Meteorite
Undeserved Ascendance
chapter 6
by
copier
· original author:
an188
A knock snapped Vox back to reality—two sharp raps, followed by the hesitant clearing of a throat. His newest assistant, a twitchy thing with glasses too big for her face, hovered in the doorway. "Mr. Whittman," she said, voice wavering like a radio tuning between stations, "the, uh—the Ursids meteor shower peaks tonight. Over Havenridge. Perkins was supposed to cover it, but he’s down with food poisoning."
Vox didn’t look up from the financial projections bleeding red ink across his desk. "And?"
The assistant swallowed audibly. "They asked if you can do the live segment instead." Vox's pen stilled. He could practically hear Alastor's voice in his head—Oh, slumming it with astronomy now, are we?—and the thought alone made his teeth grind. But the fresh air might clear the stench of his own self-loathing, and who knew? Maybe inspiration would strike beneath the stars. He flashed the girl a smile sharp enough to draw blood. "Tell them to prep the broadcast truck. We leave in twenty."
The mountain air was crisp, laced with pine and the distant hum of Havenridge's skyline. Vox leaned against the truck's hood, watching the crew scramble with tripods and cables like ants on a sugar high. His breath fogged in the cold, fingers tapping an impatient rhythm against his thigh. The city sprawled below, a glittering chessboard waiting for him to flip the pieces. There's always venture capital, he mused, or maybe a few well-placed scandals to loosen some purse strings. The thought curled his lips into something predatory.
A meteor streaked across the sky—a silent, silver slash—but Vox barely glanced up. His phone buzzed: another rejection from a potential investor. He crushed his cigarette underfoot, grinding it into the dirt with more force than necessary. "Mr. Whittman?" The assistant's voice was tinny through the headset. "We're live in five." He adjusted his lapel mic, the red light of the camera blinking like a warning. Perform, he reminded himself. Always perform.
The broadcast was flawless. Vox cracked a joke about trading political scandals for "celestial gossip," his grin sharp enough to cut glass. Behind him, the sky erupted in silent fire—metors flaring and fading like dying stars. He described them with clinical detachment, voice smooth as bourbon, but his mind was elsewhere: spreadsheets, blackmail folders, the ghost of Alastor's laugh. When they cut to commercial, the crew erupted in relieved applause. Vox waved them off. "Pack it up. I'm heading home."
The parking lot was deserted, asphalt glistening under the weak glow of security lights. His footsteps echoed, too loud in the quiet. Then—a shadow detached itself from between the cars. Vox's breath hitched. Alastor stood there, hands in his pockets, waistcoat rumpled like he'd slept in it. His smirk was a razor wrapped in silk. "Oh... it you." Vox's voice dripped disdain, but his cock throbbed painfully against his zipper. "What, did your microphone finally grow tired of hearing you talk?"
Alastor tilted his head, the moonlight catching his glasses just so—obscuring his eyes, leaving only the curve of his lips visible. "Funny. I could ask you the same." His voice was a purr, velvet over steel. Vox's fists clenched. The space between them crackled with unsaid things—bruises left in hotel rooms, promises spat like curses. "You look terrible," Alastor added, stepping closer. The scent of bourbon and bergamot hit Vox like a gut punch. "Miss me?"
Vox scoffed, but his pulse rabbited in his throat. "Like a migraine." He didn't step back, didn't give an inch—even when Alastor's knee brushed his thigh, deliberate as a blade. The parking lot lights flickered overhead, casting their shadows long and tangled. "You vanished," Vox snarled. No accusations, just fact. Alastor's smirk wavered. "You noticed." The words were flippant, but his fingers twitched—reaching, then retreating.
The argument erupted like a gas leak catching flame. Alastor jabbed a gloved finger into Vox's chest. "You're predictable. Always chasing the next shiny thing." Vox grabbed his wrist, twisting hard enough to make him hiss. "And you're a coward," he breathed against Alastor's mouth. "Ran when it got real." Alastor laughed, sharp and brittle. "Real? You wouldn't know real if it fucked you raw on live television." Their hips collided, both straining against tailored fabric.
Vox could taste the lie in the air—bourbon, sweat, the metallic tang of want. Alastor's pupils swallowed the brown of his irises, his breath hitching when Vox's knee pressed between his thighs. "Still lying to yourself," Vox murmured, dragging his teeth along Alastor's jaw. "Admit it. You came here for me." Alastor's hands fisted in Vox's shirt, tearing a button loose. "I came to watch you fail," he spat, but his hips jerked forward, grinding against Vox's thigh.
Their scuffle tipped sideways, boots skidding on loose gravel. Vox's elbow caught Alastor's ribs—a sharp crack, a hissed curse—before the momentum sent them tumbling downhill. Pine needles whipped at their faces, branches snagging silk and skin alike. They rolled, tangled limbs and bitten-off curses, until the world lurched violently. The slope steepened. Vox's stomach dropped as gravity took over, Alastor's scream ringing in his ears like a bad radio signal. Dirt filled his mouth, his nose, the sting of ripped fabric giving way to cold, damp earth.
They slammed into a rotting log, breathless and battered. Vox blinked dirt from his lashes, tasting copper—his lip was split, Alastor's glove torn at the knuckles. The forest swallowed the sound of their panting, darkness pressing in like a shroud. Before either could spit another insult, the sky split open. A searing blue-and-pink streak hurtled past the treetops, impact shaking the ground beneath them. Dirt rained down as the meteorite carved a smoking crater mere feet away, its eerie glow painting Alastor's stunned face in otherworldly hues.
Vox staggered up first, his ruined suit sleeve snagging on a bramble. The crater pulsed with veins of light, casting jagged shadows up the pines. Something hummed—not sound, but vibration, rattling his molars. Alastor wiped blood from his chin with a trembling laugh. "Christ. Even the universe thinks you're full of shit." The glow intensified, refracting off his cracked lenses. Vox's pulse hammered. "Shut up. That's not—" The light *twitched*. A fissure cracked open along the meteorite's surface.
They...
Vox didn’t look up from the financial projections bleeding red ink across his desk. "And?"
The assistant swallowed audibly. "They asked if you can do the live segment instead." Vox's pen stilled. He could practically hear Alastor's voice in his head—Oh, slumming it with astronomy now, are we?—and the thought alone made his teeth grind. But the fresh air might clear the stench of his own self-loathing, and who knew? Maybe inspiration would strike beneath the stars. He flashed the girl a smile sharp enough to draw blood. "Tell them to prep the broadcast truck. We leave in twenty."
The mountain air was crisp, laced with pine and the distant hum of Havenridge's skyline. Vox leaned against the truck's hood, watching the crew scramble with tripods and cables like ants on a sugar high. His breath fogged in the cold, fingers tapping an impatient rhythm against his thigh. The city sprawled below, a glittering chessboard waiting for him to flip the pieces. There's always venture capital, he mused, or maybe a few well-placed scandals to loosen some purse strings. The thought curled his lips into something predatory.
A meteor streaked across the sky—a silent, silver slash—but Vox barely glanced up. His phone buzzed: another rejection from a potential investor. He crushed his cigarette underfoot, grinding it into the dirt with more force than necessary. "Mr. Whittman?" The assistant's voice was tinny through the headset. "We're live in five." He adjusted his lapel mic, the red light of the camera blinking like a warning. Perform, he reminded himself. Always perform.
The broadcast was flawless. Vox cracked a joke about trading political scandals for "celestial gossip," his grin sharp enough to cut glass. Behind him, the sky erupted in silent fire—metors flaring and fading like dying stars. He described them with clinical detachment, voice smooth as bourbon, but his mind was elsewhere: spreadsheets, blackmail folders, the ghost of Alastor's laugh. When they cut to commercial, the crew erupted in relieved applause. Vox waved them off. "Pack it up. I'm heading home."
The parking lot was deserted, asphalt glistening under the weak glow of security lights. His footsteps echoed, too loud in the quiet. Then—a shadow detached itself from between the cars. Vox's breath hitched. Alastor stood there, hands in his pockets, waistcoat rumpled like he'd slept in it. His smirk was a razor wrapped in silk. "Oh... it you." Vox's voice dripped disdain, but his cock throbbed painfully against his zipper. "What, did your microphone finally grow tired of hearing you talk?"
Alastor tilted his head, the moonlight catching his glasses just so—obscuring his eyes, leaving only the curve of his lips visible. "Funny. I could ask you the same." His voice was a purr, velvet over steel. Vox's fists clenched. The space between them crackled with unsaid things—bruises left in hotel rooms, promises spat like curses. "You look terrible," Alastor added, stepping closer. The scent of bourbon and bergamot hit Vox like a gut punch. "Miss me?"
Vox scoffed, but his pulse rabbited in his throat. "Like a migraine." He didn't step back, didn't give an inch—even when Alastor's knee brushed his thigh, deliberate as a blade. The parking lot lights flickered overhead, casting their shadows long and tangled. "You vanished," Vox snarled. No accusations, just fact. Alastor's smirk wavered. "You noticed." The words were flippant, but his fingers twitched—reaching, then retreating.
The argument erupted like a gas leak catching flame. Alastor jabbed a gloved finger into Vox's chest. "You're predictable. Always chasing the next shiny thing." Vox grabbed his wrist, twisting hard enough to make him hiss. "And you're a coward," he breathed against Alastor's mouth. "Ran when it got real." Alastor laughed, sharp and brittle. "Real? You wouldn't know real if it fucked you raw on live television." Their hips collided, both straining against tailored fabric.
Vox could taste the lie in the air—bourbon, sweat, the metallic tang of want. Alastor's pupils swallowed the brown of his irises, his breath hitching when Vox's knee pressed between his thighs. "Still lying to yourself," Vox murmured, dragging his teeth along Alastor's jaw. "Admit it. You came here for me." Alastor's hands fisted in Vox's shirt, tearing a button loose. "I came to watch you fail," he spat, but his hips jerked forward, grinding against Vox's thigh.
Their scuffle tipped sideways, boots skidding on loose gravel. Vox's elbow caught Alastor's ribs—a sharp crack, a hissed curse—before the momentum sent them tumbling downhill. Pine needles whipped at their faces, branches snagging silk and skin alike. They rolled, tangled limbs and bitten-off curses, until the world lurched violently. The slope steepened. Vox's stomach dropped as gravity took over, Alastor's scream ringing in his ears like a bad radio signal. Dirt filled his mouth, his nose, the sting of ripped fabric giving way to cold, damp earth.
They slammed into a rotting log, breathless and battered. Vox blinked dirt from his lashes, tasting copper—his lip was split, Alastor's glove torn at the knuckles. The forest swallowed the sound of their panting, darkness pressing in like a shroud. Before either could spit another insult, the sky split open. A searing blue-and-pink streak hurtled past the treetops, impact shaking the ground beneath them. Dirt rained down as the meteorite carved a smoking crater mere feet away, its eerie glow painting Alastor's stunned face in otherworldly hues.
Vox staggered up first, his ruined suit sleeve snagging on a bramble. The crater pulsed with veins of light, casting jagged shadows up the pines. Something hummed—not sound, but vibration, rattling his molars. Alastor wiped blood from his chin with a trembling laugh. "Christ. Even the universe thinks you're full of shit." The glow intensified, refracting off his cracked lenses. Vox's pulse hammered. "Shut up. That's not—" The light *twitched*. A fissure cracked open along the meteorite's surface.
They...
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June 13
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