— Vox x Reader
Or, as his human name has been revealed to be: Vincent Whittman.
— Summary: You are Vincent's wife, as he is rising to stardom.
𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚
You had met Vincent at a coffee shop a year prior.
Both of you were waiting for your beverages at the same time. The pair of you stood maybe five feet apart, if you are being generous. Although, with the way your gaze practically burned into the man, you might as well have been latched onto him from the very first moment.
You couldn't quite place it. But somehow, someway, you had seen this man before. His face was etched into your mind with such familiarity that you couldn't ignore him. Unfortunately, he as a whole was threaded into your mind with such obscurity that also you couldn't approach him.
Of course, it was Vincent who made the first move. Or rather, uttered the first words.
"Is there something on my face?" He questioned with a smile...half-genuinely, half-teasingly.
"Oh—!" Him acknowledging you took you off guard. You flustered with your words for a moment, before clarifying: "No sir. You look wonderful, actually, I love your suit. It compliments you so well." You smiled. "I just can't match your face to a name in my head. I could've sworn I've seen you before."
"Oh, well, I'm the current weatherman for our local news, so. That's probably where you've seen me." He responded, humbly, still retaining that smile. You would later learn that such humbleness was forced. A veil to hide the sheer amount of discontentment that he felt with his position. And by consequence, himself.
"That's right!" You beamed, satisfied that you could finally put that nagging thought in your mind to rest. Granted, such nagging thought only persisted for the one minute you were waiting beside this man. But, nevertheless, it was nagging. "Vincent Whittman? If I'm remembering correctly?"
"That would be me," He assured.
"Wow. It's so fascinating that you're a weatherman. I was very interested in meteorology when I was younger. You must have a lot of fun." You awed, in such admiration, and respect.
Now, Vincent was the one caught off-guard. This was the first time that someone had approached him with respect, and not humorously. The first time that someone had treated him as a person who should be proud of themselves, and not the abysmal opposite.
"Oh. I— um— well, it could be nicer," he admitted. "But I am extremely grateful. I love being on television. I have always loved television. That part is what is so fascinating to me—"
"Iced caramel latte!" The barista called out, interrupting Vincent.
You smiled as you approached the bar, taking your drink with a "thank you" and an even wider smile, before returning to where you stood.
"Iced caramel latte?" Vincent questioned, as he chuckled softly.
"It's delicious. Do you not like iced latte's? Or is it that you don't like caramel?" You sipped your drink contently.
"I like my coffee black. And steaming hot." Vincent responded, his drink called out as he spoke. As Vincent grabbed his drink, he too returned to where he stood. Now, the both of you were standing there, absentmindedly looking at each other with your drinks.
"You know, if you would like to meet up again sometime, I'd love to hear more about your iced lattes?" Vincent dragged out, earning a giggle from you.
"Okay. And if you'd like to meet up again, Vincent," oh god. The way you said his name had him practically— "I'd love to hear about how the weather will be next Saturday."
"Next Saturday? That's expecting way too much from me." Vincent teased, as he reached into his suit pocket. He handed you his business card, his phone number encased in the details.
"You seem like a man who can deliver." You complimented, as you took his card and walked out the door.
You had always been a kind woman by nature. Treat others as you would like to be treated, after all. So kindness, compliments, and respect all came naturally to you. But all of such were foreign to Vincent. And receiving all of such from you in that short moment, it completely enamored and encapsulated him. The fact that you were outrageously pretty did not help either.
For the next six months, you and Vincent were practically attached at the hip. Always watching movies together, always eating together, you were always in his studio to support his weather broadcasts, you were always making out with him— but who said that?!
After six months, Vincent proposed.
He knew that you were the one, and he had been working on becoming more ambitious. Ambition was necessary for the kind of success he craved, after all. And as he explained, what better starting act than marrying you?
The pair of you had friends, family, miscellaneous loved ones. But so eager to be wed, the marriage contract was signed the following month, no ceremony or actual wedding at all.
Being married to you made Vincent feel so powerful. Like a god, even. He had a wife. And a smoking hot one, too, he would always add.
You supposed that getting married gave Vincent that push of adrenaline that he needed, because before you could finish blinking your eye, he was rising. And fast. Being the city weatherman was no longer his starring position, but merely his humble backstory. Now, he was the primary news broadcaster for practically the entire state. And beyond that. People who did not even live in the same side of the country as you and Vincent would tune in just to hear Vincent speak.
Your husband's newfound confidence made him significantly, otherworldly more attractive than he used to be.
Between that, all the money pouring in, being actually married to Vincent, and seeing him thrive, you had never been happier. Matter-a-fact, you would have argued that life was perfect.
You would have. Except for one thing.
At least, that what's you called it.
This extremely strange, terrifying phenomena that no one else apparently seemed to notice.
People who would be broadcasted onto television, and had garnered their own audience, would somehow end up deceased. Between the original news broadcaster that your lovely husband replaced, to Cathy from Cathy's Cooking Hour, to Bill the Comedian, to Irvy the Animal Wrangler...everyone broadcasted to television would end up deceased.
Call it superstition, but it made you terrified for your husband. As most people during that era, you grew up with a strong faith in God. And you maintained that faith throughout your entire life.
"There has to be a demon dwelling among the television industry." You explained to Vincent one night, as you brushed your hair before bed. Vincent sat on the bed, reading a book.
"A demon? Darling, what makes you say that?" He questioned, not looking up from his book, but his tone made it obvious that he was attentive to your every word. As always.
"You know why, Vince. I'm scared for you. The spirit realm— heaven, hell, all of it. It's not to be messed with. Can I please pray for you before you go on television from now on?" You pleaded.
"You are so loving, my love." Vincent cooed, as he glanced up from his book, taking your beauty in with a smile. "Of course you can. I would be honored to have your sweet words protecting me."
Vincent's love, admiration, obsession with you — genuine. Forever and ever.
Everything else? A lie. You would not find out until a year later that Vincent was the mysterious "demon" at hand. You would not find out until a year later that your sweet, devoted husband would ruthlessly murder any competition. You would not find out until a year later, when Vincent was on one of his self-glorification mantras to his audience, and a television fell on his head. Brutally killing him. You would not find out until the pain of witnessing such brutalization of your husband sent you into a heart attack, and you died in that same room a minute later.
You would not find out until the both of you arrived in hell. A place you landed in for the greed you had cultivated within yourself as Vincent rose to fame. You suppose in hindsight that you could've donated money to charity instead of hoarding it all for yourself and your husband.
You found out that day when he had to confess it all to you.
But that day has not yet come. Right now, you are with your doting husband. You had finished brushing your hair and you are laying in bed next to him. You hear Vincent say,
𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚
I know that I am the fastest writer of all, thank you very much! I was very determined to be the FIRST to write about Vincent Whittman.
Comments, reblogs, and love are so appreciated!
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