Vox sat in his beloved pyjamas — which were truly and merely a robe he felt too lazy to tie properly around his waist — , legs spread out, knees facing opposite directions, and back slumped over on his couch. His illuminating screen casted an annoyed scowl and an eyeroll every now and then, Alastors return the only thing on his hectic and frenzied mind, what the bigger version of his screen before him was showing being mere entertainment for his bright red sclera and turquoise glowing eyes to stare at.

He had been humiliated today. Made fun of, laughed at, and insulted by The Radio Demon himself. Fucking old-timey prick...

His hypothetical cheeks burned with dark blush, truquoise, sharp claws holding his beloved mug filled with delicious warm tea inside, the exterior holding the words "FUCK ALASTOR" in red text.