Through the Heart

Chapter 13

Content Warnings: Sucidal ideation, PTSD, dissociation, panic attacks, Alastor having gruesome flashbacks to his death, Graphic depiction of injuries, internalized homophobia, Vox not respecting Alastor's space, Valentino [He's a trigger warning all on his own].

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Oh, Alastor, did you really think I was stupid enough to accept your deal?" Vox laughs, left arm wrapped around Alastor's waist. "I've got you right where I want you. What good would that deal do for me when you're already this easy to hold onto?"

"You're mistaken, my dear Vox—"

Immediately, Alastor's voice stutters as Vox lightly presses his free hand over the radio demon's thigh. Alastor nearly recoils at this in abject disgust, ears twitching as he would love for nothing more than to sink his claws into Vox's screen and tear out all of his inner wiring. But all Alastor can do is smile, though he's quite certain it looks more like a grimace. At the very least, he's thankful that he's facing away from Vox right now. "I figured a remedy to my currently indisposed self......"

Alastor suppresses the urge to bury his flushed face in his hands. If only someone [Preferably not Vox] could end his life right now.

Vox isn't talking, nor has he done anything yet. His grip around Alastor is still far too strong, however.

Is that a good thing, though? Who could really say, at this point?

Narrowing his eyes, Vox's grasp on his thigh tightens ever so slightly, which elicits a sharp gasp from Alastor. "You fucking liar!" Vox hisses, voice dripping with venom as he shoves Alastor away, which sends him crashing onto the floor. A jolt of agony stabs straight through Alastor's heart, causing him to cry out as he brings a hand up to his bandaged chest. But before Alastor can regain his bearings, Vox suddenly yanks onto his wrist, uncaring in the slightest as Alastor nearly stumbles from the sudden weight on his injured ankle.

His vision is blurry, but Alastor does his best to blink away unshed tears. He can't...he can't let Vox see him like this, let anyone else see him in such a sorry state. But this is still preferable than being at the hotel, Alastor desperately reminds himself. I can handle Vox, I can endure a little bit of pain and discomfort if it means that they won't...

Won't...what, exactly?

It's not like anyone at the hotel is his friend. Alastor doesn't have friends. Not since he died, at least. Acquaintances at best, enemies at worst—especially the ones that want him dead...which is pretty much everyone, to be quite honest.

Alastor is broken out of his reverie as the melodic 'chime' of an elevator reaches his ears. His knees buckle as every single part of him is screaming at him to just...give up. To lie down and allow himself to succumb to his wounds, but alas, Vox would never dare to grant him even that minor a luxury. Alastor's panting heavily, visibly wincing as he leans his weary head against Vox's shoulder. Vox is quick to drape an arm over his shoulder, as if they were friends. As if they were more than friends. If anyone were to stumble upon this scene, what would they think?