while I’m dying/j, here’s a wip of an animatic I started a long time ago
brownie points if you can guess what song it’s to(I doubt it sadly, I’ll put more out when I work on it more(which won’t be until after I finish the blinded au animations… im ending it/j))
no neck, no color, no hands, and absolutely NO BALLS./j
i’m dying bc of the little hop onto the table, it looks weird but i am DONE with tweaking it 😭
also the whole thing is a lot jumpier than i would’ve liked, but i don’t have the patience to make it smooth and this is my first time ever seriously animating anything so i’m on the struggle bus rn
(yes this is the beginning of the animation. yes i’m doing this out of order. deal with it/j)
SIDE NOTE: THE FRAMING??? HELL YEAH
ALASTOR’S FACE BEING JUST SLIGHTLY FRAMED BY VOX’S CLAWS WAS UNINTENTIONAL BUT I LOVE MYSELF FOR IT NOW(foreshaaaadowinggggggg)
also yes they’ll be colored eventually, i HATE coloring animations so i always have to save it for when i have enough sanity to deal with it 😭 that’s also kinda why the bg is so shitty—i have no idea how to color them
also very proud of the scratch marks, came up with that idea last minute
ps: no idea why the image quality is so bad, mb yall
"Look at this lovely present from Carmilla! Isn't it just awesome?"
With hindsight, Alastor should have paid attention.
The last few days have been so boring and repetitive that oftentimes dissociating sounded way better than staying aware and listen to Vox's rambles about divinity and victory and glory. So damn tedious and annoying.
He's taken aback when he feels Vox grabbing him by the jaw.
A sharp claw leaves a stinging indent in his cheek, but his smile doesn't waver. It's thinner though, more strained, a faint static bzz wiggling itself free from the tight grip Alastor is keeping on anything that can give Vox the satisfaction of watching him squirm.
"Anyway," the buffoon continues, uncaring - or maybe directly unaware. It's not entirely impossible, the fella can be so dense oftentimes - "I want to give you a gift. Something to remember our time together."
Alastor can feel his ears pinning back against his skull. He fights it, after ninty or so years going against his instincts is as easy as breathing - even though he doesn't actually need to breath, but that's not the point -, but he finds it impossible when he feels the cold kiss of angelic steel caressing his forehead right on top of his right eyebrow.
After that fight against Adam he could recognize the feeling every-fucking-where, the unnatural cold of the material, the shiver that he can't control because it's from his own essence, his own soul, sold away, yes, but still teathered to him, still part of who he is.
Vox caresses him like a lover would, pushing his bangs away from Alastor's face, as if to watch him more closely, better. That elicits another shiver from Alastor, one that he can keep in check though. The one that catches him every time somebody starts any form of body contact with him without his consent, every time he sees somebody watching him in that way - which, with his reputation that requires some galls. He could be almost flattered if he wasn't being sexualised in the first place -, but he's able to keep this one under control after so many years spent doing just so.
Vox's still holding his face, still staring right at him like he's looking for something written on Alastor's features, but the moment ends when he interrupts that caress in favour of taking Alastor's monocles off of his face.
The squeeze on his jaw is definitely unpleasant now, especially due to the position they're in - Alastor sitting on that uncomfortable rolling chair, arms tied up behind his back, and Vox, perched on the edge of his desk, shoes on each side of Alastor's hips, on the chair, as to cage him in as much as possible -, but Vox doesn't seem to care.
His grin is as big as his screen allows it to be, eyes shining with a maniac light when he brings his left hand where it was.
Now though, he's not as careful as before.
Alastor can perfectly feel four pinpricks of pain sting him the moment Vox's new claws break skin.
Does he want to-
Vox pushes the claws in even more. Blood starts pooling around the edges, warm and thick. Alastor's nose twitches a little bit, just a tiny, unintentional scrunch up that he can't control because Vox would never-
Vox's grin grows.
To Alastor, he looks like the only source of light in the room. Bright, so damn bright. Alastor can't think. It's too bright, his instincts are screaming at him danger danger danger flee run run run surrender run flee danger danger danger surrender run and he can't - and won't - do any of it. Vox is dangerous now just because he feels like he's in control, but he's not. He's not. He's playing right into Alastor's scheme, and he just needs to- he needs to-
"Don't move."
That's the only warning he gets.
After those two, simple words, pain.
Just pain, a blinding pain that irradiates from the right side of his face right where his eye is, warm blood pouring now freely down his cheekbone, his cheek, the corner of his lips, his chin, his neck, and it's warm and thick and warm and it hurts it hurts God it hurts like nothing has hurt him before. Not even Adam's axe nothing nothing nothing.
Something is also very very wrong. It's a feeling- he shouldn't- he- he never felt anything like that before, never, never. It's like Vox's claws are slashing their way into Alastor's very own being, taking it apart and robbing it of pieces of himself and it's like he's pulling and why is he pulling at what and oh my God it's his eye, Vox's pulling at his eye, and it feels like pressure but it's not, it's the nerve, the nerve, it's not strong enough, he can't, it can't resist, it's-
There's rambling. Somebody's rambling, Alastor's pretty sure it's not himself. His words wouldn't be eligible anyway due to the static, now completely out of his control. A strong, buzzing sound that permeates everything, everything, and reverberates in his bones his head his damned teeth and he's sure, oh so sure, that there's a low, agonizing, animal bellow distorting the radio waves. He can't control it right now, he can't, he can't he can't he can't, and why the Hell it's taking so long, why the Hell does Vox need to be such a sadistic bastard, and Alastor have to give him some credits because Alastor himself adopted this exact kind of torture over and over again with the guests of his broadcast, but he's an hypocrite and he couldn't care less, he's in Hell for a reason, and this game is extremely not funny when he's at the receiving end of the claws.
Also-
Alastor can't think. Not with that blinding - hah. Funny. Blinding. - pain, not with the light that's shining in his - remaning - eye. Vox's screen, only source of light in the room now, with Alastor's shadows closed up all around them, drowning them in reassuring darkness.
Alastor wishes the sight was as calming as it usually is, but now the thought that darkness will be the only thing he'll be able to see for the rest of eternity because fuck, that's angelic steel, and Vox is actually ripping his eye off, and Alastor can see his own shadow writhe on the ground in agony, hands raised to her own face as if to try and stop what's happening from happening.
Alastor wishes he could do the same.
He wishes he could free himself from those cables and resist, bite a piece off of Vox's neck, hear him gargle in his own damned electrolytes and rip his damned hand off its wrist and-
And why the fuck he's dragging it out so much, the moronic-
The nerve gives out.
Alastor can feel it in his own being. Can feel each strand tearing, each segment ripping messily, the sensation alien enough to almost make him gag.
When Vox finally, finally takes back his hand, his claws are drenched in blood, and there's something- not- not something, it's his damned eyeball. God. Alastor's eyeball in the palm of his hand.
Vox studies it with rapt interest for a few seconds before looking up- down at Alastor, the grin already present on his screen stretching, shark wide now.
"Still smiling?" A wet plop comes from Alastor's left when Vox throws his fucking eye in that direction, like it's nothing important.
And maybe it isn't, now. Alastor can't even will his ears to straighten up, to follow the sound. He's in too much pain. And he's cold. He's always cold when using his powers, willingly or not, but right now he's freezing, the canopy of darkness above their head and all around them able to lower the temperature of enough degrees to even allow Vox's body to stop the cooling fans on his torso, since they're not needed anymore.
Alastor can feel the absence of the sound even through all the tormented static that pervade the room.
Vox grabs Alastor's face again, with that same hand he used to mutilate him, blood rapidly growing tacky on his skin, and moves his face a little bit, as if trying to find a better angle to admire his own handywork.
Alastor wants to bite all of his fingers off, wants to feast on his carcass, wants to eat him alive.
"I can't deny, it's really impressive."
There's a chuckle under Vox's words. Low and menacing, but satisfied, too. Like a cat that got the cream, like a- like a predator with its prey, Alastor's instincts kindly remind him.
Alastor tries to find some words to answer him, to smart back, but his tongue feels like lead in his mouth, and he's pretty sure that if he tries to speak he won't be able to keep his smile in place. Which would be really disappointing, this far into their game. He tries to access the radio waves, but they're too disrupted by his own stress to answer him, so that's a dead end too.
He does the only thing still in his power, then.
He keeps his smile on his face, keeps staring at Vox with his remaining eye.
His breathing is too shallow, too fast, he can't express with movement nor words how much he'll enjoy his revenge, how much he'll make Vox regret it, so Alastor simply stares.
His head is a lump of pain and he can't think straight, but he's still not defeated.
He'll never be.
Vox seems to slowly grow more and more aware of it, of what he's done, because he looks uneasier by the minute.
He stares back at Alastor for a second before pushing his face down by the jaw, as if forcing a defiant dog to submit to its master.
Alastor is no dog. And he will not submit.
After seventy and more years, Vox knows it too.
"You're lucky, y'know?", the twit starts again. Moves his legs from Alastor's sides, stands up from the desk he was sitting on. "I'm such a nice fucking guy, you have no idea. You hadn't seen me for all this time, you don't deserve to see at all. But I'm still giving you a second chance to make it up for me." He utters, almost to himself. Goes to the en suite to grab a washcloth, starts cleaning his claws. "Don't waste it."
Alastor doesn't answer. He's taking control of the radiowaves again, his shadows retreat in the corners of the room. His own shadow is still on the floor, as if crying, but she's smart enough to fade away too in a place where she's not seen. He could answer, but he doesn't. He won't. No need to waste breath and brainpower to acknowledge Vox's words.
Vox himself knows he lost the upper hand so many years ago.
He knows he never had it.
Alastor simply watches him through his bangs. Stares at him.
And thinks about a way to make him pay.
( @elsa-fogen I'm tagging you because I dunno if you have reblog notifications active)
some doodles of @elsa-fogen ‘s blind alastor au because I was bored and god DAMN I LOVE THIS AU
ALASTOR WOULD ABSOLUTELY WEAR THE MONOCLE STILL OUT OF PURE IRONY AND SPITE.
i also wanted to see it in my style bc lowkey i want to animate some of the comics and it is much easier to animate in a style im used to(but i really wanna learn how to draw her redesigns bc they’re so YUMMY 😋)
i haven’t drawn vox in forever and had no idea what to put in the right corner so i js added him, but it’s also partly bc I couldn’t get that one panel of his little guilty face out of my head cuz like YEAH DUMBASS, YOU DID THAT SHIT.
