Vincent "Vox" Whittman and Alastor LeBlanc
Undeserved Ascendance
chapter 5
by
copier
· original author:
an188
Vincent "Vox" Whittman leaned back in his chair, grinning wickedly. He was in his office, certificates of achievement, honors, and a host of awards hanging on the walls. He was at his peak, one of the most successful newspaper and television reporters in the country. He was happy but that wasn't enough for him, he wanted more power, more admiration. He had been thinking deeply in recent weeks about quitting and starting his own news company, a broadcast network that he would own and star in. The internet had changed everything, and now for someone like him, it was no problem to take that step.
He grabbed a pen and began scribbling on paper. He had already thought of a name for his new network. "Vox Network," he muttered, then grinned. It was perfect. He began writing down possible logos, imagining the neon lights flashing his name. He thought about the taglines: "The Voice of Truth," "All Eyes on Vox," "The Future of News." Each one sounded better than the last. He pictured himself hosting a late-night talk show, interviewing celebrities, and exposing scandals. He imagined the ratings, the headlines, the way people would hang on his every word.
His fingers tapped impatiently on the desk as he doodled a stylized "V" in the corner of the paper. He envisioned a sleek, modern studio, all dark tones and sharp angles—just like him. The thought of controlling everything—the content, the narrative, the audience—sent a thrill down his spine. He wondered if Alastor would watch. If he’d be jealous. The idea of Alastor seething somewhere, listening to his voice, watching his face dominate the screen, was almost too delicious.
With Alastor in mind, he reached for the dial on the vintage radio perched on his desk. The static crackled briefly before Alastor's voice flooded the room, smooth as bourbon and twice as intoxicating. "—and in Havenridge tonight, the mayor's office remains tight-lipped about the alleged embezzlement scandal, but rest assured, dear listeners, the truth always finds its way to my microphone." Vox's breath hitched. That cadence, that goddamn smugness—it coiled around him like a vice. His cock twitched against his thigh, memories flashing unbidden: Alastor's mouth grazing his ear, whispering filth in that velvet voice until Vox was shuddering beneath him.
He adjusted himself roughly through his slacks, teeth sinking into his lower lip. The radio played on, Alastor dissecting some senator's career with surgical precision, but all Vox could hear was the way he'd gasp his name in bed, the way his fingers would dig into his hips like he was trying to leave bruises that'd last longer than their arguments. The ink smudged under his palm as his grip tightened on the pen. Fuck. He should've known better than to listen. Alastor had always been his kryptonite—a weakness dressed up as a rival.
A sharp twist of his wrist beneath the desk, and his breath stuttered. The friction was good, not enough, never enough unless it was him. He imagined Alastor's knee pressing between his thighs right now, that fucking smirk as he dragged it upward until Vox choked on his own pride. He came with a bitten-off groan, forehead hitting the desk hard enough to rattle the pens. Pathetic. Sweat prickled at his temples as he wiped his hand on a discarded draft, tossing it into the overflowing bin marked "Failed Concepts."
The radio clicked off mid-sentence, leaving the room thick with silence and the scent of expensive cologne gone sour with arousal. Back to the scribbled plans—logos, projections, a list of potential investors all crossed out in angry red strokes. His savings were impressive, but media empires weren't built on petty cash. Banks would demand collateral; partners would want control. His jaw clenched at the thought of some suit sitting across from him, dictating terms like he wasn't Vox fucking Whittman.
A knock at the door—three quick raps, the hesitant rhythm of someone who'd learned the hard way not to interrupt. The assistant, some fresh-faced Ivy League grad with trembling hands and a tailored waistcoat two sizes too small, stepped in balancing a porcelain cup on a silver tray. "Your coffee, Mr. Whittman," he murmured, gaze fixed somewhere near Vox's left earlobe. The kid reeked of fear and ambition, a combination that always made his teeth itch. He crooked a finger. "Closer."
The bathroom tiles were cold against the assistant's back, his choked moans muffled by Vox's palm clamped over his mouth. He'd come untouched twice already, thighs shaking, dress pants pooling around his ankles like a surrender flag. Vox fucked him harder, hips slamming forward with a violence that had the kid sobbing—not from pain, but from the dizzying whiplash of pleasure and humiliation. "P-Please," he gasped when Vox finally let him breathe, lips swollen and spit-slick. "I'll—I'll do anything—"
Vox laughed, low and cruel, dragging a thumb through the mess on the kid's stomach before shoving it between his teeth. "You already did." He stepped back, adjusting his cuffs like he hadn't just ruined someone against a sink. The assistant slid to the floor, trembling, tie askew and shirt half-unbuttoned where Vox had ripped it open. He looked up with wet, worshipful eyes—right before Vox's shoe connected with his ribs. "Clean yourself up. You're disgusting."
Back at his desk, Vox snatched the coffee cup, still steaming. Perfect temperature, just the right bitterness beneath the cream. He took a slow sip, savoring it—then hurled it against the wall. Porcelain shattered, dark liquid streaking the awards he'd hung there like trophies. "Too fucking sweet," he snarled, though it wasn't. The assistant flinched in the doorway, clutching his ruined shirt. "Out," Vox snapped, and the kid scrambled, tripping over his own feet.
He picked up his phone, thumb hovering over the screen. The lock screen was a stock image of a city skyline, professional, impersonal. But his gallery—that was a different story. He swiped past receipts, blackmail-worthy candids, until he found it: Alastor's tanned fingers tangled in his hair, both of them glistening under the Caribbean sun. The muscles in Alastor's stomach flexed as he leaned in, lips parted, that fucking smirk Vox could still taste when he bit down too hard on his own tongue. He'd taken the photo mid-kiss, just to prove it was real—that for one week, they'd been something other than rivals.
His thumb traced the curve of Alastor's shoulder, the dip of his spine where Vox had dug his nails in later that night. The memory hit like a sucker punch: salt on his lips, sand in places sand shouldn't be, Alastor's laugh vibrating against his throat when Vox tried (and failed) to pin him down. He'd been so alive then, so fucking hungry, like he wanted to devour Vox whole and pick his teeth with the bones. Now? Static on a radio. A ghost haunting his goddamn zipper.
Vox wiped his cheek with the back of his hand, smearing the tear before it could betray him further. Weakness was for men who hadn't built empires out of other people's desperation. He tapped the screen—once, twice—until the photo vanished into the digital abyss. Better to burn the evidence than let it fester. But his fingers betrayed him, swiping back to it immediately, zooming in on the way Alastor's teeth glinted, sharp as the knife he'd left buried in Vox's ribs when he walked out.
The Caribbean sun had turned Alastor's skin gold, his laughter salt-stung and careless as he'd dragged Vox into the surf, whispering about how easy it would be to drown him. Vox had let him try—let those pianist's fingers close around his throat just to feel the rush of trusting someone who'd as soon slit your wrists as kiss them. That was the addiction: not the sex (though Christ, the sex), but the razor's edge between devotion and destruction. He could still taste the rum on Alastor's tongue when he bit down hard enough to draw blood.
Now, alone in his office with the scent of coffee and cum gone stale, Vox clenched his fists until his nails bit crescents into his palms. Alastor had ruined him for anything less than worship laced with poison. Every pretty boy who knelt for him was just another disappointment, another body that didn't fight back when he pushed too hard. He wiped his face roughly, but another tear escaped—hot, humiliating. The radio sat silent, mocking.
How do they get powerful?
He grabbed a pen and began scribbling on paper. He had already thought of a name for his new network. "Vox Network," he muttered, then grinned. It was perfect. He began writing down possible logos, imagining the neon lights flashing his name. He thought about the taglines: "The Voice of Truth," "All Eyes on Vox," "The Future of News." Each one sounded better than the last. He pictured himself hosting a late-night talk show, interviewing celebrities, and exposing scandals. He imagined the ratings, the headlines, the way people would hang on his every word.
His fingers tapped impatiently on the desk as he doodled a stylized "V" in the corner of the paper. He envisioned a sleek, modern studio, all dark tones and sharp angles—just like him. The thought of controlling everything—the content, the narrative, the audience—sent a thrill down his spine. He wondered if Alastor would watch. If he’d be jealous. The idea of Alastor seething somewhere, listening to his voice, watching his face dominate the screen, was almost too delicious.
With Alastor in mind, he reached for the dial on the vintage radio perched on his desk. The static crackled briefly before Alastor's voice flooded the room, smooth as bourbon and twice as intoxicating. "—and in Havenridge tonight, the mayor's office remains tight-lipped about the alleged embezzlement scandal, but rest assured, dear listeners, the truth always finds its way to my microphone." Vox's breath hitched. That cadence, that goddamn smugness—it coiled around him like a vice. His cock twitched against his thigh, memories flashing unbidden: Alastor's mouth grazing his ear, whispering filth in that velvet voice until Vox was shuddering beneath him.
He adjusted himself roughly through his slacks, teeth sinking into his lower lip. The radio played on, Alastor dissecting some senator's career with surgical precision, but all Vox could hear was the way he'd gasp his name in bed, the way his fingers would dig into his hips like he was trying to leave bruises that'd last longer than their arguments. The ink smudged under his palm as his grip tightened on the pen. Fuck. He should've known better than to listen. Alastor had always been his kryptonite—a weakness dressed up as a rival.
A sharp twist of his wrist beneath the desk, and his breath stuttered. The friction was good, not enough, never enough unless it was him. He imagined Alastor's knee pressing between his thighs right now, that fucking smirk as he dragged it upward until Vox choked on his own pride. He came with a bitten-off groan, forehead hitting the desk hard enough to rattle the pens. Pathetic. Sweat prickled at his temples as he wiped his hand on a discarded draft, tossing it into the overflowing bin marked "Failed Concepts."
The radio clicked off mid-sentence, leaving the room thick with silence and the scent of expensive cologne gone sour with arousal. Back to the scribbled plans—logos, projections, a list of potential investors all crossed out in angry red strokes. His savings were impressive, but media empires weren't built on petty cash. Banks would demand collateral; partners would want control. His jaw clenched at the thought of some suit sitting across from him, dictating terms like he wasn't Vox fucking Whittman.
A knock at the door—three quick raps, the hesitant rhythm of someone who'd learned the hard way not to interrupt. The assistant, some fresh-faced Ivy League grad with trembling hands and a tailored waistcoat two sizes too small, stepped in balancing a porcelain cup on a silver tray. "Your coffee, Mr. Whittman," he murmured, gaze fixed somewhere near Vox's left earlobe. The kid reeked of fear and ambition, a combination that always made his teeth itch. He crooked a finger. "Closer."
The bathroom tiles were cold against the assistant's back, his choked moans muffled by Vox's palm clamped over his mouth. He'd come untouched twice already, thighs shaking, dress pants pooling around his ankles like a surrender flag. Vox fucked him harder, hips slamming forward with a violence that had the kid sobbing—not from pain, but from the dizzying whiplash of pleasure and humiliation. "P-Please," he gasped when Vox finally let him breathe, lips swollen and spit-slick. "I'll—I'll do anything—"
Vox laughed, low and cruel, dragging a thumb through the mess on the kid's stomach before shoving it between his teeth. "You already did." He stepped back, adjusting his cuffs like he hadn't just ruined someone against a sink. The assistant slid to the floor, trembling, tie askew and shirt half-unbuttoned where Vox had ripped it open. He looked up with wet, worshipful eyes—right before Vox's shoe connected with his ribs. "Clean yourself up. You're disgusting."
Back at his desk, Vox snatched the coffee cup, still steaming. Perfect temperature, just the right bitterness beneath the cream. He took a slow sip, savoring it—then hurled it against the wall. Porcelain shattered, dark liquid streaking the awards he'd hung there like trophies. "Too fucking sweet," he snarled, though it wasn't. The assistant flinched in the doorway, clutching his ruined shirt. "Out," Vox snapped, and the kid scrambled, tripping over his own feet.
He picked up his phone, thumb hovering over the screen. The lock screen was a stock image of a city skyline, professional, impersonal. But his gallery—that was a different story. He swiped past receipts, blackmail-worthy candids, until he found it: Alastor's tanned fingers tangled in his hair, both of them glistening under the Caribbean sun. The muscles in Alastor's stomach flexed as he leaned in, lips parted, that fucking smirk Vox could still taste when he bit down too hard on his own tongue. He'd taken the photo mid-kiss, just to prove it was real—that for one week, they'd been something other than rivals.
His thumb traced the curve of Alastor's shoulder, the dip of his spine where Vox had dug his nails in later that night. The memory hit like a sucker punch: salt on his lips, sand in places sand shouldn't be, Alastor's laugh vibrating against his throat when Vox tried (and failed) to pin him down. He'd been so alive then, so fucking hungry, like he wanted to devour Vox whole and pick his teeth with the bones. Now? Static on a radio. A ghost haunting his goddamn zipper.
Vox wiped his cheek with the back of his hand, smearing the tear before it could betray him further. Weakness was for men who hadn't built empires out of other people's desperation. He tapped the screen—once, twice—until the photo vanished into the digital abyss. Better to burn the evidence than let it fester. But his fingers betrayed him, swiping back to it immediately, zooming in on the way Alastor's teeth glinted, sharp as the knife he'd left buried in Vox's ribs when he walked out.
The Caribbean sun had turned Alastor's skin gold, his laughter salt-stung and careless as he'd dragged Vox into the surf, whispering about how easy it would be to drown him. Vox had let him try—let those pianist's fingers close around his throat just to feel the rush of trusting someone who'd as soon slit your wrists as kiss them. That was the addiction: not the sex (though Christ, the sex), but the razor's edge between devotion and destruction. He could still taste the rum on Alastor's tongue when he bit down hard enough to draw blood.
Now, alone in his office with the scent of coffee and cum gone stale, Vox clenched his fists until his nails bit crescents into his palms. Alastor had ruined him for anything less than worship laced with poison. Every pretty boy who knelt for him was just another disappointment, another body that didn't fight back when he pushed too hard. He wiped his face roughly, but another tear escaped—hot, humiliating. The radio sat silent, mocking.
How do they get powerful?
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June 13
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