Riddle Me This!

She/Her. Autistic. 23. 18+ Blog. My requests are always open! Things I love: Gotham, DC Comics, Horror Games, and The Riddler!

[ilovetheriddler]

Hello there! Welcome. I am ILoveTheRiddler. However, you may just call me Miss Enigma!

23, Autistic, She/Her.

Some of the things I like and enjoy are Horror Games, Gotham, DC Comics, and, of course, The Riddler!

Like 85% of my posts are going to ultimately be about The Riddler.

Also, my requests are always open!

My Doctor Who specific side blog is @bowtie-enthusiast.

Ao3

Fanfic Request Info

Masterlist

[redvexillum]

Sooo…how goes 99%? Just curious

Hello darling!

Confession time: I committed the writer’s cardinal sin... I posted before finishing the draft. I know, I know. Please ring the shame bell gently. Sorry @redfoxwritesstuff 😔

Because of my tragic yet entirely self-inflicted decision, I now must lock myself in the writing dungeon and finish the story properly before Chapter Two sees the light of day. I had a self-imposed deadline to finish drafting the whole story before i posted… and then my sickness showed up like uninvited guests with luggage. Oops.

On the bright side, my beta/alpha/voice-of-reason reader @peach-flavored-flambe informed me that this fic has soap-opera levels of drama, take that as you will.

Good news though: this is not a sprawling 37-chapter saga (I can already hear some of you crying ehe). I’m aiming for a neat little five-chapter emotional rollercoaster. And for progress reports...let's just say I’m currently drafted up to half of Chapter 4. That is all the classified information I am legally allowed to disclose.

Stay tuned 😇

[ilovetheriddler]

This has me super excited since it was chapter one of that which got me to first watch Hazbin Hotel and become a proud member of Vox Nation!

[redvexillum]

Trust Vox With Your Weather (Suggestive)

Imagine being an intern under Vox, already doomed by the simple fact that you have a thing for weathermen.

You tell yourself it’s harmless. A stupid crush. Professional admiration taken a step too far. It doesn’t help that he’s your boss, or that he’s tangled up with Valentino, or that wanting him feels like reaching for a live wire. None of that stops the ache. None of it stops the way your attention drifts whenever he speaks, smooth and confident, voice calibrated to command storms and rooms alike.

You’re supposed to get his signature. Just a form. In and out.

You don’t expect the murmurs when you reach his penthouse office. Low, sharp voices. The door is ajar. Inside, glass crunches under your shoes, broken bottles scattered across the floor like casualties. A fight, then. A lover’s spat, if the tension still hanging in the air is any indication.

You should announce yourself.

You don’t.

Because Vox is there, undone in a way you’ve never seen.

His jacket is slung carelessly over a chair. His shirt is open at the collar, the top buttons undone, sleeves rolled up to reveal the corded strength of his arms as he writes across a massive chalkboard. Symbols, equations, arrows. Hellish meteorology rendered in sharp strokes. A half-finished scotch sits nearby. A cigarette hangs loosely from the corner of his mouth, smoke curling upward like it belongs to him.

The rhythmic tap of chalk against slate fills the room.

You’re staring. You know you are. You can’t stop.

He pauses mid-stroke.

Your mouth opens to apologize, to explain, to dissolve the tension before it swallows you whole. Before you can make a sound, something shifts.

Vox straightens, shoulders rolling back, posture snapping into something practiced and magnetic.

“The pressure in Hell builds faster down here,” he says, chalk dragging in a sharp downward line. “Storms don’t roll in.”

He drives the chalk into the board with a decisive thrust.

“They snap.”

Your breath stutters.

“Searing rain by morning if the sulfur front holds,” he continues, then pivots suddenly toward you. Before your mind catches up, cords slide around your wrists, warm and unyielding, pulling you closer.

He tosses the chalk nub into the air and catches it with a grin that borders on dangerous.

“Trust me with your weather.”

You’re close enough now to smell him. Whiskey. Smoke. Ozone. It shouldn’t feel intoxicating.

It does.

Your heart pounds as something tight coils lower in your body, pressure building just like he said it would. You remember his words. They snap.

And you feel yourself right on the edge of it.

“So,” Vox murmurs, gaze dipping before lifting back to your face, a brow cocked in quiet satisfaction. “This is what gets you going?”

You follow his glance despite yourself. Heat rushes to your cheeks. Or it would, if all that blood hadn’t betrayed you entirely.

“I—I can explain,” you try, voice unsteady.

His screen darkens, eyes half-lidded now, voice dropping into something intimate and low.

“Well,” he says, cobalt claws flashing briefly as he grips your collar and draws you closer, “I’ve 

been meaning to blow off some steam.”

You gasp when you feel the unmistakable press of him, deliberate and knowing, leaving nothing to the imagination without spelling it out.

Pressure builds faster down here.

And Vox always knows exactly when to let things snap.

Thank you for sending in your ask @luciferiod240

📺 Read More? 📺

If you enjoy my writing and want optional early access or behind-the-scenes extras, I have Ko-Fi—everything will still be posted here for free.

[ilovetheriddler]

Vincent and Alastor in Christmas Sweaters.

my most recent drawing, i'm pretty happy with how it turned out!

[redvexillum]

A/N: Lost Record 02 found! This one is a bit dusty and was hidden behind several firewalls. I wonder what it contains?

TAGS/WARNINGS: f!reader, married to vox, vox does love reader, infidelity, non-sex repulsed alastor, alastor is in hell for a reason, soft alastor, jerk alastor, possessive, no use of y/n, vox tries, reader tries, alastor is a control freak, power imbalance, alastor being alastor, reader-centric, smoll sad, human past of Vox and Reader, this was drafted before s2 came out

<- PREV | TABLE OF CONTENT

It felt like something out of a fairytale.

Falling in love with Vox.

Every morning, you’d wake wrapped in his arms, counting your blessings like prayer beads, wondering what cosmic grace you must’ve earned in a past life to deserve this kind of joy. This kind of love. Vox looked at you as though you were carved from stardust, the rarest gem to ever catch the light of his eyes.

His touch was never rough or rushed; it was always gentle. Every brush of his fingers against your skin was tender, reverent, as if he couldn’t believe you were real. His embrace was warm, comforting, a safe harbour in the storm.

He told you he loved you the first time his eyes met yours. And every time he repeated those words, your heart would flutter like it had wings. The way he swept into your life had been dizzying. One moment, you were a small flicker in the crowd, and the next, you were whisked away to New York City—a gleaming dream painted in light and motion.

Your entire world changed overnight.

He replaced your wardrobe with silks and velvets, every seam tailored to hug your body perfectly. You wore luxury while the rest of the country crumbled beneath the weight of the Great Depression. Rich and flavourful food was always available; dishes you were unaware existed were now presented to you like offerings to a queen.

You remembered standing at the floor-to-ceiling windows of his penthouse, your breath catching as you looked down on the sprawling city lights. From the very top floor, New York felt like a snow globe, glittering and perfect. The apartment itself was equally surreal, with glass sculptures, furniture trimmed in gold, and fine art that was too beautiful to handle. You never dared. None of it felt like it belonged to you.

It was all Vox’s.

And somehow, now so were you.

Less than a week after you moved in, one of his assistants casually mentioned your wedding. Just like that. There was no proposal, no down-on-one-knee moment, just schedules and fittings and lessons in charm and influence. Your days were suddenly filled with beauty appointments, etiquette training, and learning how to navigate the entertainment world—how to smile, whom to flatter, which names mattered.

Before you could even catch your breath, you were standing in front of a mirror in a wedding gown more beautiful than you had ever dreamed of. The fabric flowed like water, delicate floral lace danced along the hem, and the veil—soft as air—drifted gently over your face. You were dressed like royalty.

The chapel was filled with strangers. Men and women of wealth, polished and powerful, all there for him. No one from your family could make it, not with how quickly it was arranged. And standing alone in the back, waiting to walk down the aisle, nerves crept up your spine.

But then you saw him.

Vox, waiting at the end of the aisle. Smiling. The moment the veil was lifted, those soft, icy blue eyes locked on yours. You felt like everything inside you stopped.

In that single breath, you knew. He had your heart. Entirely. Unquestionably. Irrevocably.

It was like living in a dream. The kind of dream where everything shimmered in soft pastels, where laughter floated through candlelight, and the world itself felt kind. Gentle. Bright.

You were happy.

You were in love.

It felt like heaven.

But…

But then—

One mistake. 

One misstep.

That’s all it took.

One wrong turn, and the fantasy shattered like glass.

And just like that, you weren’t in heaven anymore.

You were falling, no, plunging down into Hell.

His team spent months crafting your image. They flooded the city with whispers and promise, building intrigue around the mysterious beauty known only as Vox’s wife. Your debut was scheduled—a grand performance, your voice unveiled to the world through a song composed by his top producer.

It wasn’t your usual style. The music felt unfamiliar, a genre that didn’t quite sit right in your chest. It was slicker, bolder, more modern than anything you had ever sung before.

But Vox told you it was the future. That this was what the people wanted.

“You have to keep up with the times,” he said with a smile, brushing your hair from your face like it was nothing at all.

You smiled back. You always did.

But something cold went through your spine when you saw your face on huge posters and the timer ticking down to your big debut.

The photograph they used had been taken after six long, gruelling hours of makeup, hairstyling, and dress fittings. You had been exhausted, your smile strained at the corners. And yet there you were, immortalized in print, looking flawless and untouchable. A doll in Vox’s glittering world.

The anxiety started there.

And it only grew.

You tried your best to be the kind of wife you thought Vox deserved, but nothing came easily. You didn’t cook well—he ordered out most nights without complaint. You weren’t good at cleaning, either. You remembered the way your stomach dropped when you ruined the expensive wooden flooring with the wrong cleaning solution. He didn’t yell, but that almost worsened it. You were supposed to be better.

And the failures didn’t stop in the home.

As the performance date crept closer, rumours began to slither through the corners of high society. Hushed words at the edge of parties, half-hidden smirks behind raised glasses. You did not even need to hear from them directly; they somehow found their way to you.

They said you fucked your way into fame.

They said you were nothing but a pretty thing in Vox’s bed.

They said you didn’t deserve the stage.

Vox told you it was envy. That anyone in your place would be envied.

But still, the words crawled under your skin like parasites.

Whore. Slut. Hussy.

You had never been the centre of such venom before. You tried to ignore it, to tell yourself it didn’t matter. But the words planted themselves in your mind like seeds in soft soil. They fed on your doubts, drank from your fears, and grew—slow and suffocating.

You told yourself you had to succeed.

You had to.

You needed to prove that you weren’t just pretty, that you weren’t just his. That Vox’s faith in you hadn’t been a mistake. That you deserved the attention, the praise, the spotlight.

But the higher you raised the stakes, the harder it became to breathe.

Your throat would tighten until you could barely sing. Your hands went cold. Your feet felt like ice in your shoes. And your poor, racing heart felt like it was always running away from something it couldn't see.

Running. Always running. Even in your sleep.

Days passed like that. Then weeks.

And the closer the performance came, the worse it got. The anxiety followed you like a second shadow, looming, whispering, pulling.

But at night… Vox would hold you.

He’d wrap his arms around you, draw you close. He would whisper soothing words against your hair. He would kiss your cheeks, your lips, your collarbone—soft and slow, like you were made of porcelain. When he touched you, it was careful. Worshipful. Like you were something rare and good.

He would make love to you with reverence.

And during those times—slow, quiet, and secure—you thought perhaps you could pull this off. Maybe the voices weren’t right. Maybe you were meant for this life. Maybe you could be worthy of him.

You wanted to believe that more than anything.

So you clung to it.

And you promised yourself: you would make him proud.

You had to make him proud.

So you practiced.

Even when your throat burned raw, even when your voice coach begged you to stop. You rehearsed past the point of pain, past reason. Sleep felt like a luxury you couldn’t afford. How could you rest when the biggest moment of your life was looming? Every second felt borrowed. Wasted. You believed that the harder you pushed, the better you’d become.

It was laughable, really.

Tragic, in hindsight.

Because the very thing you tried so hard to outrun—failure—was what you created with your own hands.

That day arrived like a storm on the horizon. Your body ached from exhaustion. Your throat was tight, sore, unsteady. But the cameras were already rolling. The crowd packed every seat. A sea of faces with expectations and harsh, mocking whispers.

A full live band sat behind you, rehearsed and perfect. Everything around you glittered. The lights, the stage, even the powder on your skin. Vox had spared no expense. Every inch of your presence was sculpted by his money, by his name, down to the shine on your lips and the precision of your lashes.

And then—

Your cue.

The moment you were meant to prove them all wrong.

To prove your worth.

You stepped to the centre of the stage.

You opened your mouth.

And everything fell apart.

Your voice cracked, breaking like thin glass. You missed your breath. Missed your key. The lights seared your vision, burning into your eyes until your head pounded. Your body was drenched in sweat, every inch of you trembling, overwhelmed. The music was too loud, pounding in your ears, deafening your thoughts. You couldn’t even hear yourself anymore.

You failed.

Utterly.

Completely.

You collapsed under the weight of everything you had worked for.

And at that moment, you weren’t a star. You weren’t a muse or a rising icon. You were a stain. A black, ugly mark smeared across Vox’s golden legacy.

That night, back in the penthouse, silence felt heavier than any scream.

You sat on the edge of the room, shoulders curled inward, hands fidgeting, your mouth trembling with words that refused to come out. The apology sat at the back of your throat like a stone.

Vox stood across the room, distant, unreadable.

You finally took the courage to stand and take a careful step forward.

“I… I’m sorry—”

“Don’t,” he cut in sharply. The word was like a blade.

You froze.

“I just need to calm down.” His voice was flat. Empty. The warmth you had always found in it was gone, scraped clean.

“But I—”

“Don’t wait up,” he said, already turning away. And then, without another word, he left. The front door shut with a crisp, final click.

You stood there, alone.

Alone in the penthouse, he once filled with laughter and late-night blues. Alone with your shame, your guilt, your useless apologies.

You told yourself he’d come back. He would hold you, tell you it was alright, kiss your hair and say you’d do better next time.

You believed it because he had believed in you. He had whispered it into your skin every night—that you were talented. That you were special. That he loved you.

But after that night, everything shifted.

The tabloids tore into you like wolves, merciless and hungry. Headlines mocked your voice, mocked your face. Mocked him. What started as Vox's “golden girl” turned into a public scandal. The critics called it a warning, a tale of caution: Don’t mix business with lust.

Each article another bruise. Another humiliation.

And you bore it all, hollowed out and humiliated, wondering when the dream had curdled into something else.

You only ever saw Vox in passing now. Fleeting shadows of him. The creak of the front door. The soft thud of shoes on marble. The sound of keys on the counter before he vanished into another room, into work, into silence.

Always busy. Always elsewhere.

You couldn’t remember the last time he lay beside you. The bed had grown cold, sheets untouched on his side, the pillows forever smooth. The door to his study stayed shut. Your new friend, always closed and far away.

One afternoon, you heard the door open earlier than usual. You were awake. For the first time in weeks, you were awake when he came home.

“V-Vox,” you called, your voice small, uncertain, like a child asking for permission to speak.

He barely glanced at you. “Not now, doll,” he said, flicking off his coat and disappearing down the hallway.

You stood there. Once again alone with the cruel embrace of silence surrounding you. 

If not now… then when?

And so, your days shifted into a strange new rhythm. 

The rhythm of waiting.

High above the city, surrounded by luxury and marble, and with windows that spanned the sky, you roamed the penthouse like a ghost. You were so far removed from the world below, it felt like you’d been buried alive in luxury. The windows looked out over everything, and yet no one could see in. No one even knew you were here.

You waited for Vox. Waited for a moment. A glance. A word.

But as days blurred into weeks, then into long, aching months, you began to fear that moment would never come.

The loneliness was unbearable. Silence echoed louder than any sound. Insecurity slithered in, quiet at first, until it wrapped itself around you like a noose. The wedding band on your finger felt tighter, heavier. As if it were mocking you.

You would stand at the windows, watching the grey pigeons circle the buildings, free to go where they pleased. And you'd wonder: How was the old bar doing? The one where you used to sing for a few dollars and the laughter of strangers. Had someone taken your place on that small stage?

Would anyone have even noticed you were gone?

You had no answers. No one to ask. No one to talk to.

Until one day… you found something that listened.

A glass bottle.

You remembered watching people at the bar down drinks, laughing until they could barely stand. You remembered their flushed cheeks, their bright eyes, their empty worries.

Would it work for you too?

Would it make the loneliness vanish?

Would it make the hours move faster?

Would it make Vox see you again?

The first sip burned.

Bitter. Awful.

But the second was easier. The third—almost welcome. And then, somewhere between the fifth and the tenth, something loosened inside you. The voices in your head, the cruel ones that repeated failure, worthless, disappointment, they all dimmed. Not gone, but quieter.

You stopped counting your sips after that.

And everything else became a blur.

The next time you opened your eyes, the light stabbed at your eyes like knives. Your head throbbed violently with every breath. You groaned, barely able to lift yourself from the pillow.

Then you saw him.

Vox.

He was sitting at the foot of the bed, silent and still. His black hair was unkempt, his sleeves rolled up, the knot of his tie pulled loose and forgotten. He used to have soft blue eyes when he looked at you, but now they were hard like shattered glass and thunderclouds.

“Vox…?” you rasped, your voice cracking. Pain stabbed through your skull and you winced.

He didn’t respond at first.

Right then, his hand shot up, grabbed a newspaper off the nightstand, and slammed it into your lap.

“What the hell were you thinking?” he snarled.

You flinched. Your trembling hands reached for the paper.

There, in black and white, was your face. Eyes half-lidded. Mouth open in a loud, reckless laugh. Hair wild. Body slumped and giggling in nothing but a slip—your bare arms, the soft curve of your breasts, the line of your thighs visible to the entire world. The photo was taken right outside the penthouse. The front steps. Where the world could see you.

And there it was.

The headline.

“The Road to Ruin: Vox’s Wife Cry for Help?”

Heat rushed to your face, but it wasn’t warmth—it was shame. Violent, scalding shame. Your chest tightened, your heart hammering wildly, and you couldn’t breathe. Your fingers clenched the paper until it crumpled between your fists.

The silence that followed was colder than any punishment.

“I—I…”

You could barely form the words. Your mouth felt dry, the taste of last night’s shame still clinging to your tongue. Your hands trembled, fingers clutching the paper like they could ground you. But nothing could stop the spiral inside.

You didn’t even remember leaving the penthouse.

Didn’t remember the street.

Didn’t remember the laughter.

But now… now you saw it in ink. In print. Frozen in time for the world to mock.

“Vox, I—” Tears filled your eyes, thick and hot, clouding your vision. You didn’t want to cry, not again. But the humiliation was unbearable. You had failed him, again, in front of everyone. You embarrassed him. Shamed him.

“Enough.”

His voice cracked like a whip.

His hand lifted, and you snapped your lips shut as your chest heaved.

“Baby doll,” he said with a strained smile that didn’t reach his eyes. You hated it. His smile used to be warmth. Now it was ice.

“I just need you to sit pretty, can you do that for me?”

He reached out, his hand covering yours. His grip was firm, rehearsed. Not tender. Not him. And still, your fingers curled under his like a child desperate for affection.

“S-sit pretty?” you echoed, your voice barely a whisper. You searched his face, desperate to find something—softness, regret, perhaps love—but there was nothing there. Just exhaustion.

“But… that’s all I’ve been doing,” you said, your voice cracking. “Waiting. Always waiting. If I do it again, if I sit pretty like you want… will I see you more often?”

The question slipped from your lips before you could stop it. Normally, you would’ve nodded. Smiled. Said yes, anything. But the alcohol still lingered, loosening your tongue, and the loneliness screamed too loudly to stay quiet.

Vox sighed, long and heavy. Then he let go of your hand. The loss of his touch hit you like a sudden gust of cold wind. Your fingers curled into your lap, already aching from the absence.

“I’m still trying to rebuild my company’s reputation after… that debacle,” he said, not even looking at you.

That debacle.

You were that debacle.

Your name.

Your face.

Your shame.

“But I… I miss you, Vox,” you murmured, your voice trembling as your eyes stung. You tried to blink the tears away, to stay composed, but your heart felt like it was splitting inside your chest. “I miss you so much.”

“Then maybe,” he snapped, sudden and sharp, “you shouldn’t have fucking failed in the first place.”

The words hit you like a slap.

Your spine straightened. The tears stopped not because they weren’t there, but because your body didn’t know how to react anymore. 

Groaning, Vox pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose, rubbing it like you were a headache he couldn’t get rid of.

“I’m sorry, doll,” he muttered. “I’m under a lot of stress right now.”

You stared at him, your lips parted, but the words stuck in your throat.

“Do me a favour,” he continued, his voice cool and measured. “Don’t cause any more of these… problems.”

He gestured toward the newspaper still lying limp in your lap, the photo burning into your skin like a brand.

You swallowed, hard.

It hurt. Everything hurt. You didn’t mean to fail. You never wanted to fail. All you wanted was a second chance—to try again, to prove that you could be what he believed in. You wanted to remind him that he once told you that you were talented, that you had something special.

But before you could gather the courage to speak, he stood up.

“Where are you going?” you asked, panic slipping into your voice. Your hand reached toward him without thinking.

He didn’t answer.

Your voice cracked. “Vox, please—don’t go. Not again. I don’t want to see another closed door.”

You were tired of staring at them. Tired of being left behind.

“Work,” he muttered, dragging a weary sigh through his teeth. “I need to manage the PR fallout from this.”

He turned, already walking toward the door, his silhouette lit by the soft golden glow spilling from the living room.

Before he could vanish again, something inside you snapped. You surged out of bed, your legs trembling, the floor tilting beneath you for a moment. But you forced yourself upright, your heart pounding in your throat, your hand outstretched.

“W-wait, h-honey,” you called, the word foreign and fragile on your tongue. Your voice was hoarse, nearly broken, like it hadn’t been used in years. “Don’t leave. Please.”

You caught the edge of his sleeve, your fingers weak, trembling as they clung to the soft fabric.

“Just for tonight,” you whispered, the desperation thick in your throat. “Please, just tonight… stay.”

A tear slipped down your cheek, warm and traitorous, as your eyes locked onto him like he was the last bit of light in a dark, sinking room.

Vox’s jaw tightened. His lips pulled into a thin, unreadable line. He looked at you for only a heartbeat before his arm twisted free.

“I don’t have time for this.”

His voice cracked, sharp and dismissive, and he walked away.

And that was it.

That was the match to the dry forest of your heart. That was the flame to the pain you had tried so hard to bottle up.

The last drop of fight burned through you like liquor in your veins.

“If you leave…” your voice rose, shaking, strained, “what am I supposed to think?”

Vox stopped in the middle of the living room.

You stepped out further, the tears now streaming, your throat raw as the words burst out of you.

“I thought you said you loved me.”

He didn’t turn around.

“It’s hell here, Vox!” you screamed, your voice echoing off the cold walls. “This place is a fucking prison. I hate it. I hate being alone. I hate the silence. I hate that you can’t even look at me anymore.”

Your chest heaved. Your knees threatened to buckle. “I know I failed,” you sobbed, “I know I ruined everything. I’m sorry, Vox, I’m so sorry—”

It tore through you, the cursing, like you had ripped your soul open just to make him hear you.

“How long are you going to punish me?” you choked, “How many more months? How many more nights do I have to beg for you to just see me again?”

And suddenly—he moved.

Three steps. Fast. Violent.

He reached for the crystal vase near the end table, the one he once told you was worth more than the house you grew up in. You remembered that day. How proud he was. How he smiled as you traced its edge with awe.

Then, with a yell, he hurled it.

It shattered against the floor with a sound like thunder. Glass exploded in a thousand directions, tiny diamonds scattering like dying stars.

You froze.

Your body locked up, breath caught in your lungs as your wide eyes stared at the space between you.

The silence that followed was deafening.

Vox stood over the wreckage, chest rising and falling, eyes wild with a rage you couldn’t understand. Or maybe it wasn’t rage. Maybe it was something else. Something worse.

You didn’t dare speak.

All you could do was stand there, your bare feet only inches from the jagged shards.

“You hate it here?” Vox’s voice snapped, loud and sharp as a whip crack. His fury cut through the air like a blade. “I gave you everything. Everything! Even after your fuck-up!”

He threw his arm out, gesturing wildly at the lavish room around you—floor-to-ceiling windows, velvet drapes, crystal chandeliers, marble floors that gleamed even in the dark. “You're lonely?” he scoffed, his teeth bared in a vicious imitation of a smile. “You have everything you could possibly want, even after another scandal you dropped on my plate. You should be grateful I picked you up from that no-name hick town in the first place.”

Each word struck like a slap, heavy and deliberate. You didn't speak. You couldn’t. Your lips trembled, but stayed sealed. Silent. Your tears fell freely now, unchecked, dripping onto the cold floor like tiny apologies.

“I’ve been busting my ass to make sure you can live like this.” His voice rose again, raw with frustration. “All of this—this luxury, this life—it’s because of me. And now you’re saying you’re lonely? That you’re bored?”

But you didn’t want the chandeliers. Or the silk sheets. You didn’t care about the imported wine, or the glittering wardrobe, or the view from the top floor.

You just wanted him.

You just wanted him to lie beside you again.

“God, for once, could you stop thinking about yourself?” he spat.

You didn’t want to fight.

You just wanted his arms around you. The warmth of his chest. The affection he used to pour over you so effortlessly. The love you still clung to like it was oxygen.

“If you stopped fucking up,” he barked, voice shaking now, “maybe I could finally have a goddamn second to breathe!”

Your heart squeezed until it physically hurt. You wanted to scream that you hadn’t meant to ruin anything, that you just wanted him to see you. To miss you. To love you like he used to.

“Fuck!” Vox ran both hands through his hair, curling his fingers into fists at the roots, his face twisted in frustration.

Then came the silence.

Not peace. Not quiet.

But the kind of silence that feels heavy.

Drowning. 

You stood still, then slowly curled into yourself, your shoulders hunched as your arms wrapped around your stomach, like you could hold yourself together if you just squeezed tight enough. Your head dropped. Your eyes stared blankly at the floor beneath you, blurry with tears.

“I'm sorry…” your voice broke, barely audible. “I’m… sorry, Vox. I didn’t mean it. I didn’t mean to sound…” Another tear fell, and then another. Your throat burned. “…ungrateful.”

You weren’t ungrateful. You were desperate.

He sighed deeply with exhaustion.

“We’ll talk later. Call someone to clean this up.”

And then the sound.

The soft click of the front door closing.

Familiar. 

Final.

The sound that marked every ending in your life.

You were alone again. In a home worth millions. In a penthouse that touched the sky. In a life others would kill for.

Your legs buckled. You sank to your knees on the polished marble floor. The room was too large, too empty. You turned toward the towering windows, eyes catching the clear blue sky beyond the glass. Birds floated across the clouds, free and high and unreachable.

You stared at them, unblinking, as the sunlight poured in like a spotlight.

So many people would envy you. So many would trade everything to be where you were. To live this life. To be this close to the stars.

But as you knelt there, surrounded by glittering things and silence—

You finally understood.

Perhaps, this was what happiness felt like—

Loneliness…dressed up in diamonds and dying stars. 

Searching Lost Record 03 ->

If you enjoy my writing and want optional early access or behind-the-scenes extras, I have Ko-Fi—everything will still be posted here for free.

[redvexillum]

A/N: Lost Record 01 found! Listen, you think I would leave you guys like that? Here. Some extra DLC content for this story. Bwhahaha 😚

TAGS/WARNINGS: f!reader, married to vox, vox does love reader, infidelity, non-sex repulsed alastor, alastor is in hell for a reason, soft alastor, jerk alastor, possessive, no use of y/n, vox tries, reader tries, alastor is a control freak, power imbalance, alastor being alastor, cuckolding, vox!masturbates

<- PREV | TABLE OF CONTENT

Vox made you.

You were nothing—just a dreamer in a dark city where people's goals didn't go beyond the bar lights flashing on cracked sidewalks. People there never looked up. They didn’t believe in the stars, only in routine, in limits. You might have stayed there, trapped, unknown. But then he saw you.

The first time, he recalled, you were so young, so beautiful, and so bright-eyed, even under those dirty stage lights. You sang for drunken nobodies who couldn’t hear your true talent through the slur of their own misery. Vox had come in and sucked you into his world of neon and noise. He had rescued you from mediocrity and tried, God, he tried, to make you a star. 

His star.

But now…

A breathy moan spilled through the heavy silence of his office.

Vox’s head turned slowly, his crimson eyes narrowing as they landed on one of the many monitors lined across his wall. His expression tightened. That one. The wire he ran through the teddy bear was his safety net for you. He needed to protect you because Alastor was a snake. A manipulator. It was suspicious how, every day, without fail, Alastor visited Vox's home with a cup of coffee and a smile. Vox had noticed. He had always suspected something. But never this.

“A-ahhhn…”

Another moan. It rang out sharp, obscene, echoing against the sterile, cold walls. Vox’s eyes darted back to the screen. His claws clenched against the arms of his chair. His jaw locked.

There you were.

Naked.

On all fours.

Your back arched so beautifully, your mouth open, your eyes hazy and lost in the throes of something primal. Skin slapped against skin, echoing like a cruel percussion to Vox’s racing heartbeat.

Alastor was behind you. His claws tangled in your hair. He was fucking you, slow and deep, your body rocking forward with every thrust.

Vox’s breath hitched. His body betrayed him.

“Fuck,” he snarled, his voice thick, his throat dry.

His belt came undone beneath trembling fingers. His cock sprang free, painfully hard, pulsing with the heat of humiliation and arousal that swelled inside him like a storm. He gripped himself tight and began to stroke, his hand pumping with growing urgency as precum smeared over his fingers.

It was wrong. He should’ve turned it off. But he couldn’t stop watching.

You were gorgeous like this. Lost in pleasure. Your cries rang in his ears, branding themselves into his memory with every desperate whimper. He was filled with anger, but lust—pure, unadulterated lust—kept him glued to the screen.

His breathing grew heavier, matching the rhythm of his hand. He watched as Alastor pulled you back by the hair and tilted your face toward him.

“Al-Alastor,” you moaned, voice trembling, need-stricken.

The deep, slow, obscene kiss from Alastor caused Vox's chest to rise and fall in ragged gasps. He could see it all. The wetness of your tongues meeting. The tenderness behind it, cruel in its intimacy.

“That’s right, my Canary,” Alastor murmured, his voice husky between searing kisses that left your lips red and glistening. “Only cry out my name,” he whispered against your mouth, the words barely audible over the wet press of your lips meeting his again. But Vox saw it. He saw everything.

The way Alastor’s gleaming red eyes flicked, just briefly, toward the teddy bear tucked innocently on the dresser. Straight at the hidden camera. Straight at him.

Vox’s grip tightened around his cock, so hard and swollen it throbbed against his palm. But he didn’t move. He just stared. The growl that rumbled from his chest echoed in the quiet, drowned only by the sound of your kiss—their kiss. His wife. Kissing that monster with a smirk tugging at his lips. Taunting him.

You were his.

His wife.

You lived like a queen because of him. You tasted luxury, wore diamonds, dined under chandeliers, all because of him. Vox had pulled you from obscurity, from a life where no one would remember your name. You had been a member of the faceless crowd until he made you unforgettable.

And now you trembled under another man.

“Ah… ah… fe-feels good,” your voice cracked through the speakers, soft and breathless. Your eyes stayed locked with Alastor’s, warm and wide. They never drifted to the teddy bear. Never questioned its presence. Vox had a sinking feeling you didn’t even notice why it was there in Alastor's home.

The bed creaked, the sheets rustled. Alastor sat back, smug and ready. You hovered over him, your fingers resting gently on his shoulders like he was something precious. Vox watched you from the other side of the screen, his breathing heavy, ragged. His free hand slowed, stroking himself with languid cruelty, trying to hold back the inevitable.

“This brings me back,” Alastor chuckled low in his throat, red claws teasing at your skin. They started at the base of your neck, then traced a slow, lazy line down your spine.

Vox nearly choked.

His hand squeezed tighter, imagining it was him. Imagining his fingers on your soft skin, feeling the shiver ripple through you. He watched the subtle tremble of your body, the way your back arched so delicately, how your hair swayed around your shoulders. You pressed your hips down slowly, taking Alastor inside you, inch by agonizing inch.

“Are they happy memories for you, Alastor?” you asked, your voice a soft murmur, as if speaking a secret only the two of you could share.

Vox’s heart clenched painfully.

He wanted to see your face. God, he needed it. Were your eyes glazed over in pleasure, sparkling with lust for someone else? Or was there pain? Did you miss him, even a little? Was there still a part of you that remembered how it felt to be held by him?

But the camera stayed fixed. All he could see was your body sinking down, taking all of Alastor’s cock, slow and smooth, while those red claws found your hair again, curled around the strands, and pulled you down into another kiss.

“Every memory with you, darling,” Alastor whispered, voice soaked in affection as you sat fully on him, “is a happy one.”

You moaned, quiet and aching, and your arms flew around his neck. You held him tightly, like you never wanted to let go.

“L-liar…” your voice broke, a soft sob muffled against his shoulder.

Alastor didn’t stop. His hips moved in sharp, shallow thrusts, barely shifting inside you, but enough to make your breath catch and your body quake.

Vox couldn’t take it anymore.

He shut his eyes, gritting his teeth so hard his jaw ached. He yanked his hand away from his pulsing cock, denying himself the pleasure. Denying himself the finish. It didn’t feel right. Not like this. Not with you in someone else’s arms.

He needed you here.

With him.

He didn’t understand. He couldn’t. What did Alastor give you that he hadn’t already given a thousand times over?

He had offered you everything.

A kingdom in a world made of sin.

A kind of love that dared to exist even in the darkest pit of Hell.

He fucking loved you.

Why couldn’t you see that?

He loved you then. And he loved you still.

Vox squeezed his eyes shut, jaw clenched tight, as the slick, wet sound of your body joined with another man's filled the room. The noise carved straight into his bones, cruel and vivid, impossible to ignore.

He should stop.

He knew he should stop feeding into Alastor’s twisted little game, should stop jerking off to a live feed of his wife getting fucked by the very bastard who had stolen her away. He should disconnect the camera. Turn off the monitors. Channel his rage into action. Amass his power. Burn everything down and take you back.

But then the thought struck him like a nail through the chest.

Take you back?

A low, bitter chuckle slipped from his throat.

Vox had always been powerful. In life, he had climbed every rung of success, carved his name into the world with clawed hands and charm and steel. In death, he had only grown more terrifying. More untouchable. Money, status, fame…it had all been his. He had you, too. And now, you dared to betray him?

His eyes flew open.

They glowed with a scorching mix of fury and grief. His fingers drifted back to his cock, still rock hard, pulsing with the heat of humiliation. He gripped it tightly, the image of you burned into his vision. You, legs spread, riding Alastor like he was your god, your moans tumbling through the speakers like twisted confessions. A traitorous harlot. 

His traitorous harlot.

But then, he saw it.

Just a flicker of light.

The glint of a silver ring on your left hand, catching the faint light of the room. Your wedding ring.

His heart stuttered. A jolt of ice ran through his veins, smothering the fire of his rage with something colder. Something deeper.

Sadness.

A hollow ache throbbed in his chest. Why? He still didn’t understand what had driven you into another man’s arms. What had made you forget him. Abandon him.

Yet, his eyes wouldn’t leave that ring. That tiny, glimmering piece of metal. The last piece of you that still belonged to him. His only proof that some part of you remembered. That some part of you might still love him.

He stroked himself slowly, synchronizing the glide of his hand with the rhythm of Alastor’s thrusts. In and out. Over and over. He watched the way your body reacted, the curve of your spine, the tension in your thighs, the tremble in your moans.

Your voice reached him again, a soft, desperate sound that sent a shiver down his back.

“C-close…” you whimpered, clutching at Alastor’s shoulders, your muscles tight and trembling.

Vox leaned forward, eyes wide and shining with something manic, something fragile.

“Yes…” he breathed, his hand tightening around his cock, pumping faster now. “That’s right, baby doll…”

He watched you fuck someone else, and yet his voice was soft with affection.

“I know you,” he panted. “I own you.”

His breath grew shallow, uneven. His strokes were frantic now, desperate and greedy. The head of his cock vanished and reappeared with every motion of his fist, slick with need.

“You’re still thinking about me,” he whispered, a laugh bubbling out, broken and twisted at the edges. “You have to be.”

Then it happened.

You threw your head back, hair flying, back arched in a perfect bow as your body trembled. You let out a sharp, helpless cry.

“Ah!”

Right on cue, Vox sucked in a sharp breath as the climax tore through him. A choked gasp escaped his throat, his hips twitching, body jerking forward as thick, milky ropes of cum spilled from him. He kept stroking, frantic, desperate, dragging every ounce of pleasure out of his trembling body. The mess splattered across his sweater vest, oozed between his fingers, and coated his wedding band, masking the gleam of silver with the heat of his release.

But it wasn’t enough.

Because Alastor didn’t stop.

Even after your orgasm had left you quivering and breathless, even as your body trembled with overstimulation, Alastor kept going. He pushed you onto your back, his hands caging you in, his hips driving forward with a cruel, relentless rhythm. He was merciless. Your moans erupted in loud, raw, desperate waves that were out of control.

You writhed beneath him, a woman lost in depravity, as another man wrung ecstasy from your already spent body.

Vox’s chest heaved, his face twisted in silent fury. His pride throbbed with the sting of inadequacy. His fingers, now sticky and cooling with his own spend, curled into a fist. Rage surged through him like a live wire.

With a crackle of static and a blinding blue spark, every monitor in the room glitched violently. Sparks flew. Screens died. Darkness swallowed the room—save for the cold glow of his own monitor-like face, now reflecting a blank blue screen.

He looked down at his hand.

His release had already begun to dry, crusting against his skin, turning the air sour. The sticky sheen on his wedding band made his gut twist.

You would be nothing without him. And Vox knew it. He knew you knew it too.

This wasn’t passion. This was a rebellion.

A cry for help, he told himself. A tantrum. You always acted out when he left you alone too long. This was just a bigger outburst than usual, that was all. He had seen it before. You were never good at being left in silence.

A heavy sigh pushed from his chest. Frustration burned under his skin. He had thought Hell would harden you, teach you restraint. Discipline. He had thought you had outgrown these impulsive fits of disobedience.

But clearly, he had been too soft.

Then, suddenly, a thought bloomed.

And with it, a grin.

Sharp. Wide. Hungry.

He didn’t need to fight for you.

He didn’t need to beg or plead or chase.

All he needed was one second.

Just one.

One second of eye contact. One moment where your gaze would meet his again, and that flicker of recognition would strike like lightning. He would be in your mind, in your head, under your skin. You’d fall into place. You always did.

Because you were his.

His to hold. His to ignore. His to love. His to punish.

That wedding band wasn’t just a vow. It was a brand. A mark that you belonged to him.

And now, it was time to remind you.

Punishment. That’s what this called for. You had never truly seen the edge of his wrath, had you? He had always been so generous. So lenient. He let you run wild, let you play at independence. But this betrayal—this performance—was unforgivable.

He had been loyal.

He had waited.

And you gave yourself to another unworthy man?

No more.

Just one second. That’s all it would take.

His grin widened as his vision began to tint with deep, swirling red.

One second… and you’d be back in his hands.

On his floor.

In his house.

In his arms.

Right where you belonged.

Searching Lost Record 02 ->

✨ KOFI -- DISCORD SERVER -- xREADER COMMUNITY ✨

[redvexillum]

Chapter 5 - Final Transmission

A/N: I'm so wordy. I could've went on for like another 20+ chapters but alas. Here's the final stop.

TAGS/WARNING: f!reader, married to vox, vox does love reader, infidelity, non-sex repulsed alastor, alastor is in hell for a reason, soft alastor, jerk alastor, possessive, no use of y/n, vox tries, reader tries, alastor is a control freak, power imbalance, alastor being alastor, p in v, cuckolding, bittersweet as promised

<- PREV | TABLE OF CONTENT

Alastor's palm came to rest against your cheek, slow and deliberate. The touch was eerily reminiscent of your husband's the night before. Gentle. Warm. But there was something different in it now. Something unnervingly tender.

“Talk to me, my Canary,” he murmured. His voice was softer than before, lacking the razor edge that usually accompanied his words. The ever-present grin still stretched across his face, but it was dulled now, smoothed into something strangely human.

You shook your head, trying to hide the tremble in your jaw. “There's nothing to talk about, Alastor, I...” The words cracked and fell apart inside your throat. You bit your lip, hard, chasing control, chasing anything to stop the rising tide within you. The iron taste of blood flooded your mouth, bitter and metallic, but even that couldn’t anchor you.

“Just please,” you whispered, eyes falling to the floor. Your voice came out fragile, small. “Don’t tell him.”

Alastor hummed quietly. His thumb brushed against your lip, slow and careful, coaxing you to stop hurting yourself. His touch was oddly soothing. It made the shame burn even hotter.

“Aren’t you a miserable little thing?” he whispered. Then he leaned in until his forehead rested gently against yours. The contact sent your breath stuttering in your chest. “Where did your smile go, darling?” he asked, voice low, wistful. “I remember it so vividly. You, on that stage, glowing under those dying lights, surrounded by haze and cigarette smoke, while half the room tried to drink their sadness away. But you—”

He inhaled sharply, almost in veneration.

“You stood there like a goddess. Untouchable. Unstoppable. Not even sorrow dared lay a hand on you. And when you sang,” his lips hovered just above yours, his voice dipped to a whisper, “you made the world stop and listen.”

The memory unfolded before you like a ghost. You could see her—your younger self—standing under the stage lights, older in makeup than in soul, pretending confidence she didn’t have. But when the music played, when the first note struck, she let go. She sang like she was trying to drown out every ache in the world.

“You... watched me?” The words slipped out before you could stop them. Your eyes met his, wide and disbelieving. His features were unrecognizable from anyone you knew back then. “Were you there?”

Alastor's eyes softened, closing briefly. His forehead pressed a little more firmly against yours, his hand never leaving your cheek.

“You could say something like that,” he said lazily, the words coated in something that almost resembled regret. “But then one day... you vanished.”

Your stomach turned. You knew what came next.

“Until I saw you again,” he said, opening his eyes, “in the tabloids.”

The warmth shattered like glass.

Your breath caught as old wounds tore themselves open. Your hand shot up and yanked at your hair, fingers tangling in the strands, pulling. You wanted to rip the memories out by force.

The performance. Vox’s grand debut. Your chance to shine. Your chance to prove that you were worthy of the stage beside him.

You had choked. You had failed.

Not just yourself, but him. Vox, who had believed in you, who had handed you the spotlight, who had tried to shape you into something brilliant.

Instead, you had become his embarrassment. His failure. His burden.

The press tore you apart. Vultures fed on your humiliation, using your breakdown to slander him. His enemies smiled behind their teeth while you crumbled under their judgment.

You became the blemish on his otherwise immaculate record.

No apology could ever scrub that stain away. No song. No word. No touch.

You had broken something precious. And it would never be whole again.

A raw, guttural sound tore from your throat, too twisted to be a sob, too broken to be anything else. It echoed deep within your chest, vibrating through brittle bones that could no longer hold the weight of your shame. You clutched at the remnants of yourself, desperate to keep the pieces together, but they cracked one by one, splintering along old seams you had prayed would stay sealed.

You came to Hell with hope. Maybe if you were good enough, perfect enough, obedient and beautiful and loyal, he would see you as worthy again. Perhaps if you loved him hard enough, if you served your punishment with grace, he would forgive the mess you made on Earth. Perhaps you would stop being a burden. A failure. A disappointment.

But here you were again.

Falling.

Breaking.

Failing.

Your hands flew to your mouth as the sob clawed up your throat. You tried to muffle it, to bury the guilt before it shattered like glass and carved through your skin. You curled in on yourself, aching for the darkness that would swallow you whole.

Alastor pulled you into his arms without a word, your face pressed against the hard wall of his chest. His voice was a murmur, gentle and cold, like silk on glass. “There, there,” he crooned. “I’ll soothe away all your pain, darling.”

His fingers slipped through your hair, stroking softly. Comforting. Dangerous.

And in that terrible, fragile moment, you let him.

Once more.

Once again.

Because a failure never stopped failing. A weak woman never found her strength. No matter how much you tried to rewrite your story, you always ended up in the same chapter. The same shame. The same sin.

His lips touched yours, light and coaxing, as if he were kissing a bruise. Tears spilled from your eyes. You didn’t stop them.

A harlot never stopped being a harlot.

You should have pulled away. You should have screamed. But the silence inside you was louder than anything. You were tired of being perfect. Tired of sitting on that shelf, untouched, unloved, collecting dust like a forgotten prize. You wanted to be touched. Needed. Wanted. Held like something precious, not pristine.

How long had it been since you were kissed like this? Since someone reached for you without hesitation?

Alastor’s lips moved against yours, patient and slow, until you parted your mouth and let him in. You fell back onto the bed, the mattress soft beneath you. Your heart clenched, but you didn’t stop. Alastor followed you down, trailing kisses along your jaw, then your throat. His claws slipped beneath your dress, dragging downward. The fabric gave way without protest.

You gasped as he caressed your breast, his palm firm and steady. Your body arched into him, your breath catching when he nipped the sensitive skin just beneath your collarbone. He pressed his weight over you, his legs settling between yours, his heat blooming where you were aching the most.

His eyes gleamed with something feral. Something insatiable. His chest rose and fell in time with yours. One of his hands gripped the sheet beside your head. The other unfastened his belt, the sharp metallic clink splitting through the air like a bell of finality.

“How bold of us to defile your matrimonial bed,” he purred, lips curling into a wicked grin. His eyes glowed brighter now, hungry and red.

You flinched as your underwear tore, but the pain was lost beneath the rush of sensation when he pressed the thick heat of his cock against your folds. Slowly, deliberately, he rocked his hips forward, grinding into you. The head of his shaft slid through your wetness, slick and eager, smearing your arousal across his skin.

Your mind screamed that this was wrong. That you still had a chance to turn this around.

But...

But your body trembled beneath him, and your heart whispered what it had always known.

You would rather be ruined than forgotten.

Once again, you were falling.

Not drifting, not slipping, but plummeting into a descent that left your soul screaming.

The demon teddy bear sat on the vanity, its stitched face turned away from you. It refused to look. As if even it, a thing without a heart, felt shame in your place. But you didn’t stop. Your legs wrapped around Alastor’s waist, pulling him closer, guiding him deeper into this spiral you could no longer resist. You welcomed it. You invited the ruin with open arms and trembling thighs. You let your vows burn, let them disintegrate beneath your desperation, grinding them into dust and ash.

Because if Vox’s love wasn’t enough for your greedy, starving heart, then you deserved to suffer. You deserved to bleed guilt until your soul collapsed in on itself. Let it hurt. Let it hollow you out until there was nothing left but the ugly truth you had buried beneath rehearsed smiles and hollow apologies.

You were a liability.

A mistake.

A weight.

Let that truth punish you. Let it twist deep. Let it scar.

Alastor drew back just enough to position himself. His cock pressed at your entrance, and slowly, achingly, he pushed inside. The stretch made your spine arch and your lungs forget how to breathe. That feeling of fullness, of being claimed so completely, flooded every sense you had. You felt yourself unravelling. He groaned, deep in his throat, as he sank into you fully, inch by inch, until he bottomed out.

When his eyes opened, they found yours.

And then he began to move.

The bed cried out with every thrust, its wooden frame groaning in time with your body. Your moans joined, raw and helpless. The shame curled around your limbs, but you didn’t push it away. You embraced it. You deserved to feel it.

You were in Hell for a reason.

Maybe God knew all along what lived inside you. Maybe He knew you were never made for heaven, that your soul was twisted from the start. Depraved. Hungry. Always needing more and never satisfied. You told yourself it was about love. About loneliness. But maybe that had always been the lie. Maybe you just wanted to be touched. Wanted to be ruined.

You kept crying, and you didn’t know if it was from pleasure or pain. Your smile twisted through your tears, as if your body couldn’t understand that this wasn’t joy. That this was punishment.

And Alastor laughed, pleased and cruel. “Ah, how pretty your smiles are, my Canary!” His thrusts grew sharper, harder. His hands gripped your hips tight enough to bruise. “Tell me, does it feel good?” he asked, voice lilting with sadistic delight.

His hips snapped forward, striking your clit just right. You screamed, the jolt of pleasure like lightning, white-hot and dizzying. You nodded through the noise, breathless and eager. You didn’t want it to stop. You wanted to drown in it. Let it break you. Let it consume every inch of you so you would have nothing left to mourn.

Then he pulled out, sudden and commanding. Before you could even breathe, he grabbed your body and turned you toward the door. Your knees dug into the mattress, hands clenching the sheets as he twisted your hair around his fist.

He drove into you from behind.

“Ah!” you cried, the angle striking somewhere deep, making your body jolt. Your dress hung in ribbons around you, your breasts swaying with each thrust. Alastor’s pace was brutal, merciless, and you took it. You took it because you had nothing else left to offer. Nothing else to give.

Your body was flushed, tingling, soaked in heat. The world narrowed to the rhythm of his hips and the breath in your throat. For a brief moment, you forgot the guilt. Forgot the past. Forgot yourself.

All you could feel was the now.

The beautiful, excruciating, intoxicating now.

Alastor’s hand gripped your breast, kneading the soft flesh with a hunger that matched the rhythm of his thrusts. His cock slid in and out of you, wet and thick, dragging pleasure from your core like a song you didn’t know you could still sing. His lips grazed the shell of your ear, breath hot and wicked, sending shivers cascading down your spine.

“I can give you this, my precious bird,” he whispered, voice silk and sin. “I can make you feel adored again.” Each word wrapped around you like velvet chains. “I can take you back to the time when the world knelt at your feet.”

Your thighs trembled as arousal spilled down them. The slap of skin on skin filled the room, filthy and beautiful. His promises clung to your mind like perfume. You wanted to believe them. You wanted them to be real.

“Just say it,” he moaned, his hand pressing between your shoulders and forcing your chest flat against the mattress. Your cheek smeared against the sheets, drool wetting your face as he gripped your hips and drove into you with reckless abandon.

Your eyes fluttered. The head of his cock ground into your g-spot, again and again, pulling sharp cries from your throat. His balls slapped your clit, fast and heavy, sending bright, unbearable sparks of pleasure bursting through your body.

“Go on, my pet,” he hissed through clenched teeth. “Say it. Say you're mine.”

Your heart beat so hard it rattled your ribs. If it meant this wouldn’t stop, if it meant you could keep this burning high, you would say anything. You would give him the world. You would give him your soul. And as if he could hear your thoughts, Alastor yanked you up by your hair, holding you there with cruel tenderness.

Your voice broke from your lips in a sob. “I’m yours. I’m yours,” you cried, the words ripped from your chest, soaked in desperation.

But then he slowed. His pace faltered, then changed. He fucked you shallow and slow, too slow, dragging out the tension just when you were so close to falling apart.

“Please,” you begged, your hands scrambling behind you to clutch at his hips. “Please, don’t stop. I need it. I need you to keep going.” You were gasping now, your voice crumbling as the tide inside you fought for release.

You just wanted to forget. Forget everything. The guilt. The promises. The suffocating weight of who you were supposed to be.

But Alastor’s hand gripped your face.

And he forced you to look forward.

To face the door.

Your breath caught in your throat.

The door was no longer fully closed.

It hung slightly ajar, just enough to see the cold blue light seeping in through the crack. Just enough to make out the outline of electronic eyes watching you. Familiar. Frozen.

Your heart stuttered.

No.

No, no, no.

Alastor's thrusts returned with ferocity, slamming into you, cruel and knowing. He could feel how close you were. How your body was already clinging to the edge.

And all you could do was stare.

Stare into your husband's glowing eyes as he watched you, silent and still, while you let another man wreck you.

A strangled cry escaped yours, one born from pain and from pleasure. Your muscles seized as pleasure suddenly was ripped apart, letting you see flashes of white, as you sobbed from coming on another man's cock. 

You couldn't look away, tears flooded your eyes, hair stuck to your messy, teary, sweaty face. The picture perfect of an imperfect, filthy doll.

And...

...You smiled. 

You smiled because oh… Vox finally looked at you. That this was your true face, the one that wasn't hiding behind make up and designer clothes. This raw, animalistic look, the one born from pain, from inadequacy, from debauchery, this was you, wasn't it?

Alastor laughed, high and manic, as his cock pulsed within you as he came and pumped his seed into you. “Ah,” his arms caged around you, his cock still deeply seated into you. “I always get the last laugh, right, old pal?” 

You felt Alastor grinning against your neck, as the darkness slowly swallowed your sight. 

The next time your sight returned, you were in another bed. Soft, plush, with crimson sheets, and high windows filtered by the hellish light. 

Your inner walls seized as Alastor's seed spilled out from you. Momentarily stunned, you looked around and Alastor was back to his prim, calm, and confident self. His attire pressed and perfect as he crossed his legs and grinned at you. 

“Now, I have you, right where you belong,” Alastor's voice was soft, almost a whisper, yet his words were loud in your ears. 

Your eyes slowly blinked. A dusty photograph slowly slipped out of your mind. It was something distant, something you didn't think much at the time. There was a man, he was half creole and half white. He had a popular radio show, and he… he wanted you on it before you were whisked away by Vox. 

You had rejected him, and you didn't think much of it at that time. 

But, back then, he asked you…

“Won't you sing for me, my Canary?” 

Your eyes blinked away from the old faded memory, of a face you could hardly remember as the voice of the past and the present merged together. 

“Pardon?” your voice hoarse from use. 

It was then that you noticed it. The way the shadows played against the wall and on Alastor. It reminded you of black bars, of a cage. 

Alastor’s figure shifted in the light, and for a fleeting moment, he looked like a spectre behind those bars, watching you from the other side. Or perhaps, you were the one locked in.

Maybe you have always been.

And for a moment, something in your chest cracked—gentle, mournful.

A whisper of a song you hadn’t sung in forever.

Lost Record 01 ->

Thank you for reading the end of White Noise. This was with the effort of my beloved community voting for a bittersweet Cuck!Vox. Now, for those who feel sad that the story ended too soon, fret not my dears! I am cooking some bonus content (that's right, more than one!) for this story. It will be released after my Summer Smash event ends ❤️

So, until then, stay tuned 📻

Ko-fi! -- Voxtek Server -- xReader/OC Community

[redvexillum]

Chapter 4 - Distorted Image

A/N: Will you? Won't you? Let's just see...

TAGS/WARNINGS: f!reader, married to vox, vox does love reader, infidelity, non-sex repulsed alastor, alastor is in hell for a reason, soft alastor, jerk alastor, possessive, no use of y/n, vox tries, reader tries, alastor is a control freak, power imbalance, alastor being alastor, hurt/no comfort

<- PREV | TABLE OF CONTENT

You sat motionless before the vanity, your reflection a ghost of who you once were. The mirror did not lie. It never did.

Your eyes were vacant, hollow things that shimmered only with the sheen of water slipping from the ends of your soaked hair. Droplets crawled down your neck and over your collarbone, disappearing beneath the fabric of your robe. You hadn’t bothered to dry yourself completely. You had hoped the cold would seep into your bones, maybe make you feel something besides this sick, bloated emptiness.

Your gaze lowered to your chest. Clean. Scrubbed raw. Not a trace of the man who had touched you remained. But you wished it had. You wished you had failed to clean it all away. You wanted it etched into your skin, something you could never escape. A scar. A brand. Proof of what you did.

When the door had clicked open and Vox had stepped through, your body jolted like something struck. Your heart rammed against your ribs. Your fingers twitched, curling in your lap, stiff and cold like they belonged to someone else. Nausea twisted in your gut and crawled up your throat, thick and sour.

You didn’t dare move.

You looked like a mess. Hair limp, skin blotchy and pale, and your once neatly pressed dress ruffled. You felt like you were made of filth. Like he could smell another man on you if he stepped close enough.

But Vox didn’t look.

His eyes were shadowed with exhaustion, his shoulders heavy with the weight of the day. He had passed you without a glance. “Not now,” he had muttered, and the door to his office shut behind him with a hard, final snap.

Silence returned like an old friend, wrapping its arms around you. You sat in the stillness, trembling in a quiet that screamed.

You wanted him to look at you. God, you needed it.

If he had looked at you and been angry—if he had shouted, if he had thrown something, if he had seen you—then maybe it would mean he still cared. That you hadn’t drifted so far apart that your betrayal passed unnoticed.

But he didn’t see the guilt bleeding from every pore. He didn’t see the way your body recoiled from itself. He didn’t see the ghost of a man still pressed into your skin.

You had scrubbed yourself in the shower until your flesh was raw. The scent, the feeling, the memory—it clung to you like rot. You could still feel Alastor’s touch like phantom hands gripping your hips. Still feel the betrayal throbbing deep inside.

When you returned to the bedroom, you wrapped your arms around yourself. Your nails dug into your skin until the sting made your eyes water.

When had you become this?

When did you become so empty that a moment of attention, of gentleness, could lead you to ruin?

A soft knock broke through your thoughts. The voice that answered was yours, but hoarse, as if scraped from your throat without permission. “Come in.”

The door opened. Vox stepped inside.

His eyes were warm now. His expression was soft. He carried something behind his back.

“Baby doll,” he said, his voice tender, a tired little smile on his lips as he knelt before you.

He brought his hands forward.

A tiny demon teddy bear. A modest bouquet of delicate blue flowers. A small velvet box of chocolates tied with a satin ribbon.

You stared. For a moment, the objects didn’t make sense. Your mind couldn’t connect them.

Your hands stayed in your lap. Frozen.

“Wh-what is this?” you asked, your voice breaking around the edges.

Vox glanced at your trembling hands, then at the small offering he had placed before you. With a soft sigh, he gently set the gifts aside and took your hands into his own. His warmth wrapped around your cold fingers, firm and steady where you were shaking. He brought them to his lips, eyes fluttering closed as he pressed a kiss against your knuckles.

“I know I’ve been busy, doll,” he said quietly, his voice low and deliberate, as though trying to choose each word with care. “But I want you to know that I still love you.”

Love.

That word, that single word, the one you had starved for, the one you had hunted down in every gesture and breath and glance, hit you like a dagger straight to the chest. Your vision blurred instantly, your lashes dampening as the tears welled up, unshed and trembling on the edge.

Tell him.

Your mind began to scream.

Tell him. Tell him. Tell him.

Tell him you were unfaithful.

Tell him you let another man touch you.

Tell him you betrayed the life you built together.

But the words died in your throat before they could even form. Your lips stayed parted, quivering. Nothing came. You couldn’t do it.

You were terrified. Not just of his anger, but of the world that would collapse if he looked at you differently. If he pulled away. If he said goodbye. You met him when you were young, still believing in fairy tales, still full of hope. He had been your first real love, your constant, your anchor through every storm. Without him, there was no story.

You leaned into him instead, throwing your arms around his shoulders and burying your face into the warm curve of his neck. You held him tightly, desperately, as if your embrace could make the guilt disappear. Your teeth clenched hard, your lungs burned with restraint. An apology swelled inside you, begging to be spoken, but you swallowed it down again.

He would never forgive you.

You had done this. You had destroyed this. You, and only you.

You cried. Not the kind of cry that sought comfort or reassurance, but the kind of broken, gut-wrenching sob that leaked from somewhere deeper than the body. The kind of cry that comes when the soul is splintering. Your tears slipped down your cheeks and onto his shirt, shame burning through every droplet.

Still, he held you. Still, he soothed you. His hand traced soft circles along your spine, his breath calm, his voice barely more than a whisper.

“My sweet little crybaby,” he murmured with a gentle laugh, his tone teasing, lighthearted. He peppered soft kisses across your temple, your cheeks, your forehead. “Did you miss me that much?”

You could hardly answer. Your voice had deserted you, stranded in the raw heat of your chest.

When he pulled back, his smile greeted you. Open. Unburdened. Full of the same light you had fallen in love with years ago. The same smile he wore when he slipped the ring on your finger. The same smile from your wedding day.

You stared at it.

And hated yourself.

Because you remembered how it felt when someone else smiled at you. When someone else made you feel wanted. When you surrendered everything to a moment you could never take back.

The pain clawed up your throat again.

And still, the only sound that escaped you was the soft, traitorous cry of a woman who could never say the words he deserved to hear.

His hand found your cheek, calloused fingers brushing against your skin with a tenderness that made your throat ache. Your eyes slipped closed, and behind them, memories came rushing in like a tide too strong to resist. All the times he had held you, all the nights he had pulled you close, the warmth he once gave you without hesitation. Every moment bled into the next until you no longer knew where the past ended and this present began.

Then his lips met yours.

Slow. Careful. As if you were something fragile. As if you were worth gentleness. As if you had not shattered yourself with your own hands.

“I love you, my sweet doll,” he whispered against your mouth, pressing another kiss to your lips.

You kissed him back, but not with the love he gave. Your kiss was hollow, filled with a sorrow that trembled at the edges. It was soft, almost reverent, but it did not carry devotion. It carried regret. A silent, breathless apology.

Then reality knocked on the door of your fragile moment.

His phone buzzed.

You felt him tense as he pulled away with a low groan of frustration. You searched his eyes, your hands still barely brushing his chest, but already he was retreating into another world. One you would never be part of. One full of war and power and things that would always come before you.

He checked his phone, sighed, and muttered that he had to go. The words spilled out like a broken record. There was unrest in his territory, instability in his ranks. Power required work. Work required sacrifice. Sacrifice always started with you.

So... you smiled. Of course, you smiled.

Like the good wife. The quiet, patient, perfect doll.

He didn’t notice the way your lips quivered. He didn’t kiss you again. He didn’t look back.

The front door clicked shut, and it was as though the world exhaled without you.

You sank slowly to your knees. Your hands touched the cold floor. Your forehead nearly met the ground, the weight in your chest pulling you lower. Beside you, the small pile of gifts sat untouched. Mocking you with their innocence. Mocking you with the version of yourself you used to be.

Tears spilled again. Not dramatic. Not loud. Just hot and endless, carving lines down your cheeks as you sat in the stillness.

You had sworn never to betray him again.

But you were already betraying yourself, weren’t you?

Every time you pretended this was enough. Every time you told yourself this kind of love was love at all.

How many years had you waited like this? Sitting pretty in silence, waiting for him to pick you up and wind you up like his little toy?

How many more could you endure?

Forever. That’s what you promised. That’s what your wedding band whispered to you from your finger. A cursed loop of silver that glinted with quiet accusation.

Forever was a long time.

Forever was lonely.

The next morning, you woke alone. The bed beside you was cold, untouched. The impression of his body had never been there at all.

You didn’t cry this time. Not because you weren’t hurting, but because it no longer surprised you.

You got up. You washed your face. You fixed your hair. Your dress was pressed, your lipstick perfect.

If you were going to suffer, you might as well do it beautifully.

That was what he liked, wasn’t it?

To have a pretty little thing waiting for him.

Waiting. Always waiting.

As you reached for the handle and opened your bedroom door, a startled yelp escaped your lips. Your heart lurched into your throat at the sight of him.

Alastor.

No longer outside on the balcony where you had last seen him. He was seated now on the very loveseat where you had surrendered yourself to sin. His legs were crossed elegantly, his gloved hands resting atop one knee, his crimson eyes cutting into you like shrapnel.

“My, my,” he purred, his grin stretching wide with twisted delight. “You look absolutely dreadful! Hahaha!”

The sound of his laughter scraped against your nerves, peeling them raw. Your pulse pounded so violently that it became the only sound you could hear. You couldn’t breathe. You couldn’t think.

You stepped back into your room and slammed the door shut. With trembling fingers, you turned the lock. A fragile barrier between you and him.

He always left after sunrise. Always.

He would go. Eventually.

Let him have the house during the daylight hours. You would take the darkness. You would hide in it, the way cowards always did.

But even in the privacy of your solitude, the images came. Your lips pressed against his. The sound of your moans. The feeling of him inside you. Every shameful memory paraded across your mind like a cruel slideshow. It choked you. It burned. It buried you in its weight.

You stumbled backwards until your knees gave out. The mattress caught you like a final mercy. You pressed your hand against your mouth, trying to stop the bile of guilt from rising.

You wanted him gone.

What happened yesterday was a mistake. A lapse in judgment. An ugly, horrible thing that you swore would never happen again.

But the words meant nothing when your body refused to move, when your fear stole your voice, when you felt it—

The pressure of a presence beside you.

You didn’t hear footsteps. You didn’t hear the door creak. But you knew. You knew he was there.

Every part of your body tensed. The surrounding air changed. You could feel it vibrating against your skin. You turned your head with aching slowness, fighting the weight of your own dread.

And there he was.

Alastor, seated beside you on the bed. Upright and poised, like he belonged there. Like he had always belonged there.

His legs were crossed neatly, one ankle over the opposite knee. His gloved fingers rested in his lap. His smile was razor-sharp and wider than before, splitting his face into something monstrous.

“Oh, how cruel,” he said with a sigh, mock offense curling in his tone. “And here I thought we truly bonded yesterday.”

His voice was playful, but underneath it was something else. Something dark and indulgent. He was enjoying this. Every ounce of your panic, every trace of your guilt, he drank it in like wine.

Your throat tightened. It took everything in you to force the words out.

“G-get out,” you said. Your voice cracked like dry wood under pressure. 

Weak. Fractured. Useless.

His smile deepened.

“But darling,” he cooed, leaning in closer, “I thought we were past such formalities.”

"Please, sir. Th...this is inappropriate," your voice weak, your resolve even weaker.

“Why the sudden change in temperament, my dear?” Alastor’s voice lilted with amusement, his grin ever fixed as he set his microphone staff beside him. He turned fully toward you, his eyes gleaming like freshly spilled blood. “Is it the shame? That awful, sinking truth that you gave yourself to someone who wasn’t your husband?”

Your breath caught in your throat. The silence between you roared louder than anything he could have said. You couldn’t answer. There was no defence. No justification.

Alastor leaned closer, slow and deliberate, until his face hovered inches from yours. His stare was merciless. Those crimson eyes pierced through every wall, every lie you told yourself, until you were bare and trembling beneath them.

“Did you tell him?” he asked, voice low, dangerous. “Did you look him in the eyes and confess? Did you describe how you kissed another man, how you moaned for him, how your body trembled in pleasure under someone else's touch?”

You flinched. His hand reached out and took yours, his fingers cold and precise as he pressed your wedding ring into your palm. The metal stung.

“How quickly you crumbled,” he said. “How little it took to make you forget him.”

Your voice, hoarse and broken, finally surfaced. “Please… don’t tell him.”

But Alastor only tilted his head and smiled wider. “Why not?” he asked, almost sweetly. “Don’t you think he deserves to know what kind of woman he married?”

A tear fell. You felt the weight of it carving down your cheek like a blade.

You had no answer. No defence. No strength left.

You weren’t the innocent. You weren’t the victim.

You were the lie.

The manipulator.

The betrayer.

You had been lonely. You had wanted to feel loved. But that excuse sounded hollow now. Filthy. Rotten.

You were disgusting. You could taste it in the back of your throat.

And as you sat there, with Alastor still watching you like a hawk dissects a wounded animal, something inside you broke. Not cleanly. Not gently.

It cracked slow, jagged, and final.

You hated yourself.

That was the truth.

The real truth.

And you would carry it, in silence.

Forever.

And forever…was a long time. 

NEXT ->

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Chapter 3 - Feedback Loop

A/N: This was fun to write. Man, feels like forever since I've wrote smut for Alastor. I still feel a tad rusty though.

TAGS/SUMMARY: f!reader, married to vox, vox does love reader, infidelity, non-sex repulsed alastor, alastor is in hell for a reason, soft alastor, jerk alastor, possessive, no use of y/n, vox tries, reader tries, alastor is a control freak, power imbalance, alastor being alastor, p in v, fingering

<- PREV | TABLE OF CONTENT

Yearning was a cruel master.

It crawled beneath your skin, burrowed into the hollows of your ribs, and pulsed behind every beat of your lonely heart. And desire… desire was the flame that set it all ablaze.

To be adored.

The words Alastor whispered still rang in your ears, sweet and dangerous. They clung to your skin like silk, so tender and intoxicating that you could not bring yourself to look away. So you nodded. Helplessly. Willingly. And his lips found yours again, hungrier this time, as if he meant to swallow the breath from your lungs and carve your name into his tongue.

His hands were sure, sliding beneath the hem of your dress like he had every right, like your body had always belonged to him. One smooth motion and he dragged you onto his lap, his grip strong, possessive, as his mouth devoured yours. It was not a kiss—it was a claiming. His tongue teased, his teeth nipped, and you whimpered, the sound muffled against his mouth.

The room that once reeked of silence and sorrow now breathed heat and tension, a chorus of soft moans and wet lips smacking in fevered rhythm. You clutched his face, your fingers weaving through his hair, desperate to anchor yourself to something real, something warm, something alive.

Your conscience whispered at first, a tinny voice barely audible beneath the roaring in your ears. It pleaded for reason, screamed betrayal, begged you to stop. But all those cries crumbled into ash the moment his fingers slipped beneath your panties.

He found you already soaked.

A low, guttural chuckle rumbled in his chest. “Look how ready you are for me,” he purred, his voice like velvet soaked in sin.

Slowly, he pushed two fingers inside.

With a sharp gasp, your head fell forward against his shoulder as your walls clamped around him, your body reacting with a desperation that mortified you and thrilled you all the same. His fingers were long and dexterous, curling just right, brushing over that tender place inside that had been starved of attention for too long.

“Ah, how starved, how needy,” he paused, then whispered, “how depraved.”  His eyes sharpened with amusement, almost glowing with mischief.

Your thighs trembled. You tried to hold still, but your hips rolled of their own accord, grinding into his hand, needy and frantic. Your breath came in shallow pants, chest rising and falling with every ragged inhale. A moan escaped, soft and broken, and you bit your lip to stifle the next.

His lips crashed into yours once more, swallowing every sound, every hitch in your throat. His fingers moved faster now, plunging into you, slick and steady, the wet noises obscene and thrilling. He was unrelenting. Your body jolted with every thrust of his hand, muscles tensing, toes curling. You were unravelling, a string pulled tight and quivering.

And when he curled his fingers just right, when your stomach clenched and the pressure coiled behind your navel, you felt it—

The impending inevitable snap.

But just as your climax crested, just as you prepared to fall apart in his arms, he stopped.

His fingers stilled inside you.

He pulled back, just far enough to look you in the eyes, and smiled.

“We can't stop here,” he murmured, voice warm and low, each syllable curling around you like smoke.

Then his fingers slipped out from your trembling core, and you nearly whimpered from the emptiness he left behind. Your body clenched instinctively, desperate to be filled again. But before the ache could settle in fully, something thick and searing pressed against your folds.

You gasped.

That was not his hand. That was…

Your eyes snapped up to meet his.

Alastor leaned back slightly, his gaze slow and deliberate as it trailed down between your bodies. You followed his line of sight, breath catching in your throat. The swollen head of his cock was nudging right at your entrance, smearing your slick against your skin with each twitch.

Then he looked up at you again.

The same look he gave you each morning. That lifted brow, that foxlike grin. But now, it lacked its usual detachment. There was no nod. No invitation.

It was a challenge.

He was letting you choose. The moment was yours to command.

Your body trembled, knees weak, heart thundering as your desire screamed louder than your shame. With shaky resolve, you placed your hands on his shoulders for balance and began your descent.

Slowly, achingly, you sank down on him.

Your walls stretched around him, struggling to take him, your body clinging to every inch. The pressure was exquisite, that sweet, burning fullness that stung just right. You watched his expression as your heat enveloped him, and saw the sharp hitch of breath he tried to suppress. His grin faltered, his brow twitched, and that eye—usually gleaming with mockery—fluttered shut for half a second.

That tiny falter sent a rush of power through you. You made him feel this.

You were nearly seated when his fingers clamped hard around your hips. Without warning, he jerked you down the rest of the way, impaling you to the base.

You cried out, high and sharp, your voice echoing in the charged air. His cock throbbed inside you, pulsing against your walls, and the wiry patch of hair at his base dragged deliciously over your clit. The overstimulation nearly undid you.

You barely had a moment to breathe.

His hands gripped tighter, and suddenly, you were moving, lifted and dropped with brutal rhythm. He thrust up to meet your descent, his cock slamming inside with obscene wet sounds. Each collision sparked lightning up your spine. Your thighs trembled with strain and pleasure. You clung to his shoulders, nails digging into his skin, your moans raw and unrestrained.

“Look at you,” he growled, voice rasping with unholy pleasure. “So pretty when you're used.”

Your back arched as his pace grew savage, ruthless, your body crashing down again and again, hips slapping, your slick coating his cock, his thighs, the heat between you unbearable.

You couldn’t look away from him. His crimson eyes burned into yours, pupils wide, expression twisted with hungry delight. The scent of sex filled the air—thick, musky, inescapable. You were drowning in it, in him, in this shameful, impossible pleasure.

“Come,” he whispered, darkly reverent. “Come for me, sweet little wife, right here on another man’s cock.”

“Ah… yes, yes, yes,” you cried out, your voice cracking as tears welled in your eyes. Each brutal thrust of Alastor’s cock sent sharp pleasure spiralling up your spine, hammering against that aching, sensitive spot inside you with unrelenting precision. It was too much. It was perfect. Your body, your soul, your restraint—they all frayed at the edges.

Your stomach clenched. Your legs twitched, trying to close, but his hands held you open. And then it happened. You came—long, hard, and loud.

Your cries broke into sobs. Raw and trembling, you buried your face in his shoulder, your nails digging into his chest, holding on as if the ground beneath you was crumbling. But Alastor did not stop. He kept moving, chasing his pleasure with the same determined rhythm, as if your climax had only fuelled his hunger.

Then, with a quiet hiss between his teeth, he stiffened.

You felt him pulse deep inside you. Hot spurts of his release filled you, over and over, until it overflowed, dripping down around the thick base of his cock and trailing warmly down your inner thighs. You lay there panting, barely able to lift your head. The only sounds left in the room were your ragged breathing and his soft, satisfied sighs.

Finally, his cock softened and slipped out of you, leaving you empty and leaking.

You looked up at him.

Alastor.

Unbothered. Calm. Not a single hair out of place.

He didn’t look like a man who had just ravaged you. He looked like he always did—composed, collected, eerily amused. As if nothing had happened. As if your body weren’t still twitching from the aftershocks. As if your shame weren’t bleeding into the air.

Your lips parted, but no words came. You couldn’t speak. You couldn’t even breathe right.

So you stepped away from him.

You winced when another warm stream of his seed spilled out between your thighs, glistening as it hit the polished wooden floor. It puddled beneath you, a silent accusation, a stain you could never scrub clean.

Alastor, meanwhile, took his time.

He adjusted his monocle, combed his fingers through his hair, straightened his bow tie. His cock still hung low, heavy, and wet with the mess you both made. He left it for last. On purpose. He wanted you to see it. To remember what you let inside you.

Then he looked at you. Head tilted. That same unsettling smile slicing across his cheeks.

“Would you like a taste, dear?” he asked, his voice dripping with mock politeness.

You turned away sharply, your cheeks burning, your ears tingling with mortification.

He laughed.

“I suppose not,” he hummed, shrugging. “Perhaps next time.”

And then, so casually, as if he hadn’t just ruined you, he said, “Well, I believe it’s time for me to go.”

He stepped closer. His fingers—those same fingers that had stretched and fucked you open—reached for your chin and gently turned your head back to him. His touch was gentle, almost reverent.

“But I’ll see you tomorrow,” he whispered.

He smiled again. Too wide. Too knowing.

“I do hope,” he added, “you’ll greet me with the same warm treatment.”

You should have said something. Anything.

You should have begged him to keep this quiet. Promised him it was a moment of weakness. Told him it would never happen again.

But you stood there. Frozen. Paralyzed.

Your mind raced, spinning out, like peddling a bicycle on a road that no longer existed. The wheels were gone. The ground had vanished. All you could do was fall.

He bent low, pressed a soft kiss to your lips, and just like that, he was gone.

The shadows swallowed him whole.

And you were left standing alone, in the middle of the living room. Your hair mussed. Your lipstick smeared. Your dress wrinkled and bunched. Your body sore, leaking, trembling.

You looked down.

A puddle — no, a stain. 

The only evidence of what you had done.

The only evidence that Vox was not the only man to fill you.

And just as you moved to step away, your heart nearly stopped as you heard the door unlocking.

Someone was home.

Vox was home.

NEXT ->

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Chapter 2 - Unclean Signal

A/N: Oh my, what will reader do now with Vox's new business partner?

TAGS/WARNING: f!reader, married to vox, vox does love reader, infidelity, non-sex repulsed alastor, alastor is in hell for a reason, soft alastor, jerk alastor, possessive, no use of y/n, vox tries, reader tries, alastor being alastor, alastor is a control freak, power imbalance, attempted handy

<- PREV | TABLE OF CONTENT

Unlike Valentino and Velvette, Vox’s other business partners, Alastor was the only one who appeared in your home every day without Vox. You would find him lounging on the balcony with a steaming cup of coffee, always the same red mug with a ridiculous print that read Oh Deer!—a pun you didn’t understand and never dared to ask about.

At first, his presence unsettled you. He wasn’t loud, not invasive in the obvious sense, but his silent occupation of your space felt like a violation of the fragile routine you clung to. Your smiles were tight and your greetings even tighter, whispered softly before you disappeared into the safety of your room. He never followed. He never demanded your attention. He would only look up, grin with an unreadable glint in his crimson eyes, raise a brow, and nod.

This pattern continued for weeks. You grew used to it. Not comfortable, but accustomed. Eventually, you stopped trying to pretend it was temporary. It became part of your new normal, the one where you spent most of your hours confined behind your bedroom door, your life shrinking smaller with each passing day.

That was why your heart nearly burst when Vox came home early.

For once, he walked through the bedroom door before you had fallen asleep. Sitting up in bed, heartbeat quickening, you chewed your lips in equal parts anticipation and anxiety. The silk of your nightgown clung to your skin, a deep royal blue that shimmered in the low light. The lace trim traced the curve of your breasts like a whispered invitation, and beneath, the sheer lingerie barely clung to your body at all. You had chosen it carefully, hoping tonight might be different, special. 

You waited, twisting your fingers in your lap, watching as Vox stepped inside the bedroom with a long yawn. He wore baby blue pinstriped pajamas, looking soft and cozy and entirely unaware of the effort you had poured into tonight.

“Hey,” you murmured, your voice dipped low and warm. “Long day?”

He groaned as he climbed into bed, his head tilting back against the pillow. “Fuck, yeah. Long as hell.”

You leaned toward him, letting your leg slide up to press against his, the hem of your nightgown slipping higher, revealing the smooth skin of your thigh. 

His hands remained still. He didn’t touch you, but he didn’t pull away either. It was like touching a statue—present, but distant.

You let your hand drift down the centre of his torso, fingers gliding with feather-light teasing over the waistband of his pajama pants, until you grazed the base of his cock. It was soft. Waiting. Like him.

“Let me help you relax,” you offered, your voice barely above a whisper, tinged with longing.

Vox opened one eye, giving you a lazy, crooked smile. “Yeah? Been a while, doll, hasn’t it?”

Your heart fluttered with delicate joy. He was receptive. Finally, finally, something. “Yeah… it has,” you whispered, so softly the words nearly dissolved in the air between you. “So let me make you feel good, love.” Your lips pressed tenderly to the cool surface of his monitor-shaped head, a gesture that felt like both worship and plea.

Vox hummed in reply, his groan low and content, and his glowing eyes slowly dimmed as his lids drifted closed. Encouraged, you slid your hand beneath his waistband, your fingers gliding over his soft skin. You began to stroke him gently, slow and rhythmic, the way you remembered he liked. Up and down, your thumb brushing the sensitive slit, coaxing him with the kind of familiarity that once made his breath hitch and his hips buck into your palm.

“'S good,” he mumbled, the sound barely audible, more like a sigh as he relaxed into your touch.

But something was wrong.

You could feel it—he wasn’t hardening like he used to. In fact, he was softening. Your heart skipped, then sank. You paused, looking up at his face. The glowing screen was dim now, the logo bouncing in silence.

He was asleep.

He had fallen asleep.

Your hand froze against his body, the stillness between you so loud it rang in your ears. Slowly, carefully, you withdrew your touch. The warmth you had tried so desperately to build between you cooled like dying embers in a fireplace. You sat back on your knees, staring down at yourself. The silk of your nightgown clung to the curve of your breasts, the lace now looking cheap and desperate, your body aching with need that had nowhere to go.

Your vision blurred as hot tears welled and spilled down your cheeks unexpectedly. You couldn’t stop them. You didn’t even try. Your hands folded together in your lap, squeezing tightly, like if you held yourself hard enough you could stop your heart from shattering.

But the damage had already been done.

Insecurity flooded you. A quiet, creeping monster. It slithered beneath your skin, into your bones, whispering cruel things you had tried so hard to forget.

You were no one. You had always been no one.

Back then, before everything, you were just a small-town girl in Louisiana. You sang in smoky bars and roadside diners, your voice your only gift, and even that felt fragile. You had nothing. Just the will to be heard. The locals called you Canary, a sweet nickname for a voice that tried to brighten the lives of the tired, the drunk, the lonely.

And you had been content.

Your dreams had been small. A radio debut, maybe. Singing on air for your hometown. That would have been enough. But then he came.

Vox. The man in the tailored suit, visiting on a business trip, with a jaw that could cut glass and a smile that made your heart flutter even before he spoke. He had charm, poise, and promises that sounded like fairy tales. He told you he loved you the moment he heard your voice, and you believed him. He swept you into his world with glittering hands and gave you everything you thought you ever wanted.

Fame. Fortune. Adoration.

But more than anything, you wanted love. You had fallen in love with him. 

You still were.

You told yourself you still were.

You had to be.

It began like any other day. Vox had already left before your eyes even fluttered open, leaving behind nothing but the cool imprint of his absence on the sheets. The silence of the penthouse pressed in around you like it always did. You followed your usual routine, getting ready with deliberate care, trying to craft some semblance of perfection. A picture-perfect wife, even if no one was watching.

When you stepped into the living room, there he was—Alastor. Just as he always was, seated in his usual spot on the balcony with a steaming cup of coffee, that strange red mug cradled between his long fingers. You offered him a shy smile, the kind born out of polite habit more than warmth. Your head dipped slightly, and your eyes avoided his gaze, ready to slip back to your room like a ghost.

But something changed.

He didn’t offer his usual curt nod. There was no polite distance today. Instead, he was suddenly there, in front of you, as though he had been carved out of the shadows themselves. One moment he was seated, and the next, he was blocking your path, his presence cold and looming despite the warmth of his smile.

You startled, instinctively stepping back. “Oh, h-hello,” you stammered, your voice small. Your hands quickly folded together, fingers twisting nervously. You bowed your head without thinking, the motion ingrained in you after Vox's many quiet warnings. Alastor was an overlord, a powerful one, and not all were merciful.

“My,” Alastor’s voice rang out, high and bright, touched with that ever-present mockery. It wasn’t what he said but the way he said it, like every word was a performance, like you were too pitiful not to be amusing.

You flinched when you felt his fingers—two warm, gloved fingertips—under your chin, urging your face upward. They were surprisingly gentle, coaxing rather than forcing. You resisted the instinct to look away, your lashes fluttering before your eyes finally met his.

“What made you cry, my sweet little Canary?”

The air stilled. You went cold.

That name. You hadn’t heard that name from anyone in years. He had said it when you first met, but you hadn’t linger on it for too long at the time. You had let it pass. Now, it crashed into you like a forgotten wave, pulling you back into memory.

You blinked at him, throat tightening. “I’m sorry?” you asked, dazed. Your hands flew to your cheeks as if they could hide the truth. You thought you had concealed the evidence. You powdered your face. You smiled in the mirror. You pressed your lips into that perfect shape Vox once said made you look “marketable.” But still, somehow, Alastor had seen through it all.

He knew.

You had cried that morning. You cried because the bed was cold again. Because Vox had not held you. Because the night before, you had tried to reach him, and he had drifted into sleep without even noticing your touch.

And you were so tired of pretending.

“Come,” Alastor said softly. His hand settled on your back with disarming care. You should have stepped away, but instead, your body moved as if bewitched. He led you to the love seat, and you sat without protest, your knees brushing his as he sat beside you.

He folded his hands neatly and tilted his head, still smiling, though his crimson eyes never left your face. “Considering I am your husband’s business partner, I believe it’s only right I look after his… wife.”

The way he said it—husband, wife—something about it crackled with static, like the word didn’t quite sit right in his mouth. Like he didn’t believe it.

You shook your head, flustered. “Oh, you don’t have to—”

“No,” he interrupted brightly, his voice melodic, almost theatrical. “I insist.”

His words reminded you of old radio shows you used to listen to as a child, the ones where the announcer’s voice was clipped and fast, full of flair. Always delivering the news with a grin you could hear even through the static. There was a strange comfort to it, and a strange dread.

Because this voice was close. Too close.

You hadn’t meant for it to happen.

You never set out to betray anyone. But isolation was a cruel and silent killer, and you had been suffocating in it for far too long. Every day spent locked in that golden cage, every night curled beneath cold sheets that once smelled of love, every moment spent tiptoeing around Hell with lips sealed tight fearing smearing your husband's name. It had worn you thin.

You were tired. Tired of pretending. Tired of smiling. Tired of breaking behind closed doors with no one to see you shatter.

So when warmth finally came—real, tangible warmth—it undid you.

You tried to hold back. You tried to measure your words, choosing only the ones that painted you as foolish, and never Vox as cruel. You swallowed your pain like poison and smiled through it. You insisted it was your fault.

You were the silly one.

You were the one who wasn’t beautiful enough.

You were the one who just… wasn’t enough.

But as the minutes dragged on and your chest cracked wider, your words came faster, flooding out from some desperate, aching place you didn’t even realize was starving. And Alastor? He just listened. Fully, completely, as if he had all the time in the world. As if your voice weren’t noise, but something worthwhile.

His eyes never wandered. His expression never mocked. There was something reverent in the way he looked at you.

Then he said it.

He said you were beautiful.

That your voice was lovely. That the first time he heard you sing, he couldn’t breathe.

You blinked, stunned, lips parting in disbelief. “When did you hear me sing?”

He tilted his head, smile never fading. “Does it matter?” he said softly, voice dipped in honey and static. “The moment I heard you, I was… absolutely smitten.”

And… that did something to you.

To be wanted.

Truly, completely wanted.

Maybe that was your sin. The hunger for love. For warmth. For a hand reaching out when yours had been shaking in the dark for so long.

Before you could think, before you could stop yourself, your body leaned forward.

Your lips found his.

The contact was warm and trembling. Your wedding ring caught the light like a cruel reminder, a single tear frozen in metal. It pressed coldly against his chest, as if to mock you.

Then came the silence.

He didn’t kiss you back.

Realization hit you like a blow to the chest. Your breath stuttered as you jerked away, shame rising hot and choking up your throat. Your lips trembled. The sting of embarrassment burned at your eyes.

“I—I…” Your voice cracked, barely audible beneath the chaos in your mind. 

Whore. Slut. Hussy.

You could already hear the screams. You could already see Vox’s face.

You should beg. You should plead. Apologize a thousand times and fall to your knees if that’s what it took.

But then…

Alastor’s hand slid behind your head, slow and certain, cradling you like something delicate. Like something precious.

And he kissed you.

Deeply.

Firmly.

Hungrily.

Like he had been waiting.

And just as your breath caught in your throat, just as your heart lunged into turmoil of guilt and longing, he whispered—

“Let me show you what it feels like… to be adored.”

NEXT ->

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[redvexillum]

Chapter 1 - Crackling Silence

A/N: So, you guys voted for bittersweet/cucking Vox in my polls. I will say, I didn't get in as much cuckolding as I would like (wow, not a sentence I thought I would ever write) but, the story sort of took off without my consent. So...🤷‍♀️

SUMMARY: In a world of static and sin, who’s really tuning in? You cuck Vox, your husband, with Alastor.

TAGS/WARNING: f!reader, married to vox, vox does love reader, infidelity, non-sex repulsed alastor, alastor is in hell for a reason, soft alastor, jerk alastor, possessive, no use of y/n, vox tries, reader tries, alastor being alastor

Cold.

Not the kind that bites at your skin or makes you shiver beneath the covers, but the kind that creeps inward, quiet and invisible, until you're numb. Until you can't feel anything but the aching absence of warmth.

You didn’t let it in. You couldn’t. Because the moment you acknowledged that hollowness, you were certain it would swallow you whole. And you wouldn’t survive that. 

Not again.

“Vox…” you whispered, curling closer to him in bed, craving connection. Your hand slipped over his chest and drifted up, fingertips brushing the sharp edges of his collar. Slowly, they hovered near the top button, aching to undo it. 

But his attention was elsewhere.

Vox lay beside you, propped slightly against the pillows, the glow from his screen-face painting shifting colours across the sheets. His expression wasn’t really there—just a still image of static and a loading icon in the corner. His eyes flicked rapidly as he scrolled, absorbed in whatever latest disaster needed cleaning up.

He didn’t even look at you.

A hand came up lazily to still your fingers. Not harsh, not cold, but detached. 

Programmed.

“Not tonight, doll,” he muttered, voice glitching faintly at the edges from exhaustion. With a groan, the screen dimmed slightly as he flicked through the final updates. “Fucking Val turned the club scene into a bloodbath again. PR’s eating me alive.”

He tossed the phone toward the nightstand without care. The screen on his face shifted into a dimmer setting, now displaying the VoxTek logo with a sleep-cycle timer ticking in the corner.

You looked at him, watching the flickering pixels shift in gentle pulses across his face. Occasionally, he gave you that vintage smile—the one he wore when you first met, all charm and 1930s swagger—but not tonight.

Not in years.

It had been fifty years since you reunited here in Hell. A full lifetime, and then some. You’d stood beside him through fire and fame. You had been his before he was this.

“Is there anything I can do to help?” you asked quietly, leaning in, desperate for purpose, for acknowledgment. For a role beyond ornamental.

He didn't respond right away. Just static. Then his screen blinked to a grainy old test card—the kind you used to see when the broadcast ended.

Finally, his voice came soft and practiced: “You just sit pretty, baby.” A chuckle—recorded, reused, hollow. “You’re already doing more than enough.”

Then he powered into standby.

No goodnight kiss. No shared moment. Just the gentle flicker of the logo bouncing across the wall like a ghost.

You lay there stiffly, your hands close to his chest but not quite touching. The synthetic hum from his body filled the silence.

He had work tomorrow. Meetings. Branding. Control.

You had… silence.

Loneliness wasn’t loud. It was this: a life of luxury with no meaning.

He’d given you everything money could touch. But not himself. Not really. And now, lying in bed next to a man with a screen for a face and a heart somewhere buried under circuits and ambition, you realized—

You had never truly left the mortal world.

You had just found a prettier kind of purgatory.

Still, you smiled, mechanically. 

You closed your eyes.

You were lucky. You were loved.

You were fine.

After everything, he loved you. He cared for you. That should have been enough. What more could you possibly want than a love like his, steady and unshaken through decades of sin and silence? The chrome wedding ring on your finger glinted under the warm lights of your home, a promise etched in silver. Proof of his devotion. Proof that you belonged to each other.

Your days bled into one another like paint smudged on canvas, soft and indistinguishable, a blur of sameness stretched out across eternity. 

And you told yourself it was alright. 

You told yourself this peace, this routine, was happiness. 

You told yourself you were content.

Until he arrived.

Until your calm was disturbed, your still waters rippled by a crimson figure whose grin didn’t quite reach his eyes. The moment he entered your home, your world turned on its axis, and you didn’t even realize what had shifted until it was too late. Until you found your heart slipping, quietly and traitorously, into someone else’s hands. Not your husband’s.

It all began like any other quiet afternoon. You sat perched on the velvet chaise, a tabloid in hand filled with celebrity gossip you barely skimmed. The headlines screamed scandals and drama from Hell’s elite, but you only half-read, half-cared. The TV murmured in the background as the latest anchors recited tragic news and manufactured outrage. You had your nails buffed to a shine, your hair pinned and curled, your outfit carefully chosen. Everything about you was polished, pristine, perfect. Just the way Vox liked it.

You were doing what he always asked of you. 

Sitting pretty.

Then came the sound of the front door unlocking. You stiffened in surprise. He was early. He never came home early. Your heart fluttered, the weight in your chest lifting with unexpected joy. Quickly, you stood, smoothing imaginary wrinkles from your dress and fixing strands of hair that were already in place. You felt a rush of warmth bloom in your chest.

“Honey?” you called, your voice lilting with anticipation, lips pulling into a bright, genuine smile.

Vox smiled in return, arms open in invitation. You stepped forward, eager, quickening your pace. But you stopped short.

There was someone else with him.

You straightened instinctively, composure settling over your frame like a mask. Just as you had been taught. You folded your hands neatly and lowered your lashes with practiced elegance.

“Hello,” you greeted softly, your tone carefully polite.

The stranger behind Vox stood tall in a striking outfit composed of deep reds and faded blacks. His coat had frayed edges, worn with time and travel, and in his gloved hands he held a microphone staff. His hair was a sharp bob, red as dried blood with black-tipped ends, and two small tufts rose from his crown, shaped almost like ears. Black bones curled slightly above his head like little antlers. His grin stretched wide, showing off yellowed teeth, and the single red lens of his monocle glimmered under the chandelier light.

“Why, hello there!” he greeted with a voice unlike anything you’d ever heard. It crackled and echoed, layered with static, like the old radio sets from the living world. His tone was cheerful, but there was something beneath it…something off, something familiar.

“Doll, this is Alastor,” Vox said, resting a hand gently on your shoulder before placing a formal kiss against your cheek. “He’s going to be my new business partner. You’ll be seeing him around more often.”

You nodded, lips curving politely. “I see.”

It didn’t really matter. You were never part of his business world anyway. Partners came and went, most of them names you only learned after they’d made themselves too familiar with your liquor cabinet or your living room furniture. Still, you had asked Vox once to introduce you, just so you wouldn't keep being startled by unannounced guests like Velvette or Valentino dropping in unexpectedly.

Better to know the devil at your door than mistake him for a stranger.

“Now, why don’t you rest up, doll, while I have a word with him,” Vox said with a practiced grin, his hand trailing lightly down your arm, the gesture as gentle as it was distant.

You would rather not rest. That’s all you ever did.

Rest. Wait. Watch.

You longed to stay just a little longer—to be near him, to catch whatever scrap of warmth he still offered. But before you could even open your mouth to protest, another voice interrupted.

“Oh, come now, old pal,” Alastor chimed in cheerfully, his tone dancing on the edge of mockery. “It’s not every day I get to see the Canary in the flesh, haha!”

You blinked—and somehow, he was standing right beside you, his grin wide and sharp. His eyes, red as dried blood, narrowed as the black slit of his pupils thinned and dilated like a predator sighting prey. He stared into you, and something cold and feral coiled deep in your stomach.

The name struck you like a slap.

Canary.

You hadn’t heard that name in decades. Not since…

“Y-you know my stage name?” you asked, your voice barely more than breath, cracking with surprise and disbelief.

“Why, but of course!” Alastor laughed, spinning his cane in a slow flourish. The smooth movement clashed against the creeping unease in the room. “You rose to fame quicker than a bullet in a speakeasy back in our day, didn’t you? A little starlet with lungs made of gold.” He turned to Vox, eyes gleaming. “Right, old chum?”

You saw it then. The flicker. The slight tightening of Vox’s smile, the ghost of irritation flashing behind the glass of his screen.

“Right,” Vox echoed, the word stiff and brittle as ice cracking underfoot.

Alastor tilted his head just slightly, his expression curious, taunting. “I must say, I’m surprised, Vox. I would’ve thought your lovely wife,” his voice purred on the word lovely, while his hand slid along the small of your back—subtle and hidden from your husband’s view, “would be part of your little entertainment empire by now.”

Vox laughed, short and sharp, a sound too pointed to be sincere. “No,” he snapped, his screen dimming for a moment, the glitch almost imperceptible. “She’s… frail.”

The word struck you in the gut.

“Oh?” Alastor cocked his head further, and you winced at the crack of vertebrae echoing like a gunshot. His hand, unnervingly steady, remained on your back. His grip wasn’t firm, yet it lingered—a reminder. A question. A threat.

You should have moved. Should have stepped away. But your legs refused to obey. The air felt too thick, as if you were sinking into tar. You weren’t sure what was happening anymore, only that something in the room had shifted.

The tension curled around you like smoke, choking and invisible.

“The Canary is dead,” Vox hissed, his tone venomous, as if even the name tasted sour on his tongue. He turned his head slowly toward you. “Right, doll?”

Your hands twisted together in your lap, knuckles paling. His meaning was all too clear.

You nodded, quickly, too quickly. “Th-that’s right.” The lie stung as it passed your lips. “I—I retired a long time ago. I wasn’t really that talented to begin with.”

Your smile cracked. It felt glued on. Plastic.

Because if you had been talented—truly talented—you wouldn’t have been an embarrassment. Vox wouldn’t have needed to shield you from the industry, from the spotlight. You wouldn’t have vanished from the headlines as quickly as you appeared.

If you had been more than a novelty… maybe Vox would still want you. Need you. See you.

But you weren’t.

You weren’t enough.

“What a shame,” Alastor murmured, and for a moment, his voice lost its playful lilt. There was something soft beneath it. Almost mournful.

Your shoulders tensed as you dared glance up at him. His red eyes were glowing faintly, pulsing like coals in low firelight.

“I still listen to your debut,” he said, almost in reverence. “The one where you blended jazz with that uptown swing. Haunting, really.”

Your breath caught in your throat.

No one had spoken of your music in years. No one remembered. Not even Vox.

But Alastor had.

There was a beat of silence… then warmth bloomed in your chest, spreading slowly like light through cracks in cold stone. You hadn’t felt it in so long. Not this flutter of being acknowledged. And that feeling? It mortified you.

Your cheeks flushed hot, and you quickly ducked your head, letting your hair fall forward in a curtain to hide your reaction. This wasn’t right. That warmth came from the wrong man’s words, spoken while your husband stood only steps away.

Vox snorted, the glow on his screen face flickering with humour. “Please,” he scoffed, “the future is now. Everyone knows EDM and trap music dominate the scene.”

Alastor tilted his head, unconcerned, and replied in a tone as light as air. “You do enjoy your little mechanical contraptions, don’t you?”

“Of course I do,” Vox said, puffing up with his usual showmanship. His voice grew louder, filled with that signature Vox-brand flair. “It’s the future! And now that you’re on my team, we’ll take over all of Hell, mark my words!”

You drifted out of the conversation like a balloon loosed from its string. You no longer felt present. That lingering hand on your back—Alastor’s—felt too intimate, too foreign. Quietly, you shifted away, the movement small, barely perceptible.

Your fingers wrung together as you searched for something, anything to say. “C-could I get you both something to drink? Tea, perhaps?”

“Coffee would be lovely, dear,” Alastor responded immediately, his tone syrupy and polite.

“Coffee for me too, baby,” Vox added, his screen flashing with a soft pink hue. “And those cookies you baked the other day? They were delicious.”

Your heart leapt. “Y-you tried them?” you asked, voice lifting with pure delight.

“Of course,” he replied smoothly. “Anything you make is the most delicious.”

A smile burst across your face, warm and genuine. “I’ll get them right away!”

You hurried to the kitchen, joy bubbling inside you. You were never a natural in the kitchen—Vox knew that—but you had worked so hard to learn. For him. You’d married him when you were alive, yet fate had robbed you of the chance to live as his perfect wife. So now, in this eternal second chance, you wanted to give him the life he deserved. To be his soft place to land. To make his burdens easier.

You poured the water into the kettle, the soft sound of it filling the silence. The scent of roasted beans hung in the air as you reached for the coffee grounds, heart still dancing with joy… until a soft crackle stopped you.

The unmistakable sound of static.

You turned around, instinctively clutching the edge of the counter. Alastor stood in the doorway, one foot already inside the kitchen.

A shiver crawled along your spine.

Still, you smiled—pleasant, practiced. “Hello… may I help you?”

Alastor strode inside like he owned the room. His fingers trailed lazily across the counter, collecting invisible dust. He glanced at his fingertip, then turned toward you, closing the space between you both until barely an inch remained.

“I thought I could lend a hand,” he said, his voice a murmur of mock innocence. “Old Voxy sounds a little… busy, doesn’t he?”

Even from the kitchen, you could hear Vox’s voice carrying from the other room, sharp and strained with frustration. Probably another call with Valentino. He always left Vox in a sour mood.

“There’s no need,” you said gently, your smile holding despite the unease growing in your stomach. “Please, make yourself comfortable.”

“I’m more than comfortable right here,” he said brightly. His tone was cheerful, but there was something off about it, like laughter hiding a snarl.

He stepped just a hair closer. You could feel the heat radiating off him, the subtle static in the air that followed him like smoke.

“I meant what I said earlier,” he murmured. “It’s not every day I get to see the Canary in the flesh.”

His grin stretched wide. Wider than it should. The edges of his lips pulled far, slicing through his cheeks with that too-sharp smile.

Your breath hitched. Somewhere deep in your chest, something began to unravel.

“W-were you a fan?” you asked, voice hesitant and low, like a bird afraid to sing in the presence of something much larger. You hadn’t spoken to anyone new in what felt like an eternity. It was always just you and Vox. Always just the two of you, in this delicate little world he made.

Alastor’s smile didn’t falter. “Something like that.”

That was all he offered.

No elaboration. No smile lines around his eyes. Just that vague, open-ended nothing. The kind of answer that left too much space for your thoughts to wander. You turned away quickly, grateful for the small whistle of the kettle signalling it was done. You reached for the mugs, ready to distract yourself with the familiar motions of service.

But before your fingers could even brush the handle, there was a sharp snap.

In a blink, a full tray—coffee, cream, sugar, and your painstakingly baked cookies—appeared on the counter beside you as if it had been there the entire time.

“Oh,” you breathed, taken aback. “Thank you…”

You reached out instinctively, but your hand froze midair as Alastor smoothly took the tray for himself. His movement was graceful, almost too effortless, like this moment had been rehearsed a hundred times before.

Your hand lingered awkwardly in the air before you folded it tightly into the other and tucked them both in your lap, suddenly very aware of how small you felt.

Alastor looked at you with a strange, amused softness. “Now that I’m your husband’s business partner, it seems we’ll be seeing more of each other.”

His voice had changed—lighter, yet still somehow heavy, as though each word carried something hidden beneath its lilt. He tilted his head, red eyes gleaming.

“I look forward to getting to know you more…” he paused, the grin never fading, “intimately.”

Your heart thudded in your chest. You opened your mouth, but no words came. You weren’t sure if you were being teased, threatened, or merely played with like a cat flicking its paw over a dying insect.

“Oh—yes, likewise,” you managed to say, unsure if it even made sense.

Alastor’s gaze lingered on you, stretching the moment until the silence itself started to feel sharp.

“I do hope,” he said slowly, “that this time, our time together won’t be cut too short.”

Then he turned and walked away, tray in hand, whistling a haunting tune you couldn’t quite place.

The sound of it wrapped around you like smoke.

And just before he reached the doorway, he stopped.

His back still to you, he said with eerie calm, “You remember, don’t you?”

He didn’t wait for your answer.

He just left you standing in the kitchen, surrounded by the scent of coffee and a memory you had once long tucked away.

NEXT ->

❀˖° Feeling generous? Drop a little love in my Ko-fi! Maybe I'll come back with a sneak peek just for you, or bump up an update? Read more on my Kofi page for additional details!

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[the-interuniversal-geometer]

Little fucking guy alert!!

[ID: two photos of a porcelain triceratops from different angles. The triceratops is very small and has blue floral designs on its crown and body. Its three horns are painted with gold luster.]

[ilovetheriddler]

i finished it! i'm pretty pleased with how it turned out. i was browsing bucket hats and saw some shark ones... and immediately wanted to draw him in one!

[redvexillum]

Vox’s Antennas (Part 1)

His antennas twitch subtly when he’s curious or intrigued, like tiny sensors scanning for information.

When he’s amused or smug, they flick in a sharp, deliberate rhythm, almost like a smirk in hardware form.

Flustered or embarrassed? They droop slightly and quiver at the tips, which is usually accompanied by a faint cyan blush across his face.

During anger or frustration, the antennae spike rigidly and sometimes emit faint static or sparks.

When he’s turning on the charm (for you), the antennae sway hypnotically, slowly circling as if he’s showing off his full attention.

Jealousy makes one antenna twitch more than the other. It's veerry subtle, but noticeable if you’re watching closely.

Nervous or anxious, they jitter lightly, almost like a nervous tick, signaling he’s not as composed as he pretends to be.

Sadness or disappointment causes them to droop low, slanting forward, giving him a softer, almost vulnerable silhouette.

In pleasure or arousal, the antennae pulse with static and vibrate in sync with his heartbeat or excitement level

When he’s focused or scheming, they point straight and sharp, moving almost imperceptibly like radar locking onto a target.

📺 Read More? 📺

[vanethealpacca]

Human vox with a shark onesie

(Pls don't repost my art BY getting RID of my watermark 😇 thanks)

(edit: don't trace either. I saw one.)

[redvexillum]

Fourteenth Kiss: Idolize XII

A/N: We have finally reach the ending! As always, let's go out with a bang!

TAGS/WARNING: f!reader, disillusioned!reader, obsessed!reader, psychological, dark, narcissistic!vox, vox and val dynamic, murder, implied/reference suicide, human!vox, this is still a New Year Kiss, written before s2 came out

<- PREV || TABLE OF CONTENT

It felt almost unreal to stand here again. This place, this penthouse, where everything had begun. Half a year ago, it had been the cradle of something fragile and impossible. Love. The kind that bloomed in secret, in stolen glances and whispered words. 

Now, it would be the stage for salvation. For freedom. For the ending and the beginning, both drawn in the same breath.

The entrance was glittering with luxury, dimmed in the low amber glow of overhead lights. Bodyguards stood stationed like silent statues, their gazes empty, their interest already dulled by the endless flow of expensive guests and blaring egos. No one batted an eye. It was understood—Valentino’s domain was untouchable. And Vox, being his golden boy, made the ground sacred in its own way. No one would dare to make trouble here.

That arrogance. That smug, bloated sense of invincibility. It would be his ruin. You would see to it.

You wore a plain black dress. Sleek and conservative. Your hair was tied up in a low ponytail, simple and neat. You didn’t draw attention. You didn’t want to. You needed to be invisible. You walked behind Angel Dust like you belonged to him, a personal assistant or a servant, with your eyes downcast and your hands folded. You moved like a shadow, unassuming and silent.

No one questioned you. They barely looked at you.

“Angel!” A voice rang out, sharp and bright with affection. A woman with strawberry-blonde hair and jet-black lipstick waved from across the room. Her high ponytail bounced as she sauntered closer, her bright pink crop top shouting Bombtastic! in glittering rhinestones.

Angel lit up like a neon sign.

“Bitch!” he called back cheerfully. His voice was bold and theatrical, soaking in the attention like a sponge.

He shrugged off his pink fur coat and tossed it in your arms with a careless grace. To anyone else, it looked routine, like he was giving his assistant something to hold while he schmoozed and posed. But you knew the truth.

The coat felt heavy. Too heavy for fur alone. Nestled in the inner lining, tucked between layers of fabric, was a black market revolver. Untraceable. Fully loaded. Six rounds of vengeance.

Double action. That’s what Angel called it. “Cock it and keep pulling the trigger until you get that sonuvabitch.” His words echoed in your mind like a dark lullaby. A strange sort of reassurance.

You clutched the coat tighter against your chest, heart thudding beneath the weight. Not just of the weapon. But of what it meant. Of what was about to happen.

Angel had told you the plan again and again. The timing, the location, every second accounted for. Vox and Valentino always spent New Year’s Eve together, tucked away in Vox’s personal suite in the upper level of the penthouse. A ritual, he said. A twisted commemoration of their years of power and control. It was the only time of the year when they would be alone, with guards posted far enough away to give the illusion of intimacy.

You had thirty minutes. Thirty trembling minutes before midnight. Before the night would erupt in chaos and light, a test run of fireworks shooting into the sky, sparks trailing like fiery comets. That was your first chance—the messy, imperfect one. If you could strike now, amid the scattered explosions, the report of gunpowder could vanish into the crackle of fire and steel.

But if, for some reason, you didn’t manage it, if your hands shook, or the timing faltered, or fate itself betrayed you, you had one final opportunity. Midnight. The absolute deadline. When hundreds of fireworks would erupt at once, a deafening, blinding crescendo that would consume the manor in flame and sound. That would hide anything, every movement, every report, every heartbeat. A perfect cover. 

Your last chance.

It was clear that Angel had planned this down to the last breath. Every hallway. Every escape route. Every possibility. And as much as he told you this was your mission, you couldn’t help but wonder if he had imagined this himself for years. If he had walked these halls in his mind over and over, gun in hand, frozen by the weight of everything he couldn’t yet bring himself to do.

Now the burden was on you.

You walked quietly through the corridor, keeping your head down. The gun weighed more than it should have, not just physically, but emotionally. With every step, you felt the pressure building in your lungs, your chest tightening around each breath. You weren’t just holding a weapon.

You were holding a chance.

A hope.

A prayer.

Angel had made you memorize the blueprint of Vox’s mansion-like penthouse. You had studied it religiously. Over and over until the walls and staircases lived in your dreams. You knew where every door led. Where Vox might linger. Where Valentino might drag him.

You had prepared. You had committed. But now, walking these halls, retracing steps from another life, something in you faltered.

This wasn’t just a building. It was a memory. It was a place where you had felt happiness, however brief. Where Vox had held you, laughed with you, looked at you like you were real.

And now you were walking toward the chance to save him with blood.

Your fingers tightened around the coat. The weight reminded you that failure wasn’t an option. Not anymore. Not with Angel Dust relying on you. Not with Vox still in Valentino’s grasp. You had made a promise. And you would carry it through.

No matter how heavy it became.

You remembered the night before as vividly as if it had happened only minutes ago. It had taken place right there, in that room, on the sleek, cold coffee table that still gleamed under the overhead lights. The back of your knees had bruised against the edge, your back had arched painfully with each movement, and his grip had been tight—unforgiving, almost cruel in its urgency. He hadn’t whispered sweet words or cradled you gently. There was no tenderness. Just heat and pressure and his voice low in your ear, telling you how good you felt, how much he wanted you.

It had hurt. It had been messy. He didn’t kiss you afterward.

But still… you had smiled.

You told yourself it meant something. That he had chosen you, touched you, wanted you. That the way his hands held your wrists down meant he needed you. That the way he used your body meant he felt something real. That pain could be a form of love too if you loved him enough.

You had clung to that night, wrapped it around yourself like a warm coat, even when it burned. Because it was the only night he had ever made you feel like you existed.

And tonight—tonight, you would matter again.

Tonight, he would see you not as a shadow or a tool or a temporary fix. He would see you as the one who came back for him. The one who was faithful to him. 

The one who saved him.

You moved toward the coat check with purpose, your eyes scanning your surroundings. When no one was watching, you slipped the revolver from the folds of Angel Dust’s pink coat. Your hands moved quickly and efficiently. Lifting your dress just enough, you secured the weapon into the strap around your thigh, the metal resting cool and ready against your skin.

You straightened up just as someone approached. Your breath caught.

Velvette.

She strolled past, her long legs moving in confident strides, tapping away on her phone like she had nothing in the world to fear. The same woman who had once beckoned you into this glittering, poisoned world with a sweet smile and false promises. The same woman who had thrown you aside when she branded you as a whore.

Would she see you now? Would she call for security?

You braced yourself, a single bead of sweat sliding down your back as your heart thudded in your throat.

But she didn’t even glance your way.

She walked past, oblivious. Your presence meant nothing to her.

Invisible.

You had always been invisible.

And at this moment, invisibility was power.

For three hours, you melted into the background like smoke. You carried trays of drinks, wiped down sticky surfaces, and made yourself small. You moved like a ghost, and no one saw you. Not the drunken guests nor the careless guards. You were just another servant in a house full of monsters.

Thirty-six minutes to midnight.

The party outside was a frenzy of lights and sound. Bodies writhed around the pool to the rhythm of pounding music, neon beams cutting through the dark. The air reeked of sweat, alcohol, and smoke. People laughed too loud, screamed with joy, kissed strangers. No one cared who was who anymore.

Even the guards were partaking now—laughing, drinking, nodding off with joints between their lips. Valentino had surrounded himself with sycophants and fools, each one more intoxicated than the last. It was everything Angel Dust had predicted.

And it would be his downfall.

You slipped out of the crowd and climbed the stairs unnoticed. Each step brought you further from the chaos and closer to him. The upper floor was still and silent. Not a soul lingered there. Just the faint thump of music bleeding through the walls like a distant drumbeat.

You walked the hallway slowly, your fingers grazing the wall as your heart pounded against your ribs

Your hand settled on the doorknob.

You breathed in.

You checked your watch. Thirty-one minutes and ten seconds to midnight.

You pushed the door open, your fingers already tight around the revolver.

The moment your foot crossed the threshold, you reached for the switch beside you and flipped it off. The room fell into darkness. You kicked the door closed behind you. 

Your eyes found them.

Valentino stood over Vox, pants pushed down, his erect cock pressed against Vox’s backside, ready to force himself in. Vox was bent awkwardly on the bed, arms shaking as if he were about to break.

They both froze when they saw you.

“What the—” Valentino began, turning with a scowl twisted on his face, but he didn't get to finish.

Right on cue, the first firework screamed into the sky, its whistle high and sharp, and then—boom—an explosion of light rippled through the air, rattling the glass of the windows.

You didn’t think. You didn’t speak.

You raised the gun and pulled the trigger.

Once. Twice. A third time.

The fireworks outside bloomed in sync, a symphony of colour and chaos as the bullets hit their marks—one in his skull, another tearing through his throat, and the last buried deep in his chest.

Blood sprayed across the bed, the floor, the wall.

Valentino collapsed like a rag doll, his body slumping over Vox for a moment before his torso slid off the bed, dead weight hitting the ground with a dull, final thud.

“Fuck!” Vox screamed, writhing out from under the corpse, slipping in the blood that coated his skin. He landed hard on the floor, half-naked and trembling, his breath ragged and wet. His eyes were wide, blown out, red-rimmed from booze and drugs.

You stepped forward, the gun still warm in your hand.

You had done it. The nightmare was over.

You saved him.

The moment you saw Vox, every scrap of Angel’s careful, cold planning evaporated like smoke.

His plan had been surgical in its cruelty. Walk in during the fireworks when the noise would mask a shot. Kill Valentino clean and quick. Move along the path with no cameras, no guards. Wipe the gun, toss it into the black water of the service canal, vanish into the night like you had never existed. Every contingency mapped, every minute accounted for. It was brutal and brilliant and necessary.

Then Vox looked at you.

Time narrowed to the white of his eyes, the way the light caught the tiny pulse at his throat. His face folded into something that was not shock and not sorrow, but a fresh, vivid horror that made your chest hollow out. The air went thin. You could hear the fireworks far away, muffled and useless, and in the hollowness of that sound you only heard your heartbeat ricocheting against your ribs.

Something in you untangled and rewired itself instantly. The cold calculus slipped away and was replaced by the most human of instincts when faced with their love: protect. Run to him, cover him, bury yourself between him and whatever had just terrorized him. Your hands itched to reach for him, to wrap him in your arms and make the world stop bleeding. The gun in your hand felt obscene and foreign, as if it belonged to someone else’s story.

Ridiculous hope swelled, ugly and bright. If he saw you now, truly saw you, maybe he wouldn't look away. Maybe he would understand why you had come. Maybe he would pull you into some reckless, impossible alliance. 

You imagined him leading you both away—Vox, you, and Angel—an odd, broken little family stitched together by survival. You pictured a quiet life somewhere distant, the kind of small, ordinary happiness that had nothing to do with power or screens: mornings with bad coffee, afternoons with cheap gelato, nights that were simply safe.

The thought was absurd and unbearably tender. It felt like praying with your eyes open.

“Vox,” you breathed, your voice trembling with something between awe and fragile triumph. Your heart ached in your chest, a deep, quaking pulse. You had freed him from the filth, from the violation. He was yours to protect now. 

Yours to love.

His eyes darted to Valentino’s lifeless body. One of the dead man’s arms still stretched across the bed, limp and soaked in blood, his mouth open in permanent shock. Crimson seeped through the sheets, dripping slowly, rhythmically, onto the floor.

Vox pressed himself against the wall, his hands raised like you were the one holding him hostage. His whole body shook.

“Fuck, fuck,” he muttered, voice cracking. “What do you want? I’ll give you whatever you want, just—just don’t kill me!”

You blinked. That wasn’t right.

Your head tilted slightly as your heart sank, a cold, creeping dread washing over the warmth of victory. You had heard him say something like that before—back when you were just a fan, just a shadow standing in the velvet glow of his world. But then, it had sounded playful. Now, it sounded terrified.

Why was he looking at you like that?

He should’ve been grateful. He should’ve felt safe.

You took a step forward, and another, until blood squelched beneath your shoe.

“Don’t you remember me?” you asked, your voice quiet, barely above a whisper.

His answer wasn’t words at first, just a choked sound, a pitiful whimper. Then his arms came up higher, trying to shield his face.

“Please, don’t kill me.”

Your steps were soft. Careful. You reached out as if to comfort him, but he flinched like your touch might sear him.

Another step closer.

And then he snapped.

“Get the fuck away from me, you fucking crazy bitch!”

You stopped in your tracks.

Why?

Why was he looking at you like that? Why was there fear in his eyes when you had only ever wanted to love him, to save him?

Why was he acting like you had done something unforgivable?

You stared down at him. Vox cowered against the wall, blood-streaked and shaking, while the revolver hung limp in your hand. Your fingers were slack, your grip loose, your heart twisting in confusion that bordered on betrayal.

Your gaze shifted. Slowly, almost as if you were outside your body, you turned your head toward the vanity mirror near the bed.

There you were.

Reflected at you in fractured shadows and colorless light.

You saw your expression, wide-eyed, trembling, mouth parted slightly as if you still couldn’t believe what you had done. It was the same mirror you once watched him use. The same one he had leaned over while taking those little pills from a white bottle. You remembered the way he swallowed them with a cup of alcohol. The way his hand would linger on the counter, bracing himself. Later, you saw it in a tabloid headline—Vox, plagued by anxiety, reliant on medication to survive the spotlight.

Your eyes dropped to the vanity surface.

The bottle was still there.

You picked it up and turned around slowly, just in time to see Vox gripping his chest, his breath rattling in and out of his lungs in short, desperate gasps. His body twitched, overwhelmed, consumed by panic.

“Here,” you whispered, your voice quiet like a prayer.

You sank to your knees in front of him, offering the bottle with a gentleness that felt fragile in your hand.

His face was stained with blood, dark and drying along his cheeks and chin. His lips were smeared with it, and it clung to his chest in streaks and splashes. He looked like a man on the edge of death. And yet, when he saw the pills, he snatched the bottle from your hand with shaking fingers. Tried once, twice, three times to open it, but couldn’t. His hands refused to obey.

“Let me,” you said softly.

You placed the revolver on the floor beside you and took the bottle from his trembling hands. The cap came off with a click, and you shook two pills into your palm. A third fell, rolling across the carpet unnoticed.

He took them from you and popped them into his mouth without hesitation, swallowing them dry. His eyes closed, and his chest rose and fell in small, shallow movements, breath barely making it out of his throat.

You waited.

Eventually, the tremors in his body eased.

His shoulders slackened. His jaw unclenched. When his eyes opened again, they had dulled—like light bulbs dimmed behind foggy glass. Whatever sharp terror had been there moments ago was now buried under chemical calm.

He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, the way someone did when they forced themselves into composure.

Then, he smiled.

It was a small thing. Polished. Practice-worn.

“Doll, I'll give you whatever you want. Just name your price,” he said.

His voice had regained that silky lilt, smooth like smoke curling up from a dying candle. The edge of panic was gone. In its place was the showman, the mask, the familiar tone he used on fans and strangers.

Your stomach turned cold.

You looked into his eyes and searched. You searched for even a flicker of recognition. A crack in the illusion. A shadow of remembrance.

But there was nothing.

Nothing at all.

And in that hollow, glittering moment, as the clock prepared to strike midnight, a horrifying certainty settled into your bones.

He didn’t remember you.

Not your voice. Not your face. Not the night he took your virginity on that glass coffee table like you were something he had bought, something disposable. He had gripped you hard, forced you open with hands that didn’t know patience, fucked you like you were just another fix for the darkness clawing at his insides. And you had called it love. You had convinced yourself it meant something because the alternative would have destroyed you.

You had defended him. You had forgiven his silence. You made excuses for his cruel glance, his cold shoulder…his mockery.

Maybe he had been protecting you, you told yourself. Maybe Valentino was watching. Maybe he had to pretend. Maybe he was scared.

But now, Valentino was dead.

There were no eyes on him. No act to maintain. No threat hanging above his head.

And still—he didn’t know you.

You were nothing to him. 

A stranger. 

A body. 

A…threat.

You were the girl who gave him everything.

And he was the man who didn’t remember.

It hit you like surfacing from dark, suffocating water—the sudden, terrible clarity. For a fleeting moment, the world sharpened into focus, and you saw it all. 

The truth. 

The blood.

Your head turned slowly, and your gaze landed on the face of the dead man.

Valentino.

His eyes were still open, frozen wide in the final echo of his surprise. Blood soaked everything. It pooled beneath him, crept along the carpet in crimson fingers, clung to the walls in grotesque splatters. The air reeked of iron, thick and metallic, and it filled your lungs like poisonous perfume.

You did this.

You took a life.

You were the monster in Vox’s eyes.

No. No, that couldn’t be. 

That wasn’t right. 

You saved him. 

You saved him.

You sav-

“I saved you,” you whispered, voice trembling, cracking under the weight of desperation. “I…I saved you…right?”

You weren’t even sure who you were asking. Him? God? Yourself?

Vox scoffed, a sound sharp and guttural. His body was tight against the wall, as if trying to sink into it, to disappear. “You’re mad,” he hissed. His chest rose and fell in unsteady breaths. His voice wavered, and he let out a half-choked laugh, bitter and frayed. “Fuck… Velvette was right.”

You blinked, unsure of what you just heard.

“She said one of those crazy bitches would get me eventually.”

The words struck like knives, each syllable twisting as they sank. You staggered where you knelt, not physically, but inside. The foundation you built your world on crumbled in seconds.

Crazy bitch.

Was that who you were?

Your fingers clutched the revolver tighter, the cold steel biting into your palm. The tears came fast, uninvited. They filled your eyes, blurred your vision, spilled down your cheeks.

Love.

Was it love?

Had it ever been?

Or had you mistaken pain for passion, obsession for intimacy, delusion for devotion? 

You couldn't tell anymore. You had convinced yourself it was real. That you mattered. That you were chosen. But now, you could see it clearly.

You were just another faceless fan.

You looked through him, no longer seeing the man you once adored. Instead, you saw the hollow aftermath. The void left behind when your dreams rot and die.

There was no future. 

Not with Vox. 

Not with Angel Dust. 

Not with anyone.

You saw the future with perfect, merciless clarity.

Your shoes soaked in Valentino’s blood.

Vox staring at you as if you were some deranged animal, some violent stranger he’d never truly known. 

Your entire world collapsing in the space of a heartbeat.

The image was so vivid you almost laughed at the absurdity of it. The police would have no trouble finding you. There would be footprints, witnesses, gunshot residue, incriminating traces smeared across your skin. Every desperate path you could imagine ended the same way: sirens, handcuffs, a spotlight you had spent your life avoiding.

And then your mind flicked to Angel Dust.

You pictured him being dragged out of the club, screaming your name, clawing at the floor as Valentino’s men hauled him away for “questioning.” You pictured the bruises, the torment, the suffering he would have to endure. 

Your stomach twisted.

You would never make it out of the country. You wouldn’t clear the street before you were tackled to the pavement. And if somehow you did slip past the police, there were worse things waiting. Valentino’s people lived in the dark edges of the underworld's power structure, silent and loyal, a nest of predators raised on fear and obedience. They crawled in the shadows under his influence, and they did not forgive.

They would hunt you.

They would find you.

They would make you wish you had died quickly.

There was no version of this story where you escaped.

You felt the truth settle over you like a shroud.

Your life, unremarkable and unseen, would end the same way it had unfolded—quietly, without fanfare, swallowed by the machinery of other people’s violence.

A dead end.

You let out a soft, broken laugh. A laugh that didn’t belong in this room, a laugh that came from the ruptured centre of your soul. What were you doing? What had you been doing all along?

The tears kept falling, stinging your skin as they trailed downward. You could taste the salt on your lips, and your smile cracked as it formed.

“You asked me what I wanted,” you murmured. Your head bowed. Your voice was fragile, hollowed out by everything you had lost. 

The hope that once bloomed inside you now felt plastic, artificial. Pretty but fake. Just like the fantasy you tried so hard to hold on to.

Your smile trembled.

“A kiss,” you whispered. Your voice broke as you gritted your teeth, trying—failing—to suppress the sob clawing its way up your throat. “And maybe a hug?”

You said it like you had once said it before. When you were younger. Innocent. Starry-eyed and full of dreams. 

A little girl who wanted to be seen. 

To be loved.

“S-sure…” Vox said, and his voice was flat. Not warm. Not soft. Just… afraid. “Come here.”

He moved closer. Slowly. Carefully. Like you were an animal that might lash out again. He stopped when his face was inches from yours.

You didn’t move.

You couldn’t.

Even the smallest twitch might break this fragile illusion.

He leaned in. Pressed a kiss to your lips. It was barely there. Hollow. Cold. The ghost of a kiss. It didn’t taste like love. It didn’t feel like anything at all.

But then you felt it.

A sharp, biting pressure against your forehead.

Your eyes widened.

Your revolver. In his hand. Pressed firm and unforgiving against your skull.

The kiss faded like a dream you could no longer hold on to.

His face twisted—no longer soft, no longer beautiful. Rage contorted his features, and fury burned behind his eyes, searing straight through you.

You weren’t his saviour.

You weren’t his lover.

You were nothing but the threat he had to erase.

You told Angel Dust you’d get gelato with him after this. You said you’d try. That you’d look for a future—any kind of future—that might bring you peace, or happiness, or something close enough to pretend. 

You made a promise.

But deep down, you knew.

You knew the truth you never dared to say aloud.

The only future you ever wanted was with Vox.

And yet now, standing in the ruins of your making, you thought back to Angel’s words—gentle, sharp, cutting in all the right ways. Maybe he was right. Maybe all you ever truly wanted was to be loved—deeply, recklessly, so passionately that it swallowed you whole. To have your world bloom in colour. 

It never had to be Vox.

It never had to be anyone at all. You had chiselled a god out of a man, moulded longing into devotion, carved your starving hope into the shape of his smile. You built a cathedral out of a single night and prayed so hard the stone cracked beneath your knees.

A tear rolled down your cheek with the slow, deliberate weight of something sacred dying.

You leaned forward, closer and closer, until your forehead pressed hard against the cold kiss of the revolver’s muzzle. Metal chilled your skin. Steel, creating a circle of frost into your skull. You pushed into it, offering your head like an apology.

Vox held the gun with both hands now. His fingers shook violently around the grip. His eyes were wide, impossibly blue, storm-blue, full of fear and fury and something else you could not name. 

“I…” you breathed.

A single syllable, trembling apart before it fully formed.

Inside your mind, the truths screamed.

I want you to care.

I want you to see me.

I want a future with you.

I want to matter to you.

I want to be loved.

None of them reached your lips. They stayed locked inside where they belonged, buried beneath all the pieces of your life you had never learned how to hold.

There had never been a story between you. Only a night he barely remembered and a lifetime you built around its ruins. A soft fantasy you kept nursing like a wound you did not want to heal.

He never knew your name.

He would never know it.

You had lived in a dream stitched from loneliness and devotion. A dream where love pulled you out of the rubble. A dream where you were not invisible. A dream where you were chosen.

But dreams die when the sun touches them.

And now you were here, standing inside the consequences you had ignited with your hands.

You reached up slowly and closed your fingers around his wrist, steadying the trembling gun. His breath hitched violently. He flinched like your touch burned him.

“Don’t move,” Vox warned. His voice cracked sharply. “I swear I’ll shoot. I swear to God I will.”

You believed him.

You wanted him to.

Because if not him, then who?

If not now, then when?

The future with Angel Dust flickered briefly in your mind. A beach in Italy. Gelato dripping down your fingers. Laughter that did not hurt. A second life rising like a sun over everything you thought was dead.

You had thrown it away.

You had thrown all of it away.

The only future left was the one where this gun finished the story.

“I want you to be happy,” you whispered. Your voice was soft. Gentle. A final act of tenderness. “Truly.”

His eyes flickered. Something broke behind them. Perhaps fear. Perhaps guilt. Perhaps nothing at all.

He might never remember you. He might forget this moment by morning. He might walk away, untouched, unchanged.

But you had loved him.

And you had been loved in return, even if it had only existed inside your mind.

For a moment, a thin, fragile moment full of trembling breath and shared panic, you felt real.

You felt seen.

You felt… alive.

Even if it was only the echo of a lie.

Even if it was only the shadow of a dream.

You had been happy.

Stupidly, recklessly, beautifully… happy.

For the first time in your life, the world had turned for you.

And even as the cold metal dug deeper into your skin, you wished it could have kept turning just a second longer.

The clock struck midnight.

Outside, fireworks screamed to life, ripping open the sky with violent beauty.

Red. Gold. Blue.

Each burst splintered the darkness as if the heavens were being torn apart just to feel something.

The colours spilled through the window and washed over the room in trembling, fractured light.

Once, that kind of attention would have made you shrink.

You learned early that shadows were safer.

Spotlights burned.

Eyes pierced.

Attention demanded a version of you that never felt real.

So you lived small.

Quiet.

Invisible.

A ghost lingering at the edges of other people's triumphs.

But now…

Now the light found you anyway.

And for the first time, you did not run.

Instead, you lifted your face toward it, letting every flicker embrace you.

Letting it illuminate all the parts of you you’d hidden.

Your shaking breaths.

Your cracked lips.

Your trembling resolve.

Your bleeding hope.

Your tears, glistening like diamonds about to drop.

You offered him a smile.

Soft.

Wounded.

Honest.

The kind of smile a person gives when they have stopped pretending the world will ever be gentle.

Your fingers closed around the metal, steady, tender, guiding his trembling hand.

A gesture as intimate as any kiss you ever dreamed of.

A confession in the shape of surrender.

Across from you, realization unfurled in Vox’s eyes—slow and shuddering, like a nightmare finally dawning. Terror bloomed in him, raw and unmasked, stripping him down to something painfully mortal. His pupils widened. His breath hitched. His lips parted around a silent plea he didn’t yet understand.

He looked suddenly human.

Suddenly reachable.

Suddenly… far, far too late.

Your heart clenched so hard, it felt like something tore inside you. It hurt. It hurt so exquisitely, you almost laughed. Almost screamed.

Because this—this ruined, trembling expression on his face—was all you had ever wanted.

For him to look at you like you were real.

For him to finally see you, truly see you, not as a fan, not as a mistake, not as a blur in the background of his life.

Just you.

For him to realize your existence held weight.

That even a small, invisible life could shake the world when pushed to its edge.

And now, in your last moment, beneath a sky that ripped itself open with fire—

—you were seen.

Fully. Completely. Devastatingly.

You were no longer a shadow.

No longer an afterthought.

No longer a forgotten face in the crowd.

You stood at the centre of everything, just once, held in the bright, merciless spotlight you had always feared.

The gunshot erupted.

It collided with the fireworks outside in a violent harmony—thunder folding into thunder, smoke into smoke, light into light. The air trembled, hot and electric, swallowing your breath as the world fractured around you.

A flare of crimson burst across the night sky, glittering shards cascading like falling rubies. The glow spilled across your skin, soft and warm, as if the final light of the universe had chosen to rest on you alone.

It felt like a blessing. 

It felt like goodbye.

For the first time in your life, you were not shrinking from the world.

You were not forgotten in someone else’s story.

You were the story.

The crescendo.

The breaking point.

The fragile centre of a universe finally forced to look your way.

You were radiant.

You were shattering.

You were alive in a way you had never been before.

And in that last, suspended heartbeat—

—bathed in riotous colour, wrapped in the echoes of two worlds exploding at once—

…how beautiful it was.

How achingly, impossibly, unforgivably beautiful.

Thank you for reaching the end of this story. Thank you for walking with me through the jagged, tender, brutal, and beautiful edges of love in all its flawed shapes. It means more than I can say that you chose to feel this with me.

Until next time.

[redvexillum]

Vexi... words can not express how much i love Idolize. The feeling of reading it is actually addictive, I'd imagine it's what it would feel like to drink a nice fine rich wine. It's utterly exquisite. I'm hooked on every chapter, the way you go about phrasing everything is phenomenal.... and I'm absolutely in awe of the way that you write about obsession! That's one of my favorite things to see writers explore, because of how each writer could go about it. And the way you've been exploring it is quite literally one of my favorite ways I've seen it written. Like it's so interesting to read it from the reader's point of view... because most fanfics about it tend to be with the love interest being the obsessive one... and it's also so horrifying with how well done it's written! (I mean that in a high praise sort of way! Like it greatly highlights how genuinely terrifying obsession to that degree can be.)

So um... in sort I absolutely adore and love your writing! Keep up the absolutely amazing work! 💙💙💙

Omgggg heyyyyy bbg! I saw all your reblogs and I just need you to know they genuinely carried me while I was recovering. Like. Instant serotonin. 💖

This story has always been my BABY, exactly the kind of dark, gritty mess I love to read and write. You should’ve seen me at the start, begging people to give it a chance because “pls it’s dark but I promise it’s good.” And now look at us??? Near the end??? With people telling me it rewired their brain chemistry??? That is hands-down the highest compliment I could ever get as a writer.

Also I’m lowkey obsessed with the fact that I got to witness your journey from “who is this TV fuck face” → checking out Hazbin → full Vox cult initiation → finding Idolize. That pipeline means everything to me. I love you all an unhinged amount skdkdk

Okay sorry, brief reader-gush intermission because that shit FEEDS MY SOUL.

But yes, Idolize exists because Vox is all optics. Image. Performance. Manufacturing obsession and addiction. And then being in the fandom, I started noticing those same traits mirrored in people, this instinct to defend the persona as if it’s real, to cling to the lie because it’s comforting, to become both the product and the consumer. Capitalism, greed, branding, the whole fake glossy nightmare.

I know a lot of readers hate the Reader in Idolize...and honestly? Fair. But I wrote them as human as I possibly could. Because those traits are recognizable. In ourselves. In others. And sometimes...

... the reflection isn’t flattering.

My creed as a writer has always been: art should disturb the soul. So if this story unsettled you? If it made you uncomfortable? Congrats, I did my job. And yes— I hope the ending hurts.

Thank you for such unbelievably kind words. I love you so much it’s actually embarrassing 😭💔