[For years and years, Vox would've loved to feel Alastor's fingers running up his torso like that, scraping and stroking and exploring. Whether the intent was affectionate or to cause harm, it didn't matter all too much in his fantasies. All that mattered was that Alastor's attention was on him, seeking out boundaries just to cross them.
Now that exact thing is happening, and it's not what he always dreamed. It's too much; too overwhelming. Too malicious and invasive, because Vox would like it to stop but he's got very few options to do anything about it. Even if he could, he wouldn't beg, and stopping it by force is tricky when most of what he can do would just have Alastor doubling down. The exposure of bare skin prickles at him. He throws his head back as he squirms with discomfort.
Then comes the bite, with numerous sharp teeth piercing skin to damage flesh, and he does scream. Just because the sound is muted doesn't mean it doesn't exist. It echoes through Vox's mind as if were capable of being vocalized beyond that point. His entire body tenses up with agony, and the vents release bursts of warm air in hasty, successive puffs. And he bleeds, of course. The large amount of hardware within him doesn't mean there's no circulation of something so very typical to both mortals and demons.]
[ It's an experience that he's never had before, and presently Alastor realizes how distracting those screams really were. They were part of the sensory experience, and it feels incomplete without them, but it's made up for by how well he can focus on the body writhing beneath him, the hot air that comes from his vents, and the sounds that come with the body hitting against the ground. He can feel that warmth on his face, staining his hands, and one hand reaches over to grab the opposite side. His nails dig in, trying to hold the other in place as he sinks his teeth in even deeper.
He shudders in response to that warmth, the sensation of blood filling his mouth and staining his face. It's been awhile since he's been able to do this, and no matter how bad the taste, it's ecstasy every time. But Vox is quite lucky, because with anyone else he would have ripped the flesh clean off, but here, he stops at biting, removing his teeth and tilting his head to the side as he examines the injury before dragging his tongue along the area, lapping up the blood as it flows out of him.
And somewhere in that, in a hushed voice - ]
You don't taste half-bad.
[ He doesn't taste good, not being organic, but not as bad as Alastor thought he might either. ]
[Sharp nails digging into his other waist is painful, but still only a mild prickle compared to what Alastor's teeth are doing. Over the decades, Vox has taken plenty of hard blows in fights. Plenty of cuts and bruises, and even the loss of an arm that one time. Pain is something he knows, and he usually recovers from it fast enough, but an injury like this is different. It seems to go on forever, only getting worse as Alastor's teeth sink in deeper.
He shouldn't have pissed this man off. He got carried away again, let his emotions get the better of him, and now he's paying the price.
As soon as Alastor withdraws, Vox's body releases some of the tension built up inside it, lying down fully flat against the ground again. He's left wheezing, and even with Alastor lapping up some of the blood, it still starts to stain his shirt. There's open wounds on his back and on his abdomen, all aligned in a perfect half oval the shape of Alastor's jaws. His hands curl into fists and he tries to pull at the tendrils again. Futile, maybe, but it's better than playing dead.]
[ He hadn't intended to cause such a deep wound, and it doesn't take more than a single look at the area as he pulls away to know that he'd gotten too excited. He swallows down the rest of of the blood he'd taken in, but more drips down from the corner of his mouth the moment he opens it to speak. ]
I'm sure that you were thinking earlier that you could accept being killed by me.
[ He lifts one hand up, scrubbing his mouth with the back of his sleeve now. It's undignified, but these activities are always a dirty affair. Once that's done, he'll start the process of using that same hand to roll Vox's shirt up. ]
This is just a hint of what it's like for an overlord to die by my hands. I offer up to them the worst pain that they've ever felt.
[ Regular sinners are lucky by comparison. He still plays with his food, he gives them a horrifically painful death, but it's at least relatively quick. Overlords are sturdier, more troublesome, and so he has his fun with them. It's like taking a spider and cutting off one leg at a time, and between snips releasing it just to watch it try and fail to escape on its remaining limbs. The screams, gasps, and sobs are all music to his ears during those times.
Here, he prefers the silence.
He keeps his head dipped, staring down at the man's torso rather than his face, but he can see the attempts at pulling at the tendrils in his peripheral vision. It's useless, of course - no amount of pulling at his restraints will grant Vox his freedom. They hold tight. ]
[Vox is absolutely trying to backpedal now. It's one thing to be threatened with death; that's nothing new, people do that in Hell all the time. It's another thing entirely to be experiencing true agony and helplessness. That's what comes rare, which amplifies the sensations quite a bit. He's not on 'worst pain he's ever felt' levels, but he doubts Alastor's going to stop here. The way his shirt is being rolled up, out of the way, is a strong indicator of that.
He can't accept this. He won't. The cables he released earlier are still out, no longer pulling at trees now and instead lying flat on the ground. They all move at once, springing towards Alastor. One tries to wrap around Alastor's hand to stop it from moving his shirt up any further. The others aim for the radio demon's torso, to try and push him back.]
There's a reason that Alastor keeps his feelings so tightly packed together, and there's a reason that he's so disciplined in his behavior. The moment he allows his emotions start to take control, he loses sight of his actions. He acts as the demon that he is, demanding some sacrifice to quell his rage - to apply a salve to those old wounds that are constantly reopening, healing and scarring; all the anger, all the failures and lack of control and mockery and weakness.
Vox was just unlucky enough to tear open one of those wounds, one that had scabbed over but never scarred.
But he is lucky that the radio demon is fixated on his task. He's not looking directly at the other, keeping his gaze fixed on the body beneath him, and already he's created a plan in his mind for what to do. He's actually trembling in anticipation of it, his smile stretched across his face with an unsettling curve. Vox has mechanical parts to him, and Alastor has fought with him enough to have some idea of how it all pieces together, and that means that there's plenty that he can do with him that he couldn't with -
His train of thought is interrupted by the wire that stops his hand in place first. His fingers freeze in place, but by time he's started to reach for it, he's already being knocked back. His hand retreats, pulling back as he tries to use it to keep his balance. ]
[Alastor's gaze is terrifying. It takes Vox in not like a person, but like an object. A plaything. A meal. Something to be taken advantage of, to use for satisfaction. Not a friend, not a foe, not even a fellow demon. His only value lies in entertainment, which is ironic, considering what he's always marketed himself as.
So he tries to snap Alastor back to reality with the harsh shove. His cable releases the man's wrist, instead joining the others in their attempt to push Alastor back further. He'd try to convey a sentiment some other way; attempt to word an inaudible "stop" or even a "no", but the stinging pain in his abdomen distracts too much. All his energy goes into keeping the radio demon at bay, even as he struggles to keep his eyes open through pricking tears and hazy static.]
[ Alastor is pushed back further and further still, until he finally falls back on his ass and finds himself scrambling back and away from where he has Vox is pinned down. There's a moment of stunned silence as he tries to take in the situation that he himself had created, because it takes him that long to recall what it is that he had been doing.
He shakes his head as he tries to collect himself. His smile has thinned out, and his ears lay flat back, discomposed and displeased with this turn of events. ]
... Vox.
[ He breathes out the name despite not wanting to say anything at all. He's done.
Alastor is done. He's not fine in the least. Those disgusting feelings are still there, and it feels like he'll just die if he doesn't find an outlet for them, but the look on Vox's face - one so familiar to him from so many years of experience, but foreign on him - is enough to temper him. There's no longer pleasure to be found in the act of violence, no outlet that he can use - nothing but that hatred and anger he has for the world, those feelings that he swallows back down despite feeling like he's choking on them. There's an exhaustion that sinks all the way through them, and something else that makes him want to retreat, to get away from this, to do something.
But all that comes is a single name, and one hand reaching up to run through his hair. ]
[As soon as Alastor falls back, the cables stop their frantic push. He can't see it from his current angle, TV still lying flat on the ground, but he can hear the scrambling which indicates even more distance. It's a reprieve. He doesn't know for how long, but it's something.
His chest is still rapidly rising and falling, breath quickened not to the point of hyperventilation, but to something dizzying anyway. His hands clench and unclench into fists at irregular intervals. The sound of his own name muscles its way through the haze and he doesn't know what to make of it. Is he being reprimanded, or is it something else?
The cables retreat for now, sticking near his sides like guard dogs- or, well, snakes- ready to strike again at a second's notice. He doesn't know what happens next, but as long as his arms and legs are being restrained, he's on guard.]
[ Alastor's fingernails scratch against his scalp, and he yanks on his hair. That anger is still there. That restless energy needs somewhere to go, and even more now, but there's nothing that he can do with it. He forces himself to take a deep breath instead. He breathes in once, twice, and by the third or fourth breath he stops pulling at his hair. He wipes his mouth again. The taste of blood is still there. The media overlord's blood leaves a foul aftertaste. ]
You don't want to die.
[ His tone has returned to its normal cadence. He's outwardly collected again. He scrubs a little more before he takes his staff in hand and pushes himself up. It was just one bite, but it was a hearty one. He can see the way that the blood stains his hands and jacket. His hair feels sticky in places. ]
You didn't want to die before.
[ And as he says those words Alastor snaps his fingers, and with it his games come to an end. The tendrils disappear, turning into wisps of smoke in the air. The entrance to the bedroom reappears. The mute button is toggled once more. Everything is put back the way it's supposed to be. Because if he doesn't, if they go any further than this, then Alastor knows that he really won't be able to stop. ]
[In truth, Vox doesn't know. He's already died once. It was a dreadful ordeal, but he 'lived on' past that, reincarnated into something different. He picked himself back up, pushed all the trauma down and kept walking. Dying is different now, just another inconvenience to suffer through. An extended, dreamless sleep quite possibly preceded by some kind of physical agony. And who even knows what happens to those slain during the Exterminations? Maybe there's a lower level of Hell that nobody can know of, since no one comes back from it.
He doesn't know. He does think it'd be nice to follow Alastor's advice and 'disconnect' for a little while. No haunting or obsessive thoughts, no heavy emotions, no responsibilities... Nothing. Just go offline and come back some other day, when there's a chance Hell might be different.
The tendrils vanish and at once, Vox's arms wrap around his bleeding torso. His knees bend, lifting up from the ground. He doesn't even realize the mute's been undone until a single word leaves him in an exhausted groan.]
[ It could be that no one really wants to die, or it could just be that people stop wanting to upon meeting them. But he can't think of one single person who didn't have their life snuffed out wishing that it would continue. Even here in Hell, it seems to him that people don't appreciate how painful it is.
Alastor conjures a towel as he takes a few steps forward to close the gap between them once more. He bends down on one knee beside him to examine the damage. It's nothing that can't be undone, and if the man can't patch himself up then Alastor will at least take responsibility for cleaning up the mess that he made. He doesn't say anything more yet, instead waiting to see if Vox will use his newly returned speaking privileges. ]
[As soon as Alastor steps closer, the cables rise up again, sparking and sputtering, ready to strike if needed. It's not needed, though. The hostility seems to be gone. That doesn't leave Vox any less of a mess, blood still seeping out from underneath his arm. It's staining the faux dirt below him. At most, the static subsides, leaving his facial expression less obscured. He peers towards Alastor from the corner of his eye, apprehensive.]
[ He confirms. Vox looks a mess. Pain is at its worst when a person is cornered, panicked, and afforded nothing else to focus on. Upon looking at the blood standing the ground, he has to admit to himself that leaving the man muted had been a mistake. The silence allowed him to focus on what was beneath claws and teeth alone. He might have caught himself otherwise. ]
Congratulations. You're the first one to survive.
[ He offers cheerlessly, unable to even feign any emotion. For anyone else, the only reward for winning would be a grizzly death. It was just one more way of making them despair. It was a staple for a reason.
He taps Vox's arm, indicating for him to use it. He needs to apply pressure to the area. ]
[Vox doesn't know whether he should be honored or not. He still doesn't even know what made Alastor stop in the first place. He'd seemed real determined to finish Vox off before. That stray thought of 'friends' comes to mind again, leaving him to smile bitterly. As if. There's probably some other reason, but Vox can't be assed to figure it out right now.]
Hurray for me...
[He moves his arm to the side as soon as it's tapped, allowing it to fall by his side. The sleeve's wet now, having soaked up a significant amount of blood. He'll have to teleport straight to his room and get rid of these clothes before anyone sees. The last thing he wants is questions about what went down.]
[ He tucks his other leg under him know, shifting into a proper kneeling position before he presses the towel against the injury. It's not like him to do something like this, and he's not quite sure why he is. It's not out of guilt, and it's not out of fear of retribution either. The pair of them tearing each other up is nothing new.
Alastor sighs, and he has the distinct feeling that he's going to regret what he's about to say, but... ]
You should at least get cleaned up before you leave... [ Or his injury, anyway. There's no saving that outfit. Either way, he'll take the time to clean up the mess that he made. ] Do you need me to stitch you up?
[The towel presses down, and Vox hisses loudly. He can't actually release breath through his teeth, but he sure can mimic the sound. The problem with an injury like this is that it's not just one wound; it's quite a few of them, all lined up in the same area. It hurts like a bitch, and he'll squirm as much as he wants.]
I dunno... Does it need stitches?
[He hasn't actually looked at it, because looking means lifting up his head and part of his upper torso. He'd much rather just remain flat on the ground for now. It leaves him blind to how bad the injury is.]
[ As he thought, Alastor is already regretting this decision. ]
Hold still.
[ Vox should count himself lucky that demons aren't at risk of infection, because Alastor would be pouring a bottle of vodka on that injury next if they were. But for now, he'll just keep applying pressure and ignoring the man's clear discomfort. He's an overlord, and Alastor knows how much pain they're able to endure. ]
I should say so. I bit down as hard as I could. In fact, I could see inside the holes.
[ Granted, it was only because he had his face up against the injury, but he could see how deep those teeth had sunk in. ]
[The notion that Alastor bit down 'as hard as he could' leaves Vox with an odd, conflicted feeling. He should be insulted. Angry. But he's not. Now that he's over, he's strangely alright with it. And it's not that he had it coming- that this makes them even. All it did was push the scales back in Alastor's favor, ensuring that what was done to Vox over the years is ten times worse than any attempt to get revenge.
It's weird.
He lets out a low grunt, eyes closing as he admits defeat.]
Fine. Stitch it up. This body got fixed just fucking last week, I don't need it messed up again.
[ Vox is lucky that he had stopped early, then. He had an idea of what he would do next. He could tear his chest open, a perfect match for what happened to him. He could take his fingers off one by one, joint by joint, and cauterize the wound, and that would just be the beginning. Overlords are quite sturdy, so he could get away with starting with grand displays.
If it were any other time, he might casually note it. But he was just a brush away from it, and that does bother him. He hadn't meant to let things go that far. ]
Oh, you'll be fine. It's just a few puncture wounds... Now, if it were your thigh, you would have a problem on your hands, because you would likely be missing a chunk of it right now.
[ Explaining the difference between the "I want to bite you" bite and the "I want to eat you" bite is probably not much of a step up, but at least it's more in line with his normal behavior?
He works as he stalks. Alastor holds his hand a few inches above the injury, pinching his index and middle finger together with his thumb, and bobbing his hand to thread some imaginary thread and needle as he moves it along. The stitches appear as he does so, closing up the wounds, quick and precise and bringing with it the same sting that would come with having them threaded by hand. ]
[Vox's hands curl right back into fists as soon as he's hit with the additional sting of thread piercing and pulling at his skin. Just another one of those unpleasant pains that he can't quite ignore or flip around into something he might enjoy. All he can do is bear it until the wounds are closed.
Alastor's talking does help to distract a little. The hum in the man's voice somehow always feels like it vibrates somewhere deep inside Vox.]
... That'd be a little harder to hide, yeah. And harder to fix. But at least you'd have a nice snack. [He laughs weakly, reaching that point where he reflexively tries to lift the mood with bad jokes.]
I would. You'd give me indigestion if I had too much, but I wouldn't mind a bite or two... You have quite the unique taste, you know. I think it's the electricity.
[ There's the mechanical parts too, but there's a bit of something extra - or maybe it's just Alastor's imagination. It doesn't really matter. His eyes flick up partway through, but there's not much to be done for the pain that it brings on. Still, his magic (if one could call it that) is a fair bit more efficient than traditional medicine, and so he's able to make quick work of it.
Once done, he examines the neon green stitches that are left in place, double checking to ensure that nothing has been missed. He's done this sort of work on himself countless times, but he can't remember if he's ever done so for another person. Everything looks to be in place, though, and he's stemmed the bleeding... There's the other side too, but that shouldn't require more than bandaging. He had only been trying to keep him in place. ]
[Not really. Is it bad that Alastor's gotten a literal taste of him now? Is the radio demon going to be drawn back to that? Vox hopes not. A little play biting is welcome, he gets that all the time from Val, but this was an outright chomp with very different intentions.
He waits for the stitching to finish, still clenching and unclenching his fists every so often. The prick of discomfort in his other side is barely noted. Whatever's going on there is probably just papercut levels of injury for someone like him. Once the job's done he finally tries lifting himself up into something more of a sitting position, resting his weight on his bent elbows and lower arms.
His first instinct is to complain about the neon green, but he swallows that back down. He's on plenty of thin ice as is.]
[ It's a consideration that he doesn't tend to afford others. It's more care than he shows himself, despite it being the bare minimum, because Alastor is of that generation that believes themselves able to walk things off. If it's something he can't immediately heal, then quick stitches will do.
But Alastor is also a person who isn't inclined to admit to being wrong, much less apologize, and so it's in this way that he can that he can acknowledge that he had gone too far. He doesn't want Vox to be afraid of him in that way. He wants that sort of fear that's born from respect and acknowledgment, from the knowledge of his talent, not the sort of bestial torture he's capable of. The latter is a means to an end anyway, and one reserved for a specific group of people. Quite enjoyable, but in that sort of way that cream and sugar in his coffee are.
They're not friends, but they're... Something. And that look that had been on his face, the prickling tears and static, was something he hasn't seen before - almost like he were the monster he makes himself out to be - and it bothers him more than he thought it would. It tugs at him even as he slips back into his normal demeanor.
He reaches over to tug Vox's shirt down. There's no need to keep him looking like he's about to be dissected. ]
[Vox is also very much of the 'walk things off' generation. That mindset lasted for a long ass time. He holds himself back when he gets into too much discomfort, but even then it's the 'don't make any strenuous movements' type of holding himself back as opposed to just resting. He'll be stumping around Vee Tower again within a day, whether that's wise or not.
The wound still looks messy. Red is smeared all over his abdomen, some of it still shimmering wet. His shirt being pulled down helps to hide it, but he can still smell it and he can still feel it. It's disgusting. The first thing he'll do when he gets back is get in the shower and try to dab himself clean.
He sits up all the way, but doesn't stand just yet. His gaze goes towards Alastor's knees, lingers there for a second, then moves further up to meet his eyes.]
You feelin' better now? Less of a burning desire to kill?
[It feels dumb to ask, but he feels like he has to. Things have been unsteady ever since they made that deal- maybe even since Alastor came back and started working at this stupid hotel. Did this help with the reason he was invited over here at all?]
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Now that exact thing is happening, and it's not what he always dreamed. It's too much; too overwhelming. Too malicious and invasive, because Vox would like it to stop but he's got very few options to do anything about it. Even if he could, he wouldn't beg, and stopping it by force is tricky when most of what he can do would just have Alastor doubling down. The exposure of bare skin prickles at him. He throws his head back as he squirms with discomfort.
Then comes the bite, with numerous sharp teeth piercing skin to damage flesh, and he does scream. Just because the sound is muted doesn't mean it doesn't exist. It echoes through Vox's mind as if were capable of being vocalized beyond that point. His entire body tenses up with agony, and the vents release bursts of warm air in hasty, successive puffs. And he bleeds, of course. The large amount of hardware within him doesn't mean there's no circulation of something so very typical to both mortals and demons.]
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He shudders in response to that warmth, the sensation of blood filling his mouth and staining his face. It's been awhile since he's been able to do this, and no matter how bad the taste, it's ecstasy every time. But Vox is quite lucky, because with anyone else he would have ripped the flesh clean off, but here, he stops at biting, removing his teeth and tilting his head to the side as he examines the injury before dragging his tongue along the area, lapping up the blood as it flows out of him.
And somewhere in that, in a hushed voice - ]
You don't taste half-bad.
[ He doesn't taste good, not being organic, but not as bad as Alastor thought he might either. ]
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He shouldn't have pissed this man off. He got carried away again, let his emotions get the better of him, and now he's paying the price.
As soon as Alastor withdraws, Vox's body releases some of the tension built up inside it, lying down fully flat against the ground again. He's left wheezing, and even with Alastor lapping up some of the blood, it still starts to stain his shirt. There's open wounds on his back and on his abdomen, all aligned in a perfect half oval the shape of Alastor's jaws. His hands curl into fists and he tries to pull at the tendrils again. Futile, maybe, but it's better than playing dead.]
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I'm sure that you were thinking earlier that you could accept being killed by me.
[ He lifts one hand up, scrubbing his mouth with the back of his sleeve now. It's undignified, but these activities are always a dirty affair. Once that's done, he'll start the process of using that same hand to roll Vox's shirt up. ]
This is just a hint of what it's like for an overlord to die by my hands. I offer up to them the worst pain that they've ever felt.
[ Regular sinners are lucky by comparison. He still plays with his food, he gives them a horrifically painful death, but it's at least relatively quick. Overlords are sturdier, more troublesome, and so he has his fun with them. It's like taking a spider and cutting off one leg at a time, and between snips releasing it just to watch it try and fail to escape on its remaining limbs. The screams, gasps, and sobs are all music to his ears during those times.
Here, he prefers the silence.
He keeps his head dipped, staring down at the man's torso rather than his face, but he can see the attempts at pulling at the tendrils in his peripheral vision. It's useless, of course - no amount of pulling at his restraints will grant Vox his freedom. They hold tight. ]
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He can't accept this. He won't. The cables he released earlier are still out, no longer pulling at trees now and instead lying flat on the ground. They all move at once, springing towards Alastor. One tries to wrap around Alastor's hand to stop it from moving his shirt up any further. The others aim for the radio demon's torso, to try and push him back.]
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There's a reason that Alastor keeps his feelings so tightly packed together, and there's a reason that he's so disciplined in his behavior. The moment he allows his emotions start to take control, he loses sight of his actions. He acts as the demon that he is, demanding some sacrifice to quell his rage - to apply a salve to those old wounds that are constantly reopening, healing and scarring; all the anger, all the failures and lack of control and mockery and weakness.
Vox was just unlucky enough to tear open one of those wounds, one that had scabbed over but never scarred.
But he is lucky that the radio demon is fixated on his task. He's not looking directly at the other, keeping his gaze fixed on the body beneath him, and already he's created a plan in his mind for what to do. He's actually trembling in anticipation of it, his smile stretched across his face with an unsettling curve. Vox has mechanical parts to him, and Alastor has fought with him enough to have some idea of how it all pieces together, and that means that there's plenty that he can do with him that he couldn't with -
His train of thought is interrupted by the wire that stops his hand in place first. His fingers freeze in place, but by time he's started to reach for it, he's already being knocked back. His hand retreats, pulling back as he tries to use it to keep his balance. ]
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So he tries to snap Alastor back to reality with the harsh shove. His cable releases the man's wrist, instead joining the others in their attempt to push Alastor back further. He'd try to convey a sentiment some other way; attempt to word an inaudible "stop" or even a "no", but the stinging pain in his abdomen distracts too much. All his energy goes into keeping the radio demon at bay, even as he struggles to keep his eyes open through pricking tears and hazy static.]
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He shakes his head as he tries to collect himself. His smile has thinned out, and his ears lay flat back, discomposed and displeased with this turn of events. ]
... Vox.
[ He breathes out the name despite not wanting to say anything at all. He's done.
Alastor is done. He's not fine in the least. Those disgusting feelings are still there, and it feels like he'll just die if he doesn't find an outlet for them, but the look on Vox's face - one so familiar to him from so many years of experience, but foreign on him - is enough to temper him. There's no longer pleasure to be found in the act of violence, no outlet that he can use - nothing but that hatred and anger he has for the world, those feelings that he swallows back down despite feeling like he's choking on them. There's an exhaustion that sinks all the way through them, and something else that makes him want to retreat, to get away from this, to do something.
But all that comes is a single name, and one hand reaching up to run through his hair. ]
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His chest is still rapidly rising and falling, breath quickened not to the point of hyperventilation, but to something dizzying anyway. His hands clench and unclench into fists at irregular intervals. The sound of his own name muscles its way through the haze and he doesn't know what to make of it. Is he being reprimanded, or is it something else?
The cables retreat for now, sticking near his sides like guard dogs- or, well, snakes- ready to strike again at a second's notice. He doesn't know what happens next, but as long as his arms and legs are being restrained, he's on guard.]
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You don't want to die.
[ His tone has returned to its normal cadence. He's outwardly collected again. He scrubs a little more before he takes his staff in hand and pushes himself up. It was just one bite, but it was a hearty one. He can see the way that the blood stains his hands and jacket. His hair feels sticky in places. ]
You didn't want to die before.
[ And as he says those words Alastor snaps his fingers, and with it his games come to an end. The tendrils disappear, turning into wisps of smoke in the air. The entrance to the bedroom reappears. The mute button is toggled once more. Everything is put back the way it's supposed to be. Because if he doesn't, if they go any further than this, then Alastor knows that he really won't be able to stop. ]
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He doesn't know. He does think it'd be nice to follow Alastor's advice and 'disconnect' for a little while. No haunting or obsessive thoughts, no heavy emotions, no responsibilities... Nothing. Just go offline and come back some other day, when there's a chance Hell might be different.
The tendrils vanish and at once, Vox's arms wrap around his bleeding torso. His knees bend, lifting up from the ground. He doesn't even realize the mute's been undone until a single word leaves him in an exhausted groan.]
Fu-fuck...
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Alastor conjures a towel as he takes a few steps forward to close the gap between them once more. He bends down on one knee beside him to examine the damage. It's nothing that can't be undone, and if the man can't patch himself up then Alastor will at least take responsibility for cleaning up the mess that he made. He doesn't say anything more yet, instead waiting to see if Vox will use his newly returned speaking privileges. ]
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... Game over?
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[ He confirms. Vox looks a mess. Pain is at its worst when a person is cornered, panicked, and afforded nothing else to focus on. Upon looking at the blood standing the ground, he has to admit to himself that leaving the man muted had been a mistake. The silence allowed him to focus on what was beneath claws and teeth alone. He might have caught himself otherwise. ]
Congratulations. You're the first one to survive.
[ He offers cheerlessly, unable to even feign any emotion. For anyone else, the only reward for winning would be a grizzly death. It was just one more way of making them despair. It was a staple for a reason.
He taps Vox's arm, indicating for him to use it. He needs to apply pressure to the area. ]
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Hurray for me...
[He moves his arm to the side as soon as it's tapped, allowing it to fall by his side. The sleeve's wet now, having soaked up a significant amount of blood. He'll have to teleport straight to his room and get rid of these clothes before anyone sees. The last thing he wants is questions about what went down.]
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Alastor sighs, and he has the distinct feeling that he's going to regret what he's about to say, but... ]
You should at least get cleaned up before you leave... [ Or his injury, anyway. There's no saving that outfit. Either way, he'll take the time to clean up the mess that he made. ] Do you need me to stitch you up?
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I dunno... Does it need stitches?
[He hasn't actually looked at it, because looking means lifting up his head and part of his upper torso. He'd much rather just remain flat on the ground for now. It leaves him blind to how bad the injury is.]
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Hold still.
[ Vox should count himself lucky that demons aren't at risk of infection, because Alastor would be pouring a bottle of vodka on that injury next if they were. But for now, he'll just keep applying pressure and ignoring the man's clear discomfort. He's an overlord, and Alastor knows how much pain they're able to endure. ]
I should say so. I bit down as hard as I could. In fact, I could see inside the holes.
[ Granted, it was only because he had his face up against the injury, but he could see how deep those teeth had sunk in. ]
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It's weird.
He lets out a low grunt, eyes closing as he admits defeat.]
Fine. Stitch it up. This body got fixed just fucking last week, I don't need it messed up again.
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If it were any other time, he might casually note it. But he was just a brush away from it, and that does bother him. He hadn't meant to let things go that far. ]
Oh, you'll be fine. It's just a few puncture wounds... Now, if it were your thigh, you would have a problem on your hands, because you would likely be missing a chunk of it right now.
[ Explaining the difference between the "I want to bite you" bite and the "I want to eat you" bite is probably not much of a step up, but at least it's more in line with his normal behavior?
He works as he stalks. Alastor holds his hand a few inches above the injury, pinching his index and middle finger together with his thumb, and bobbing his hand to thread some imaginary thread and needle as he moves it along. The stitches appear as he does so, closing up the wounds, quick and precise and bringing with it the same sting that would come with having them threaded by hand. ]
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Alastor's talking does help to distract a little. The hum in the man's voice somehow always feels like it vibrates somewhere deep inside Vox.]
... That'd be a little harder to hide, yeah. And harder to fix. But at least you'd have a nice snack. [He laughs weakly, reaching that point where he reflexively tries to lift the mood with bad jokes.]
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[ There's the mechanical parts too, but there's a bit of something extra - or maybe it's just Alastor's imagination. It doesn't really matter. His eyes flick up partway through, but there's not much to be done for the pain that it brings on. Still, his magic (if one could call it that) is a fair bit more efficient than traditional medicine, and so he's able to make quick work of it.
Once done, he examines the neon green stitches that are left in place, double checking to ensure that nothing has been missed. He's done this sort of work on himself countless times, but he can't remember if he's ever done so for another person. Everything looks to be in place, though, and he's stemmed the bleeding... There's the other side too, but that shouldn't require more than bandaging. He had only been trying to keep him in place. ]
... There we are. That's much better.
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[Not really. Is it bad that Alastor's gotten a literal taste of him now? Is the radio demon going to be drawn back to that? Vox hopes not. A little play biting is welcome, he gets that all the time from Val, but this was an outright chomp with very different intentions.
He waits for the stitching to finish, still clenching and unclenching his fists every so often. The prick of discomfort in his other side is barely noted. Whatever's going on there is probably just papercut levels of injury for someone like him. Once the job's done he finally tries lifting himself up into something more of a sitting position, resting his weight on his bent elbows and lower arms.
His first instinct is to complain about the neon green, but he swallows that back down. He's on plenty of thin ice as is.]
Yeah... Good enough.
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[ It's a consideration that he doesn't tend to afford others. It's more care than he shows himself, despite it being the bare minimum, because Alastor is of that generation that believes themselves able to walk things off. If it's something he can't immediately heal, then quick stitches will do.
But Alastor is also a person who isn't inclined to admit to being wrong, much less apologize, and so it's in this way that he can that he can acknowledge that he had gone too far. He doesn't want Vox to be afraid of him in that way. He wants that sort of fear that's born from respect and acknowledgment, from the knowledge of his talent, not the sort of bestial torture he's capable of. The latter is a means to an end anyway, and one reserved for a specific group of people. Quite enjoyable, but in that sort of way that cream and sugar in his coffee are.
They're not friends, but they're... Something. And that look that had been on his face, the prickling tears and static, was something he hasn't seen before - almost like he were the monster he makes himself out to be - and it bothers him more than he thought it would. It tugs at him even as he slips back into his normal demeanor.
He reaches over to tug Vox's shirt down. There's no need to keep him looking like he's about to be dissected. ]
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The wound still looks messy. Red is smeared all over his abdomen, some of it still shimmering wet. His shirt being pulled down helps to hide it, but he can still smell it and he can still feel it. It's disgusting. The first thing he'll do when he gets back is get in the shower and try to dab himself clean.
He sits up all the way, but doesn't stand just yet. His gaze goes towards Alastor's knees, lingers there for a second, then moves further up to meet his eyes.]
You feelin' better now? Less of a burning desire to kill?
[It feels dumb to ask, but he feels like he has to. Things have been unsteady ever since they made that deal- maybe even since Alastor came back and started working at this stupid hotel. Did this help with the reason he was invited over here at all?]
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