Sold Your Life For A Thrust | RADIOSTATIC | Previously titled 'An Exception'

Consequences

Vox couldn't breathe.

He tried to inhale, but no air entered his lungs. Neither did it leave when he tried to exhale. There was a fleeting moment of panic, the instinctual urge to need oxygen seizing up his thoughts, filling his mind.

If he didn't already know he was dead, he would think that he was dying. Was he dying?

No, it was more like a state of in-between. Neither dead nor alive. Neither awake nor asleep.

But it hurt. It was hard to even think, the feeling of pure agony replacing almost any other sensations. He couldn't move, couldn't hear anything. Everything felt numb unless he focused on a specific body part, but that just made the pain there intensify tenfold.

He tried to think. Alastor did this to him, for certain; he'd asked him to. He wasn't sure where he was, though. The ground was too soft to be the floorboards of Alastor's bedroom. It was cold, damp, and slightly prickly.

Grass? Yes, that made sense. The air had a certain coolness to it that was only outside. It was quite nice.

Maybe this was a mistake. He shouldn't have asked Alastor to do it. It would have damaged him far less to just get wasted and fuck Valentino... Wait, no, he was mad at him, so that wasn't an option.

It was embarrassing. Everything he'd done. Ever. What had he said to Alastor before?

Oh, he still couldn't breathe. That was rather inconvenient. Except, he was somehow conscious. It was a strange feeling. Having the sensation of being unable to breathe, yet not the consequences of it.

Focusing on what he could feel instead of the pain, he became aware of something wrapped tightly around his throat. That made a lot of sense. But, in doing so, he became aware of the worst agony he had felt in his life, slightly lower down on his neck beneath the constriction. It burned, feeling like a hole was actively being torn into his flesh, even though he could feel nothing on the wound except the disgustingly warm wetness of his own blood.

That wasn't the only injury he could feel. As he gradually gained more feeling in his body, he became aware of how his entire chest and stomach was covered in a warm sheen which, once again, was undoubtedly blood. A similar feeling was on both his fingers and wrists, though he could only feel pain in his left hand. He guessed that whatever Alastor had done had damaged his nerves.

His head hurt, too. A sickening, dull ache which contrasted horribly with the sharpness of the rest of the pain which was spread across his whole body.

It was strangely comforting, though, knowing who inflicted the pain. Knowing that the one who did it must have enjoyed it. Anything was worth it, as long as it made Alastor happy. As long as it meant he made Alastor happy.

Vox wanted nothing more than for Alastor to look at him and like what he saw. He wanted him to actually want him. And if that meant he had to be bleeding, he would gladly take the sharpest knife. If that meant he had to sell his soul, then...

Oh, wait. He'd already done that.

He just wanted to be close to Alastor, in any way. And though, yes, he was into it as well, he just wanted to be close to him outside of torture-sex.

...Well, this was the best he was going to get.

It took a surprising amount of effort to open his eyes, and even then, the world seemed to just be a blur of colours. The most prominent of which seemed to be red. Red, on top of him, reaching out to him... It must be Alastor's hand choking him.

He tried to move to pull the hand away, but his own arms didn't obey. He tried to move his head, which had slightly more success, but he only managed to shift it slightly.