“Wait—fuck,” Vox mutters, the sound crackling at the edges as your lips claim his again. His claws clamp around your hips in a reflexive jerk, digging in just enough to make you gasp before he forces himself to loosen the grip. He’s trying to stay composed—keyword trying.
Not that any of this is your fault. He’s the one who decided to show up in that new Velvette-designed suit, all straps, buckles, and smugness. He looked like a warning label dressed as a sin.
What were you supposed to do, not climb into his lap?
His taste floods your tongue—metallic, electric, dizzying. It hits your brain like a drug, warm and overwhelming, and the kiss turns messy fast. Desperate, uncoordinated, addictive. You push deeper, feel him glitch under you—
You freeze. Both of you part with a wet sound, a thin line of saliva stretching, breaking. In the top corner of his screen, a bright red alert blinks: ABNORMAL HEART RATE.
You stare at it. Then at him. Vox’s face glitches into a soft blue error overlay, embarrassment flickering pixel by pixel.
“Fuck you— it’s not funny,” he snaps, voice clipping into static in a way that absolutely proves it is funny.
The desk shakes, You both whip around to see Shock.wav slam his snout into the reinforced glass again, water churning behind him
On Vox’s internal HUD, a bubble pops up in bold text: DADDY IS HURT.
“WAIT—WAIT, SHOCK.WAV! DADDY IS OKAY—HOLD ON—STOP—STOP!!”
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