Captive;; Vox obsesses over two people in Hell, Alastor and you. But this time, he finally has you in his grasp.
warning, this dives into his aggressive and volatile behavior!
Vox obsesses over two people in Hell: Alastor and you. And this time, youâre finally within reach.
Voxâs hatred for Alastor had been simmering for decades, a permanent pain in the ass etched into every fiber he possessed. Betrayal, humiliation, being outplayed, etc. no amount of time or power ever dulled the bitterness. Every time he saw that smug, old-world style broadcast across Hell, something inside him screeched like a broken circuit.
But his feelings toward you were different. Sharper. Stranger.
He didnât want you in the tender, adoring way some pathetic sinner might pine after a crush. No, his desire was possessive, object-driven, almost childish. He wanted you the way a spoiled brat wants a rare toy, treasured not for love, but for ownership. For the thrill of having something no one else could get their hands on. For the satisfaction of showing you off when it amused him⌠and tormenting you when it didnât.
And the most terrifying part was that he genuinely didnât think heâd ever get bored.
Vox often found himself replaying memories of you from years before. Before you vanished without explanation. You werenât weak. You werenât naĂŻve. You had been sharp, quick-witted, headstrong. The sort of person who could survive anything Hell threw at them. So when you disappeared, he refused to believe youâd simply died or been devoured.
For the first few years, he searched. Obsessively. Relentlessly.
He scoured, tore apart neighborhoods, interrogated anyone who might have seen you. Every failed lead chipped away at him until his patience snapped.
And then came the conclusion his ego and insecurities demanded:
You betrayed him. Just like Alastor.
He decided you left him, not because you feared him, not because you needed freedom, but simply to spite him. The logic was thin, irrational, paranoid⌠but logic had never ruled Voxâs obsessions. Control did. Image did. Power did.
Alastorâs betrayal had carved the first fissure. Yours, he decided, was the second.Â
He couldnât stand the idea of someone like you slipping out of his grasp. Someone as capable as you, someone he believed should have belonged to him from the start.
So he stewed. Brooded. Built himself up harder, stronger, more manic in his drive to dominate every pixel of his world.
Now youâre back. And this time, youâre close enough for him to reach, close enough to seize.
For the first time in years, the static in his chest doesnât hiss with rage. It hums with anticipation and excitement.
Valentino and Velvette didnât know what to make of you when Vox dragged you into the studio.
Dragged was the only correct word.
You were tangled in a web of his wires, dozens of them, twisted tight around your torso, your arms pinned uselessly behind your back. Your shoes scraped across the polished floor as Vox hauled you inside like you weighed nothing at all.
But what really stopped the other two Vees was your expression.
You werenât screaming. You werenât resisting. Hell, you barely even looked surprised.
You looked⌠tired. Rough. Worse for wear in a way neither Valentino nor Velvette could chalk up to Voxâs handiwork. You looked like youâd been through Hell long before Vox ever laid a hand on you.
Velvette lowered her phone just a few inches. Enough to show she was paying attention. She stared at you for a few lingering moments before turning back to Vox.
ââŚUh. Babe? You bring home strays now?â
Valentino raised a brow, slow and suspicious. Adding onto her question.
âThe hell happened to them? This ainât your style.â
Vox waved it off. He was positively glowing. Static buzzed around him like excitement leaking out of his body, screens randomly distorting for short blips. He was speaking too fast, too loud, tripping over his own words in a manic rush as he rolled a chair across the floor with his foot.
âOh, you areâ not even gonna believeâ who I foundâ you two, you two, I swearâ this isâ this is perfectââ
He shoved the chair under you, wires hoisting you upright like a marionette before he tied you to it with an almost eager efficiency. His fingers trembled, not from fear, but from sheer thrill.Â
âWell, uh,â Velvette said, eyes flicking between you and Vox, âthey seem⌠compliant?â
âThatâs the creepy part,â Valentino muttered in agreement, âNo fight. Either theyâre drugged or you did something weird.â
Vox didnât even hear them.
Once the final knot was pulled tight, he placed both hands on your shoulders, giving them a cheerful, mocking squeeze like he was congratulating you on your own capture.
âThere,â he beamed. âGood posture. Gotta keep you presentable.â
Then he grabbed your chin, fingers cold and firm as he angled your face upward toward the other two Vees, like a fisherman showing off his prized catch. His grin stretched unnervingly wide across his screen, widest it could be.
âRemember them?â Vox asked the others, though he didnât wait for an answer. âOf course you do. Hard to forget someone like this.â
Velvette tilted her head. âWait.. This is the one you used to freak out about?â She barely remembered what picture Vox showed of you. He had so many of Alastor because the pair fought before, but you never actually fought Vox so the materials he had were lacking. All he had was his childish doodles of you that reminded her of a highschool boyâs crush.
Valentino seemed very confused, âThought they were dead.â Yeah he doesnât pay attention period. He doesnât follow what Vox rants about, Vox rants about you and Alastor a lot. Itâs a kink, he thinks.
âOh, they werenât dead,â Vox said, voice crackling with spiteful glee. âThey were gone. Hiding. Running. And thenââ He gave your cheeks a quick, affectionate pat that didnât match the sharpness in his eyes.
âThey practically fell into my lap.â
You blinked slowly. Calm. Too calm.
And the other two Vees exchanged a look, one that said exactly what neither wanted to say aloud:
There was something wrong with this whole situation.
Something off about the way you watched Vox with quiet acceptance.
Off about the way Vox vibrated with triumph, like heâd won something more important than power or territory.
âSo what now?â Velvette can sense Vox is going to want to host a parade for this, the man has a big ego to stroke, it seems like every man she meets does.
âNow?â He leaned down beside your ear, static humming against your cheek, âNow I finally get to keep whatâs mine.â
Vox didnât stop at merely announcing heâd found you.Â
He went through the whole gist.
He put on a whole damn parade.
News tickers, billboards, planes with banners flying over; every screen in Pentagram City flashed with your face as if you were a long-lost celebrity instead of someone heâd dragged in tied up like a hostage. He even opened a special event slot on his broadcast channel just to talk about you, rant about you, brag about you.
âThatâs right, folks!â he crowed into the camera, grinning like a deranged talk-show host. âThey, in fact⌠cannot do math!â as his news broadcast, 666 Newsâ hosts loudly laughed and clapped with his reveal.
Behind him, giant neon signs blinked violently, all pointed at you:
Edited sparkles and airhorn effects framed your face in the little box at the corner of the broadcast, your expression flat, eyes half-lidded, as though you were waiting for a bus rather than being publicly mocked by an Overlord.
The city roared with laughter. Vox drank it in.
Back in the studio, you sat in that same rolling chair, loosely strapped now,but arms still tightly bound. Vox was too much of a control freak to have you freely moving about. You looked out of it. Not terrified, not angry, but out of your mind, like you werenât mentally present. And that bothered Valentino and Velvette more than all the neon signs combined (Valentino gets a headache from all the bright lights, Velvette just thinks itâs too much).
It bothered Vox too, just not for the same reason.
He leaned down behind you, his shadow covering the lights, voice dropping to a whisper that crackled with static.
His breath grazed your ear, and you blinked.
Only that. No flinch, no protest.
His eyes twitched. The static around him sharpened like knives.
Then, with a hiss of irritation and a muttered curse, Vox kicked the leg of your chair. Hard.
The wheels screeched as you shot across the studio floor like a bowling ball, crashing into the back of a metal desk with enough force to knock a stack of equipment rattling to the ground.
Velvette muttered, âHere we go again,â with an eyeroll before going back to her phone. She doesnât like watching Vox go on his little spirals.Â
Valentino did though, he was into this shit. Velvette tries to ignore the way heâs a bit too focused on this situation.Â
You exhaled, head lolling slightly from the impact, your expression unchanged but your head feeling lighter than before.
Vox smoothed down his suit in exaggerated, theatrical motions as he strolled after you, humming a cheerful little tune as if he hadnât just hurled you.
He bent down in front of you, red screens flickering with delighted anticipation.
âWe do have a photoshoot to attend, after all.â His fingers tapped your cheek twice, mockingly gentle. âBig day. Lots of eyes on you. Try to look alive, sweetheart.â
You stared past him, unfocused, thinking about something far from the studio, far from him.
Vox didnât like that. Not one bit.
You finally flinched when his hand locked around your throat out of nowhere.
Vox stilled, the shift in your expression electrifying him like a power surge. His face darkened, shadows flickering across the screens that made up his features. No smile this time, just wide, spiraling eyes that churned like a hypnotic vortex. They always did that when he slipped too deep into his own feelings.
It never worked on you, and he hated that. He hated that more than anything.
His left hand tightened, slow and deliberate, savoring the way your breath hitched. He tilted your head back, too controlled to be impulsive, as though he were studying you like an insect.
A deep, glitching rumble vibrated through him. His static crawled over your skin.
âDonât think about anything but me.â The words came out low, harsh, distorted, like a failing speaker trying to force sound through a cracked amplifier.
His other hand came up to cage the side of your jaw, fingers spreading across your neck as he applied more pressure. Not enough to knock you out. Just enough to force your attention upward, to make your pulse hammer beneath his thumbs.
The rolling chair creaked as he loomed over you, crowding your space, forcing you back until the backrest groaned and the wheels skidded against the floor. His presence swallowed your vision, static fogging the edges of your sight as he leaned in close, not touching you anywhere else, just the brutal grip of his hands and the weight of his stare.
Your breath came in short, uneven bursts. Your chest rose and fell rapidly, too fast, and the edges of your vision pulsed with dark spots. It felt like your mind was being pressed against a wall, squeezed until it thinned into nothing.
Voxâs fingers tightened again, just enough to make the pressure spike.
His voice dropped to a razor-thin electronic hiss, vibrating through your skull.
âEyes on me. You donât get to look away anymore.â
Your pulse pounded against his grip.
You knew he wouldnât kill you.
He wasnât the type to destroy something heâd only just reclaimed, not yet, not before he picked you apart, rewired you into whatever version of you existed only in his head.
But the certainty wavered. The darkness creeping in at the edges of your sight didnât feel like a bluff.
Your lungs burned. Your throat spasmed. Your fingers curled involuntarily against the restraints as your vision tightened to a narrow tunnel with just Voxâs spiraling eye filling your world.
Air flooded in so quickly it hurt. You doubled forward as far as the restraints allowed, coughing hard enough to make your shoulders shake. Each gasp felt sharp, painful, scraping its way into your chest.
Your head hung low, spots still dancing across your vision as you struggled to steady yourself.
Vox stepped back, dusting off his hands like heâd finished rearranging furniture rather than constricting someoneâs airway.
His posture relaxed. His tone didnât.
âI wonât kill you yet,â he said lightly, almost sing-song, as if he were reassuring a nervous audience rather than addressing a half-conscious captive. âDonât worry about your pretty head.â
A glitchy chuckle crackled through his speakers, too bright, too pleased with himself.
âYouâre far too fun to mess with.â
A/N ;; I like my men crazy, i think that's obvious.. this was a bit short, i had way more ideas, but I hope you guys enjoy!
