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“Oh sweetheart, you’re not planning on sending a drunken text to Vox…”, Rosie gasped dramatically, putting her hand to her chest, while her dark eyes sparkled with mischief. With nimble fingers she plucked her phone out of Alastor’s hands, unlocked it and pulled up a chat window that had Vox’ face in the top left corner.
After a quick crash course on how to actually type a message (complete with how to write capital letters – he refused to be caught misspelling), Alastor typed his first text message with the grace of a tech-illiterate pensioner.
“Your suit looks like it was designed by a drunken peacock.”---
Alastor and Rosie spend a night drinking together while hate-watching one of Vox’ game shows. What starts with a drunken text to Vox about his ridiculous outfit somehow ends in compromising photos and political extortion.
Bookmarked by snailercove
14 Dec 2025

