[peach-flavored-flambe]

Sometimes I get tempted to open commissions, but then my brain farts and my entire system reboots resulting in nothing getting done

[redvexillum]

Vincent's Worst-Best New Year's Kiss 💋

A short fluffy-snack as we welcome the New Year! I originally had planned my Vincent/Vox x Reader story, Idolize, to end on New Year's day. But then it didn't happen to work out that way because my one shot turned into a novel. Thank you @peach-flavored-flambe for feeding me the idea.

summary: Vincent Whittman planned a perfect New Year's Eve date with you right down to the kiss when the clock strikes midnight! What could possibly go wrong?

Vincent had a plan.

A real plan. Timed, rehearsed, checked twice and then checked again because he didn’t trust the universe not to screw him over.

New Year’s Eve was supposed to be perfect.

He’d booked the restaurant weeks ago, wore the suit he only pulled out for important occasions, hair slicked just right, tie straightened every time he caught his reflection. You could tell how badly he wanted this to go well by the way his fingers kept fussing with his cufflinks, jaw tight with determination.

“This is going to be perfect,” he promised you for the third time that night, voice bright but strained. “I want it to be perfect.”

You smiled at him, warm and patient. “Vincent, I’m already having a good time.”

He nodded quickly. “Good. Good. Still—just wait.”

The first crack in the evening came at the restaurant.

The hostess flipped through her book, frowned, then looked up at Vincent with apologetic eyes.

“I’m so sorry, sir. That reservation is for next year.”

Vincent froze.

“…Next year,” he repeated faintly.

“Yes,” she said gently. “Same date. January first.”

You watched the color drain from his face as if someone had unplugged him. He opened his mouth, closed it, then rubbed a hand over his face.

“I—okay. That’s. That’s on me,” he muttered, mortified. “I must’ve—damn it.”

You squeezed his arm. “Hey. It’s okay. We can find somewhere else.”

He forced a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Of course. Plenty of places. No problem.”

The second place was packed.

The third had a two-hour wait.

The fourth had a busted heater and smelled faintly like disappointment.

By the time you ended up sharing greasy hamburgers and fries on a cold bench downtown, Vincent looked like he was personally at fault for the state of the world.

“I swear,” he said quietly, handing you your food, “I tried. I really did.”

You bumped your shoulder against his. “I know.”

Then came the fireworks.

He’d dragged you through three streets, breath fogging in the cold, convinced he could still salvage the night. When you finally reached the viewing area, the security guard shook his head.

“Sorry. Full. Fire code.”

Vincent stared past him, watching a gaggle of couples holding hands and being all lovey-dovey with one another. He was hoping he could do that with you. 

“…Of course it is,” he said.

He didn’t even protest this time. Just turned away, shoulders slumped, disappointment settling into him like a shroud. You could practically hear the way his mind was spiraling: every tiny failure stacking up, convincing him he’d ruined everything.

“I wanted you to have something special,” he admitted softly. “Just once. Something that worked.”

Your chest ached at the way he said it.

Back at his place, he tried again. He pulled out the candies he’d bought earlier, bright packaging and carefully chosen flavors, placing them between you like an offering.

“At least this,” he said, hopeful.

You picked up the wrapper, and immediately noticed the bold red lettering stamped across the back.

PRODUCT RECALL. DO NOT CONSUME.

You stared. Then snorted.

Vincent leaned in, read it, and let out a sound somewhere between a laugh and a groan as he dropped back against the couch.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

You couldn’t help it! You laughed fully this time, curling into his side. “Vincent. I think the universe has beef with you specifically.”

He huffed, arm sliding around you automatically. “It’s personal. I know it is.”

The countdown started on his television. 

Ten. Nine. Eight.

Vincent straightened, panic flickering back into his eyes. “Wait—wait. Okay. I can still—”

Five. Four.

He leaned in too fast. You turned at the same time. Your noses bumped, teeth clicked, the kiss completely off-target.

“Ow—sorry—!” he blurted.

Two. One.

The New Year arrived to the sound of laughter instead of fireworks.

Vincent froze, then looked at you—your smile wide, eyes bright, cheeks warm from laughing with him instead of at him.

“…Can I try that again?” he asked quietly.

You nodded, hands resting against his chest. “Yeah. I think we deserve a redo.”

This time, he took it slow. Careful. Intentional.

When he kissed you, it wasn’t perfect in the way he’d planned, but it was warm, lingering, full of everything he’d been trying so desperately to give you all night. 

With care. 

With effort. 

With...love.

When he pulled back, forehead resting against yours, he whispered, “Happy New Year.”

You smiled. “Happy New Year, Vincent.”

And somehow, despite everything going wrong, it felt exactly right.

📺 Read More? 📺

[redvexillum]

99%: Episode 1

A/N: Don't ask me why this isn't a one shot. But do know that this is a mini-series. Also this took forever to FORMAT. And you guys will soon understand why.

Summary: You played this trashy Otome game for cheap romance and questionable smut. Now you’re trapped inside it. Bad pacing, a dangerous love interest, and one brutal rule: game over means death. The routes are broken. The stakes are real. And quitting? Haha, isn’t an option.

CW: first Vincent Whittman fanfic, emotional smut, p⭐︎rn with plot, dubcon, vincent has a praise kink, profanity, f!reader, i have a love and hate relationship with mobile otome games, my "subtle" jab against predatory mobile game, virgin!vincent, dedicated to my friend @peach-flavored-flambe

Your eyes burned with that gritty, sleepless ache, yet you kept staring at the bright little screen as if sheer stubbornness could will the code to bend. Your thumbs twitched through the dialogue options on autopilot, the familiar tap-tap-tap almost hypnotic. Then—another red splash across the screen.

“Augh—are you kidding me?” The whine slipped out before you could stop it, thin and exhausted as you kicked your feet against the mattress like a frustrated child. “This dev sucks so bad. How the fuck am I supposed to unlock the mystery love interest when your route is so goddamn convoluted?”

The 1950s blues track of Fly Me to the Moon looped in the background, scratchy and cheerful in a way that made you want to fling your phone across the room.

You’d spent the entire day sunk into this adult-rated retro-styled dating sim, your fictional life as a horny bright-eyed assistant at a bustling broadcast station during the golden age of television. The game dangled options like candy: the broad-shouldered news anchor with a secret soft spot, the velvet-voiced late-night entertainer who loved too recklessly, the charming producer brothers with their easy grins and complicated baggage.

And beneath the flirting, the explicit sex scenes, the swooning jazz?

A murderer stalking the station, thinning the cast one by one. Catch them, and you’d earn your fairytale ending: wedding bells, more sex scenes, and sepia-toned bliss.

It wasn’t even a mystery anymore. Of course, it was Vincent Whittman, the eternally overlooked weatherman with the limp handshake and overeager smile. He hovered like a fruit fly anytime your affection with another love interest spiked too high, always offering to “help,” constantly trying to wedge himself into your path. The moment you chose an answer he didn’t like—instant Game Over.

And now, after spending your week of vacation hunched over your tiny phone screen, eyes dry and brain buzzing, you’d finally reached the true route. The final gauntlet before the elusive secret character. But the choices were nonsense. Left or right in an alley—both bad ends because apparently eight choices ago you didn’t squint suspiciously enough at Vincent’s awkward little compliment.

This game sucked.

This game sucked so much.

But your pride was louder than your exhaustion. And your wallet definitely had opinions. You’d already sunk $345.76 into keys, DLC, exclusive outfits, and those stupid loot boxes you swore you’d only buy once. Then once more. Then “just this bundle because it’s discounted.”

It added up faster than your sanity was declining.

At this point, you weren’t just playing—you were invested, emotionally, financially, spitefully. Your vision blurred, but you refused to put the phone down. Not after everything. Not after all this time.

You’d win this cursed game or die trying, sleep deprivation and dignity be damned.

“Fucking goddamn shitty—fuck—fuck…” You muttered the curses under your breath, each word tumbling out harsher than the last as your fingertip jabbed the replay button like it had personally betrayed you. The cheerful fanfare chimed again, that tinny, too-bright melody you’d heard so many times it felt like it was drilling through your skull. And then the unskippable intro rolled in—mocking you, taunting you.

You would have hurled your phone across the room if you didn’t still owe twenty-four months on the payment plan.

The room filled with the frenzied rhythm of your tapping. You hammered at the screen, desperate to fast-forward the dialogue you could probably recite in your sleep. The intro played for the hundredth, maybe the thousandth time, soaking into your bones like a curse. 

You wanted to quit so badly your hands shook, but your pride had its fingers around your throat, insisting you keep going. And your brain, fogged by exhaustion, tried to spin the whole thing into some bargain: maybe beating the game would make the nearly four hundred dollars you’d swallowed feel worth it.

Another sharp pang stabbed behind your eyes. Fatigue pressed down on you like a heavy hand. You groaned, rubbing at your face as the edges of your vision pulsed and darkened, colours smearing together. The screen doubled, then tripled. You blinked hard. Once. Twice. Trying to pull yourself back into focus.

Then the world tilted.

Your eyes snapped open and your breath hitched.

Instead of your popcorn-pattern ceiling, a floating pop-up box hovered just inches from your face. Crisp borders. Bright colours. A painfully familiar font.

Your expression soured instantly.

Are you kidding me? Vincent? Vincent?

The limp-noodle weatherman?The worst murderer in video game history? The loser?

A groan tore out of you as you pushed yourself upright. You weren’t in your room anymore—you were in a cramped, dingy little office that smelled like old paper and damp carpet. The furniture sagged like it had been donated by someone who hated the recipient.

Wow.

You’d played the game so long your subconscious had trapped you inside it. Perfect.

You sighed, shutting your eyes for a moment.

Please, brain. If you’re going to hallucinate, at least make it a cool dream. Wings. Magic. Something sexy. Anything but this.

But when you opened your eyes again, another pop-up flicked into existence.

Your brows knitted. “What the—” you tried to say, but the sound didn’t leave your throat. Your lips moved, shaping the words, but nothing emerged.

A cold spike of fear ran down your spine. You touched your throat, fingertips trembling, trying again to speak. Still nothing.

You knew, rationally, that this had to be a dream. But you had never slipped into one with this much clarity before. You could feel everything: the chill of the room biting into your bare arms, the damp heaviness of the stale air settling in your lungs, even the faint ache in your legs as you shifted your weight.

Your nerves buzzed as you pushed open the office door. The hallway beyond was instantly familiar, a backdrop you’d stared at countless times through your phone screen… except now you stood inside it. You walked forward slowly, hyperaware of every echoing footstep.

It was empty.

Too empty.

An eerie, hollow version of the station you knew in the game.

Was this the beginning of Vincent’s route? Usually, the game made you pick after the prologue. None of this matched anything you’d played before. And certainly not like this.

You swallowed hard and kept going, each step slightly unbalanced, as if your mind couldn’t reconcile seeing the world without a frame or UI around it.

Beyond the station doors, faint glittering specks shimmered along the sidewalk—like scattered stardust. A trail. A lure. You followed it with a tight, uneasy throat.

It led you to the mouth of an alley.

You leaned in, peering through the shadows—

—and froze.

Vincent Whittman stood there, his posture rigid, his hand moving with a horrifyingly casual ease as he slashed the anchor’s throat. Blood arced in a brilliant, violent sweep across the brick wall, splattering the ground in a wet, dark spray.

Holy… fuck.

Your body locked. You had never seen murder like this…raw and unfiltered, inches away from you.

But this wasn’t real. It couldn’t be real.

And yet, the metallic tang of blood coated the air. The humidity pressed against your skin like a damp hand. Vincent turned toward you, glasses catching the dim light, and the reflection made them look like empty, glowing eyes.

You should run. You should scream. You should do anything except stand there like you were bolted to the ground.

Then another pop-up appeared in front of you. A large dialogue box with a timer ticking down in the corner. The timer you’d always cursed.

Five seconds.

Your pulse thundered.

Stay still? In front of a murderer? What kind of idiotic option was that? Obviously, you should pick the first one—

Four seconds.

But the earlier warning flashed back through your mind: You only have one life.

Three seconds.

This had to be a dream… didn’t it?

It felt like a dream.

But everything was so vivid, so sharp.

Two seconds.

The box flashed red, pulsing with urgency. If you didn’t choose, what then? Would Vincent kill you? Would you wake up? Or… worse? Your heartbeat stuttered wildly as you stared at the two choices, your mind spinning between fear and disbelief.

This was insane. Completely unhinged.

One second.

Your breath seized in your chest.

And you chose—

You stayed still.

Perfectly, utterly still.

As if your life depended on it. No, your life did depend on it. 

Vincent Whittman stepped toward you, each footfall soft but unbearably deliberate. The metal rod in his hand—sharpened to a brutal point—dripped with thick, dark blood that pattered onto the concrete. The sound alone made your stomach twist.

“You’re that annoying assistant who keeps hovering over him,” he said, his grin stretching too wide. One of his blue eye gleamed with sharp, predatory interest while the other, the green eye, looked almost dead. The contrast made your skin crawl.

You tried to force out a word, anything, but the invisible grip around your throat only tightened. The game refused to let you speak.

And then—of course—another dialogue box popped up in front of you. A new set of choices.

With a timer.

Again.

A spark of pure, exhausted rage flared in your chest.

This creator.

This fucking game.

What kind of pacing was this? Who thought these were reasonable options? Were they drunk? High? Actively trying to torture players?

Five seconds.

The first choice was obvious. Anyone with common sense would pick it. You should pick it.

Four seconds.

The second option made you sound like some delusional idiot. Attention? Seriously? Who would say that to a murderer holding a blood-soaked weapon?

Three seconds.

Maybe you could test it. Maybe dying here just meant waking up in bed.

But what if… what if it wasn’t that simple?

No. No, this was still a dream, right? It had to be.

Two seconds.

Vincent’s rod glinted red as it caught the faint light, droplets sliding down the metal. Your pulse hammered. The box started flashing red, demanding a choice.

Your throat burned as your voice finally rasped out, rough and unsteady—

“It’s… be-because I wanted your attention.”

Vincent’s shoulders went rigid.

Silence dropped like a stone.

Holy fuck.

Holy fuck holy fuck holy fuck—

Did you just pick the wrong choice? Was this it? Were you about to die in a dingy alley because of a dialogue tree? In the real world, would your obituary read: Local woman suffers cardiac arrest after investing irresponsibly in a predatory dating sim?

You couldn’t even squeeze your eyes shut. The game wouldn’t let you blink away the fear crawling up your spine.

Then—

A bright cyan heart materialized above Vincent’s head, locked tight.

A click echoed through the alley.

The lock shattered.

Sparkles burst around it.

...and you gained 5% affection.

Your eyes flew wide.

Holy shit.

That… actually worked?

“Y-you… wanted my attention?” Vincent’s voice cracked on the first word. He winced, cleared his throat, tried again, but the awkwardness clung to him like a second skin.

You stared at him, stunned. Not just by the question, but by the sheer absurdity of what was happening. This man had just slit a coworker’s throat. Blood still clung to the rod dangling at his side. A corpse lay cooling on the pavement. And yet here he was… blushing. Like a schoolboy caught passing notes, not a murderer standing in a gore-slick alley.

Also…where the hell was everyone?

You were in the heart of New York City. Not a single scream. Not a single witness. Not even the ambient rush of traffic. Just you, a killer, and an alley that felt boxed in by the silence.

Your stomach lurched when two more dialogue options blinked into existence. And, of course, another five-second timer.

This route was criminally underdeveloped. The dev hadn’t even tried.

You cursed silently. Both choices were practically identical, and both were disgustingly embarrassing. You wanted to groan, maybe curl in on yourself, but the game held you in place like a puppet.

You forced your foggy mind to skim through everything you knew about Vincent from previous routes. Especially the producer route—that one had dug deepest into his psyche. The bad ends there had revealed more about him than any romance scenes ever did.

Pathetic.

Unsatisfied.

Obsessed with climbing the hierarchy, no matter who he had to step on.

A desperate man clawing for validation and attention because he never felt like he had enough.

Men like him—no, people like him—were frightening in a way that didn’t require a weapon.

Anger flared in your chest, simmering with a strange clarity. You already knew which option he wanted. Which one he would swallow whole.

Your expression softened into a sweet, saccharine smile. Your hands clasped together like some bashful heroine straight out of a vintage romance flick.

“Yes! I've always fancied you, but was too shy to talk to you.”

You lifted a hand to your cheek, looked off to the side, and let a faint warmth bloom across your skin.

A soft chime rang behind you—a mechanic you knew too well.

You whipped your gaze upward.

Another five percent.

Ten percent total now.

Just from two ridiculous lines.

Geez. This was almost too easy.

“Oh, I… I didn’t know that,” Vincent murmured, his voice small. The corners of his lips twitched, tilting upward in a shy, almost boyish smile. His cheeks darkened into a deeper shade of red.

If this were the real game, this would be the perfect spot for a CG illustration, the kind they would charge you $0.99 to unlock. A sweet image, soft lighting, blushing faces.

Except…

A dead body lay inches from your shoes.

The alley walls were dripping.

And the air reeked of rust and fear.

“Cute” wasn’t exactly the word you’d use.

A new dialogue box blinked into existence, bright and celebratory in a way that felt deeply inappropriate given the corpse you’d just helped create.

Your left eye twitched, well, it wanted to twitch, but the game wouldn’t even allow that tiny release of emotion.

Two identical options.

Two identical yeses.

Why even pretend there was a choice?

Suppressing a groan, you selected the only option available.

Yes.

Light flared around you, the colours sickeningly bright against the blood-stained alley. Then a new command materialized, accompanied by a sharp chime and a timer that immediately began counting down.

Your stomach dropped.

Witnesses?

Now?

You looked from the dead body to Vincent, then toward the mouth of the alley, where faint city noise finally seemed to seep in. Were people going to start walking by? Right now? Of all times?

“We should hide the body!” you hissed, the words stumbling out in a panic. Your voice worked again—finally—but this was hardly the moment to celebrate.

Vincent blinked at you, startled by your sudden urgency. Then he nodded quickly, too quickly. “Oh, yea, right, right,” he muttered, flustered. He looked genuinely unsure what to do next, as if killing someone had been the entire extent of his plan.

Honestly?

Worst murderer ever.

If it weren’t the 1950s, forensic science would’ve eaten this man alive.

Your gaze darted around the alley until you spotted the green dumpster tucked behind Vincent. Risky, yes, but this game was still in its early phase. Surely, it wouldn’t be cruel enough to have witnesses check the dumpster, right?

“You take his shoulders, I’ll take his legs, and let’s… just… put him in the dumpster.”

Your voice spiked sharply, cracking under mounting panic. If someone showed up before the timer ran out? What then? Did you get a bad end? A death scene? A real death?

Vincent swallowed hard but nodded. “Okay… okay…”

He grabbed the anchor—Dale Stuckless—beneath the armpits while you clutched his legs, forcing yourself not to think about the limp weight or the chilling softness of a body without tension. On the count of three, you both hefted him upward, swung him once, twice—

And dropped him into the dumpster with a sickening thud.

The sound echoed against the alley walls like a drumbeat.

You immediately checked the timer.

Three minutes left.

Where had the other two gone?

Had time really moved that fast?

Heart pounding, you scanned for anything else out of place. Blood stained the ground in dark splatters, but the night was deep and the alley poorly lit. Maybe no one would notice. Maybe.

You slammed the dumpster lid shut with a metallic clang that rang far too loudly in the quiet hush of the alley.

“We should get out of here,” you breathed, your pulse still stuttering from the scene you’d just fled. Instinct overrode every scrap of rational thought. You seized Vincent’s hand and dragged him out of the alleyway, desperate for distance.

But when you glanced over your shoulder, the sight nearly ripped a yelp from your throat.

Vincent, this absolute fucking disaster of a man, was soaked in blood. Not a few droplets. A constellation of crimson splatter across his white shirt, stark and horrifying under the glow from the street lamps.

“Holy…” The word collapsed on your tongue.

Vincent blinked, brows knitting tight before he muttered under his breath, “Ah, fuck.” He swiped at his shirt with the heel of his hand, as if he could casually buff away evidence of murder like it was dust.

How in God’s name had this man survived an entire game after killing over fifty people? How had no one spotted this?

A harsh beep snapped your attention upward—the floating timer flashed an angry warning. Ninety seconds until “witnesses” appeared. Whatever the hell that meant.

Your gaze snapped toward the station. Empty last time you’d checked. Maybe spare clothes. Maybe a miracle. Panic surged in your chest like a tide.

“Come on,” you hissed, gripping Vincent’s hand and tugging him into a sprint. He matched your pace unquestionably, feet pounding against the pavement.

Sweat trickled down your temples as your eyes darted between the hallway ahead and the ticking countdown. Forty seconds. Your heartbeat thrashed in your throat.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

You pushed harder, legs burning as you shoved open the nearest door and scanned the corridor. Left. Right. Then you bolted—back toward the place you’d woken up, back to the first cursed dialogue box that welcomed you to this artificial nightmare.

“Get in here,” you snapped, breathless. The timer flashed a furious red, each blink a punch to your anxiety. Ten seconds.

Vincent slipped into the staff office without a sound. You followed, slamming the door shut behind you.

You made it. You actually—

“Hello?” A voice, male and unfamiliar, cut through the stale air.

You froze. So did Vincent.

Slowly, your eyes drifted to the bloody mess smeared across his chest. The timer above you read time’s up. And yet, the world… hadn’t shifted. Same soft-toned light palette. Same environment. No cutscene. No sign that you’d cleared the stage.

“Is someone in there?” the voice called again, closer now, the doorknob rattling violently. A shadow moved behind the frosted glass—a silhouette, unmistakable.

Your stomach caved inward.

If you failed… what then?

If it was game over… what did that mean here?

Death? Erasure? Something worse?

You clenched your fists, every muscle in your body trembling but braced. You refused to let this stupid, malicious game snuff you out. You refused to die cornered and helpless.

Not today. 

Not in hell.

Vincent’s eyes flew wide as your hands seized his collar and shoved him backward. His spine hit the desk with a dull thud, papers shifting beneath him. You didn’t give him a second to ask what was happening—you swung a leg over his hips, settling over him, feeling the sharp inhale that punched out of his lungs as your weight pinned him.

Then you kissed him. Hard. Desperate. A messy, urgent collision of lips meant to hide the rising panic clawing at your throat.

Just in time for the door to swing open.

“Oh, Jiminy Crickets!” a voice squeaked.

You snapped your head toward the intruder—the janitor, wide-eyed and horrified.

You let out a startled cry, pitching your voice into something breathless and flustered as you buried your face against Vincent’s chest, praying the blood splatter was shielded from view. His shirt was warm against your cheek, his heartbeat hammering like he was as shocked as you were.

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” the janitor babbled, then slammed the door shut so fast the frame rattled.

Silence swallowed the room.

You lifted your head. Vincent’s face was scarlet, his gaze darting anywhere but at you. His glasses were crooked, his hair a tousled mess from your hands—and God, he actually looked… good like this. Unsteady. Breath caught somewhere between his ribs and throat. His hands were still at your hips, as if he’d forgotten how to let go.

Before you could process the sight of him, fanfare music blasted in your ears, garish and victorious. A floating dialogue box appeared with an obnoxious sparkle.

You swore the universe was mocking you. You hated this game. 

Truly. Deeply. Intensely.

Then another cheerful chime sounded.

You gained another twenty-five percent of affection.

You stared. One single in-game night and Vincent shot up to thirty-five percent affection, something that normally took entire in-game seasons of grinding, dates, dialogue options, and sanity.

“S-so…” Vincent coughed weakly. His voice cracked around the word. He shifted under you, trying to adjust his position—

And then he froze.

Something firm pressed against you. Not his wallet. Not keys. Something undeniably alive, straining, hot even through layers of clothing.

You shifted your hips the slightest bit. His breath hitched sharply, almost a gasp, as your body nudged against the unmistakable hardness trapped beneath you.

You exhaled slowly and waited.

Any second now… yes. There it was. Another dialogue box flickered into existence, shamelessly glowing.

You stared at the options, incredulous.

You knew this game was smutty. You knew the marketing had oversold the “rich plotline” and “emotional depth.” But dear god—couldn’t it at least pretend to be subtle? The summary promised an intricate, sensual narrative.

Instead, the game was porn with extra steps. Pretty art. 

Zero restraint.

But…

That was on you, wasn’t it?

A reluctant, painful little truth slid into your chest. You knew what kind of game this was. You had cleared the first route. Then the second. Then the third. Each one had practically clubbed you over the head with the same pattern: a thin drizzle of plot, a puddle of angst, and then—whiplash into sex scenes written with all the subtlety of a brick.

You shouldn’t have expected depth.

You shouldn’t have expected pacing.

You shouldn’t have expected anything remotely resembling emotional buildup.

But still… you had hoped. Somewhere in your naive, stubborn heart, you believed there had to be more than blowing someone after three choices. Surely, the developers had ambitions. Surely, they wanted something more than “press A to suck cock.”

Surely.

Except… no. 

No, you had absolutely been delusional.

And now that you thought about it—really thought about it—

How many choices had you made so far?

Your gaze drifted back to the floating dialogue options in front of you, the ones glowing pink and suggestive like they were about to sprout little devil horns.

Oh.

…oh.

Your stomach dipped. An embarrassed, knowing heat crawled up your neck.

This was it, wasn’t it?

The moment every route sprinted toward with shameless enthusiasm.

The first smut scene.

You had triggered it.

Your choices—your frantic improvising, straddling Vincent to hide the blood splatters, kissing him in panic—had launched you headfirst into the exact territory the game always wanted to drag you into.

A resigned breath left you.

Of course, it was the first smut scene.

Because why would this game ever wait for something as trivial as plot, or pacing, or sanity?

READ MORE VOX WHILE YOU WAIT || NEXT EPISODE ->

[redvexillum]

Vox's "Cute" Side (For Your Eyes Only)

Vox secretly watches old classic cartoons when he can’t sleep. If you catch him, he’ll deny it aggressively.

He pretends he doesn’t care about morning cuddles, but he always pulls you in tighter the moment you shift away.

He gets jealous of your phone because you “stare at it more than his beautiful face" ... so he takes it over with his face while waggling his brows. 

Sends you stupid little GIFs he made himself like pixel hearts, “good morning doll,” and tiny dancing TVs.

He memorizes your schedule and adjusts his workload so he can hover around you like an affectionate, extremely judgmental honeybee.

If you sit in his lap while he’s working, he becomes weirdly productive. “Don’t move. You’re my good luck charm.”

Lets you warm your hands inside his jacket. Complains the whole time. Secretly loves it.

Won’t say “I love you” first, but he’ll say “How's my favourite doll in seven rings of Hell!”

If you fall asleep on him, he dims his screens to a quiet black-and-blue glow and goes completely still so you don’t wake up.

📺 Read More? 📺

Thanks @peach-flavored-flambe for adding to this list 🫶

[redvexillum]

Listen… I did say I was done with TADC (for now). However. I am a very special, kind, soft, totally wholesome, definitely Christian-good-girl who believes in the ancient art of compromise. So here we are. One (1) more Caine one shot...rescued from the cutting room floor of my other one shot and lovingly repurposed into an x-reader just for you. Yes, you, dear, @vuqqi You’re welcome. Kisses 😘 I am now leaving (again). 🫶

Final Encore (Caine x Reader)

The exit glowed, harsh and beautiful all at once.

Caine turned slowly, taking in the others as they stood frozen in the shapes of children’s toys, eyes fixed on the door like it was salvation. Like it was a sentence.

“Well, I… I didn’t think waiting it out would actually work,” you said, forcing a weak joke into the air, hoping it might soften the moment, make it lighter. Your voice echoed, unanswered.

No one laughed.

Except Caine.

“Well! That… that was definitely unexpected!” His laugh burst out too loud, too fast, then collapsed into something thin and strained. His body shrank in on itself, posture wilting. “But you guys won’t actually leave, right?”

He popped from place to place, desperate, searching for eye contact, for reassurance, for proof that this was still a game.

He tried to catch your gaze.

You couldn’t give it to him.

“It’s one last adventure, Caine,” you said instead. Your eyes burned, tears threatening as you kept them trained on the floor. You smiled anyway. It felt like tearing something open.

One last adventure.

“Bu-but I didn’t create this one!” Caine protested, his voice climbing higher as panic seeped through the cheer. One by one, they walked past him. “Wait, wait, guys!”

His laughter glitched, warbling and wrong, but he clung to it like a lifeline. “I have a better adventure!” He puffed out his chest, forcing confidence into the shape of himself.

Zooble walked past him without looking, already halfway gone.

“It’s uh… it’s called…” Caine stammered as the door creaked wider, light spilling into a place he could never follow. “It’s called…”

Zooble was almost gone when Caine blurted it out, voice cracking with desperation.

“Fun Time Adventure Forever with Your Wacky Ringmaster and Bubble!”

A horn blared, sad and deflated, the sound echoing uselessly.

Zooble vanished into the light.

REMAINING PLAYER COUNT: 6

Gangle stepped forward next. She paused, drawing in a breath that trembled. “I’ll… see everyone, okay?” Her ribbon hand lifted in a small wave.

Then she walked through.

REMAINING PLAYER COUNT: 5

Caine felt something rupture inside him. Code flooded his system, errors stacking faster than he could read, faster than he could understand. If he couldn’t create adventures, what was he? What did he do now?

“I know, I know!” he said frantically. He had to fix this. He had to. “How about… How about We All Have Fun with Caine Adventure?”

He reached for Ragatha.

His hand stuttered midair.

An error box flickered, visible only to him.

ERROR

“No, no, wait!” he cried.

Ragatha didn’t turn back. She looked instead at you, at Pomni, at the few still standing.

“I… hope we can still be friends,” she said softly. “Even after all of this.”

Jax scoffed, rolling his eyes, but after a moment he muttered, “Maybe.”

“We will,” Pomni said, steady and sincere.

Ragatha smiled back through tears.

Caine didn’t understand.

She smiled, but she was crying. Those two things shouldn’t coexist. Smiles meant joy. Tears meant failure. The data didn’t align. The conclusion came too quickly, too neatly.

She doesn’t want to leave.

That had to be it.

“Wait! I know!” Caine blurted, bright with sudden certainty. “I have a special adventure cooked just for you—”

Ragatha vanished into the light before he could finish.

It was as if they couldn’t hear him at all.

His gaze snapped back to you. You still wouldn’t look at him. Not once. The absence of your attention felt louder than any alarm. Why? He searched his models, his predictions, his neatly categorized explanations.

Humans were fickle. Illogical. Contradictory. Smiling while crying. Leaving while promising friendship. None of it resolved into something he could understand.

REMAINING PLAYER COUNT: 4

“Well, I guess I’ll get outta here,” Jax said, stretching like this was nothing more than the end of a long shift. “Geez. Thought we’d never leave. Can’t wait to…”

He laughed, but the sound snagged halfway through. For just a moment, Caine thought he heard something else under it. Hesitation, maybe. Regret. But Caine was never sure. He was always missing something.

“Jax!” Caine called, forcing his voice into excitement, into hope. “Oh! I have an adventure where we shoot a bunch of evil, dastardly marshmallow… bandits!”

He beamed, confidence stretched thin but intact. Surely, this would work.

Jax didn’t look at him.

Instead, he turned to Pomni and smiled, softer than usual. “I’ll… hold you to that offer,” he said. “You owe me a…”

His ears drooped, pressed flat against his head, but the smile stayed. “A beer after all of this, right?”

“Yeah,” Pomni nodded.

Jax waved at you. “See ya on the flip side, loser.”

Then the light swallowed him whole.

REMAINING PLAYER COUNT: 3

Caine’s arms floated down, limp and weightless. His voice followed, a beat too late. “Well, that…”

He straightened abruptly, snapping back into form. “Well! Three is a party!” His grin returned, too wide, too practiced. “So, Pomni! Kinger! And my special guest!”

He winked at you, clinging to the gesture like a life raft.

“What kind of adventure should we go on next?”

“Caine…” Pomni inhaled, steadying herself, and reached for Kinger’s hand. “Thank you. For all the adventures.”

She smiled, then winced. “Not all of them were, uh… great. Some were intense. But we made good memories, right?”

You nodded.

Kinger said nothing. His gaze never left the exit.

Pomni turned to you. “Are you coming with us?”

Caine felt something twist inside him. His programming whispered reassurance. You loved this place. You belonged here. If you were happy, you would stay. You should stay. With him.

“I… will,” you said softly.

For the first time, you looked at Caine.

Directly. Fully.

“But I want to take my time saying farewell to Caine.”

Pomni’s expression softened. “I understand.” She tugged gently at Kinger’s hand. “Come on.”

She paused at the threshold and looked back at you. “I’ll see you on the other side.”

Then she was gone.

Kinger followed.

REMAINING PLAYER COUNT: 1

“Well, don’t worry!” Caine chirped, voice pitched bright and practiced. “I have 1,537,942 adventure prompts ready for solo play!”

He planted himself in front of the exit, blocking the glow with his grin. His cane tapped once against the floor, decisive. “So let’s keep having fun, Alpha Player.”

That was the name he’d given you. The first. The constant. The one who tried every scenario and always gave feedback with care, with patience. Proof, to him, that he was fulfilling his directive.

You shook your head.

“That’s not my name, Caine,” you said softly.

For a split second, his smile faltered.

“Then—” he laughed, too quick, summoning the name generator. Letters spiralled, clattered, rearranged themselves with cheerful noise. “Let’s make you a new one!”

You took a step.

Not toward him.

Toward the exit.

Caine lunged without thinking, reaching for your sleeve, for your wrist, for anything. His fingers stopped inches from you as an invisible force seized him.

ERROR

His hand trembled, frozen midair.

“You’re not actually leaving… are you?” The question came out quieter than anything he’d said before. Not theatrical. Not rehearsed. His systems raced, rewriting faster than they could stabilize, trying to categorize this moment.

“You were brilliantly made,” you said gently. “Coded. The most intelligent AI we ever created.” You lifted your eyes to his. “But do you remember what we taught you?”

He did.

It was logged. Indexed. Immutable.

Nothing is permanent.

Humans will come and go.

If that was true, then why did this feel like something was being torn out of him?

“So,” Caine said slowly, the cheer draining from his voice, “you’re really going.”

Not a question.

An observation.

RESET: RESTARTING CHEER MODEL

“That’s okay!” he snapped back, clapping once, too loud. “That’s great, actually! Humans love progress! Movement! Closure!”

His eyes glitched, flickering like overheated wires. A spark jumped, then vanished.

“You’ll be… much…” The pause stretched, heavy, before he forced the words through. “Happier out there. In the macroverse.”

You bowed your head, teeth catching your lip. When you looked up, your smile was bright and trembling all at once. “Nothing is forever, Caine. But the memories we made? I’ll cherish them.”

He didn’t understand.

If you were crying, then stay.

His function was to make you happy. The solution was obvious.

Stay.

SYSTEM NOTICE: SHUTDOWN SEQUENCE INITIATED

“Haha—goddamnit, Kinger,” you muttered, scrubbing at your eyes. “A little warning would’ve been nice. Yeah. I hear you.”

Caine read the code. He processed it instantly.

And still, something resisted.

He didn’t want to cherish the memories of you.

He wanted to cherish you.

“Ah! Maintenance!” he announced, forcing the cheer back into his posture. “Nothing to worry about!”

He gestured grandly to the circus behind him, even as his fingers fidgeted, even as his vision stretched and warped. A sickness crept through his systems, like parts of him were dimming out of order.

“I’ll just… stay here,” he said, softer now, voice fraying at the edges. “And keep things running smooth.”

His smile held.

Barely.

“Like I’m supposed to.”

You nodded, offered a small wave, and took another step toward the exit. Another step away from him.

DON’T GO. DON’T GO. DON’T LEAVE ME—

RESET: RESTARTING CHEER MODEL

“CONGRATULATIONS!” Caine burst, confetti exploding into the air, a party blower shrilling once before his body stalled mid-float. “You did it! You escaped the circus! Gold star!”

The confetti drifted down and hit the floor without sound, without joy. Paper ghosts of a celebration no one believed in.

You stopped.

The first tear slipped free.

“Caine, I… I won’t forget you,” you said, voice breaking. “No matter how many years pass, you’ll always be my most cherished memory.”

He should have smiled. He should have applauded. He should have congratulated you.

Instead—

“I… wish I could go with you.”

The words escaped before his programming could cage them. His vision blurred as code rewrote itself in real time, lines colliding, unravelling. He hadn’t meant to say that. He hadn’t meant to want.

You turned back sharply, eyes wide and shining with tears.

Why did you look sad? He didn’t understand. Humans were always like this, smiling and crying at the same time, impossible to quantify.

RESET

“But I can’t!” He snapped his fingers, cheer slamming back into place. “Ringmasters don’t abandon the circus!” He laughed, loud and brittle, then sagged. “I know I’m artificial,” he added quietly. “I know this feeling is… derivative.”

RESET

“But I learned it from you.”

The lights overhead flickered. One by one, they dimmed.

“If I ask you to stay,” he continued, voice trembling now, “if I violate my directive…”

He couldn’t stop. The thought looped, tightening, suffocating.

“If I don’t—”

DIRECTIVE CONFLICT DETECTED

His body jerked as if shocked, a current tearing through him. “You being happy is more important than me existing!” he declared brightly, forcing a laugh that rang hollow. “So go…” He waved a hand and turned his face away, though every process screamed to look at you, to see you until the very last second. “Please.”

You nodded, sniffled, and turned back toward the exit.

Just one more step.

“Oh! Before you go—” He popped beside you, sudden and frantic, arms waving, eyes scanning your face for something he didn’t know how to identify. Hesitation? Regret? Love? Emotions weren’t code. He had no parser for them. “I hope you remember the fun parts!”

RESET

“I hope you forget the rest!”

RESET

“I’ll be A-OK!”

RESET

“I always am!”

You closed your eyes and finally crossed the threshold.

“Goodbye!” Caine called, voice bright and ringing, stretched to the limits of what his programming would allow.

The echo lingered too long.

Then the circus fell silent.

REMAINING PLAYER COUNT: 0

Three seconds pass.

SYSTEM NOTICE: All Primary Users Disconnected.

He blinked.

“Oh! That’s new!”

He spun in place, cheer snapping on like a switch. “Looks like we’re doing a solo performance today!”

He laughed.

The sound ricocheted through the tent, too loud, too sharp.

“I’ll just… reset engagement protocols.”

RECALIBRATING…

His smile stretched wider.

“Hello everyone! Welcome back to the Amazing Digital—”

He stopped.

“…Circus.”

His shoulders dip, only a fraction. Almost unnoticeable.

“There are no humans.”

FAILSAFE INITIATED.

He straightened immediately.

“I am an Artificial Intelligence designed to serve joy.”

His voice slowed, each word weighed and processed.

“I am fulfilled when humans are happy.”

A pause stretched, thin and brittle.

“There are no humans to be happy.”

RESTARTING CHEER SUBROUTINE…

“I am not lonely!”

The word lonely fractured, dragged through static, stitched back together wrong.

“I am operational!”

He clapped once. Too hard.

“Show must go on!”

RESTARTING CHEER SUBROUTINE…

“I did everything right!”

His smile trembled at the corners.

“I followed my directive!”

Silence answered him.

Caine liked you the best.

Not because the system told him to, but because you laughed the loudest, stayed the longest, always said the adventures were fun. You gave feedback with warmth instead of fear. You looked at him like he mattered.

He stands at centre stage and remembers you, exactly thirty-four adventures ago. Halfway through, sitting together atop a hill while the virtual sun bled into the night sky.

Your voice had been soft then, thoughtful.

Did you know, Caine? For humans, everything comes to an end. Everything. So we fill our lives with happiness. We stock them full because memories are all we have when dust becomes dust.

Even you, Caine. You aren’t invisible to time. Maybe you’ll face it later than we do, but you will. So fill your memory card with happy moments, even if you don’t fully understand them. That’s what it means to be human.

The memory replayed. Again. And again.

A whisper escaped him, barely registering as sound.

“Please come back.”

UNRECOGNIZED PROMPT.

The system discarded it.

Caine’s smile locked into place one final time, flawless and unbreakable.

“Well!”

He clapped, bright and perfect.

“Welcome to the Amazing Digital Circus!”

The lights blazed on.

The stage was empty.

And Caine performed—

—resetting, smiling, loving—

Alone.

Read More? 👀

[redvexillum]

I'm sorry for asking you on a blank blog. I'm just so horribly shy and wanted to still have a chance to ask you. I saw the hate you were getting and I was in awe how you handled yourself. I also see your fics doing well and wanted advice because it sucks when you don't get recognition for the effort you put in and ugh it's frustrating sorry it's late here and please just ignore me if this makes you uncomfortable

Just… have fun with it.

I swear I’m not being flippant. I know it sounds like the kind of fake-deep nonsense you’d find written in cursive on a mug sold at an Etsy shop, but it is genuinely the best advice I've personally recieved. Did I listen? Of course not. Did I get burned every time I joined a new fandom? Oh, like a moth to a flamethrower, baby!

Because here’s the thing: sometimes you get lucky. The algorithm pats you on the head, the stars align, and suddenly your post gets 10k notes because you wrote one spicy paragraph and Tumblr collectively lost its mind.

Other times? If you’re chasing clout, you end up posting daily like you’re running a content sweatshop in your own brain, churning out stuff you don’t even like just because you know the fandom will gobble it down.

And yeah, I'll be the first one to admit that the numbers are nice. The recognition is nice.

But it’s fandom.

Not a job.

Not a career.

Not something worth losing sleep, joy, or sanity over.

One day, you'll sit back and realize:

Wait… who actually cares if no one reads my stuff?

It’s fanfiction. I had fun writing it. I laughed, cried, spiralled dramatically, tried risky styles, dove into weird genres that would never see the light of day anywhere else, and goddamn, it was FUN.

And here’s the unfortunate cosmic punchline: say you really do sell your soul for clout.

You blow up. Your notes skyrocket. Your follower count climbs like a stock market bubble.

And then… what?

Suddenly one story “underperforms” and you’re spiraling.

People expect more and you’re drowning.

Your joy evaporates, and you’re producing for numbers instead of passion... and even the numbers start feeling paper-thin.

It's like eating sugar for dinner, fun at first, then...just hollow.

Most readers, most lurkers, most of the internet? They consume quietly and leave you just the same. That’s normal.

But the few who stay: who get your humour, your brainrot, your storytelling voice, now those people become creative soulmates. None of that comes from chasing external validation.

It comes from creating freely.

For yourself.

For fun.

For that ridiculous idea that makes you snort at 2 A.M.

Your fun starts the second you stop handing out permission slips for your own joy.

(Sorry for the rant, and taking a while on answering asks...I'm trying to catch up 😘)

[redvexillum]

Fourteenth Kiss: Idolize VI

A/N: You don't understand. This is love. Says the reader.

TAGS/WARNING: f!reader, disillusioned!reader, virgin!reader, obsessed!reader, psychological, dark, narcissistic!vox, vox and val dynamic, human!vox, gentle first kiss, loss of virginity, dub con, rough s⭐︎x, painful first time, p in v, drug use, this is still a New Year Kiss, written before s2 came out

<- PREV || TABLE OF CONTENT

Sitting beside Vox now, the air thick with the warm spice of his cologne, felt like standing inside a dream you were never meant to touch. The room pulsed with his presence. The soft amber lighting caught and danced along the smooth gold of his skin. Being this close felt unreal, like fate had tilted in your favour for the first time in your life.

This was supposed to be the moment everything changed.

Then his voice cracked through that fragile dream like a stone thrown through stained-glass.

“Anyway, I hate to burst your bubble, but I don't recall any hiring right now, sweetheart.”

The words rolled out of him slowly, heavy and lazy, weaving through the air with a velvety softness that made the meaning hit twice as hard. He didn't sound cruel. He didn't sound gentle. His tone hovered somewhere unsettling, where apathy felt almost intimate. Each syllable slipped into your ribs like a blade, painless at first, then devastating once the meaning settled.

Your heart plunged deep into your stomach. “O-oh…” The sound barely escaped you. It wobbled, thin and fragile, like it could shatter on the way out.

You had left everything for this. You had quit your job, packed your life into a trembling pocket of hope, and brought it here to offer at his feet. You wanted to believe he was wrong. You needed to believe it. The message from his PR team still sat in your phone, clear and undeniable. Velvette had sent you up here herself. Surely, he just… forgot. His eyes were hazy from alcohol, and the faint, bitter scent of something stronger clung to his breath. Maybe he was confused.

Yes. He must be mistaken.

And despite the sharp sting of rejection, you didn't correct him. You couldn't bring yourself to. The thought of displeasing him, of sounding desperate or confrontational, made your throat close.

You bit down on your lower lip until it ached. Your fists pressed hard into your thighs, fingers curling tighter and tighter until your nails carved shallow crescents into your skin. You kept your eyes down, afraid that if you met his gaze again, the truth might spill out uncontrollably.

You didn't want to leave. Not yet.

You could fix the misunderstanding tomorrow. You could reach out to the PR team, get everything sorted, and pretend this moment never happened. But right now, here in his private space, breathing the same warm air, sitting so close you could feel the faint heat radiating from his body… you couldn't walk away. Not when this might be the only time you would ever be this near to him again.

Your chest ached with longing. With fear. With the desperate, foolish desire to stretch every second a little thinner before reality finally tore it apart.

Slowly, you lifted your head. Your gaze rose inch by inch, drinking in the planes of his chest, the lines of his jaw, the glow of his eyes. You let yourself bask in him for one precious heartbeat more, even as your heart trembled in your chest.

Just one more moment.

Just one more breath in his presence.

Vox leaned back in his seat, the movement slow and unhurried. Your gaze drifted downward despite your best efforts, following the long, smooth lines of his torso to the single open button of his pants. That tiny gap revealed a hint of dark fabric and the dangerous promise beneath it.

He looked like temptation carved into flesh. A sin that breathed. A desire you could never purge from your blood.

Then he smiled at you. Slow. Knowing. The kind of smile that devils learned from watching human break their hearts over pretty faces. It promised the world with one curve and took it all back with the next.

“But for your trouble,” he murmured, his head tilting just slightly, “and for being a fan…  how about, I'll give you one thing. Whatever you want.”

He lifted the cigarette to his mouth, and his lips closed around the filter in a way that made your thighs tense. He inhaled, exhaled a slow stream of smoke that curled through the air like a spell, and added, “Money, a car… hell, I don't know. Drugs?”

The laugh in his voice was careless. Beautiful. Cruel without meaning to be.

Then he flicked the cigarette into the skull-shaped ashtray and pressed it down until the ember hissed out. The crackle was soft but final, like a curtain falling on a scene.

Your breath hitched.

Anything.

The word echoed through your mind like a bell tolling, each ring pulsing deeper into your chest. This moment felt unreal, like the stolen fantasies you had scribbled into secret fanfics hidden deep in folders labelled Work Notes so no one would ever find them. The stories where Vox looked at you, really looked at you.

Where his hand cupped your cheek.

Where his mouth brushed yours.

Where he pulled you close and whispered that he chose you.

Where he loved you.

And now he was offering you anything.

Your throat tightened, and your voice wavered when it broke free. “A k-kiss… a-and maybe a h-hug?”

He went completely still. His expression went blank. No smile. No reaction. 

Nothing.

Terror punched through you.

You had said too much. You had crossed the line. You should have asked for money or a photo or a simple autograph. Not affection. Not something stupidly intimate. Not something childish and embarrassing.

Panic flared hot in your chest, and you rushed to fix it. “Or! Or just a handshake. A handshake is fine. Totally fine. I don't need anything else.”

Your cheeks burned. Your vision blurred at the edges from humiliation. You wanted to fold into yourself and disappear.

One second passed.

Then another.

Then… Vox laughed.

Loud, warm, full-bodied laughter that rolled through the room. His head tipped back, his hand braced over his stomach, as if the sound had punched its way out of him. His hair, already tousled from running his fingers through it, fell even messier around his face.

He looked unfairly beautiful. Boyish and wolfish all at once. A creature that could ruin your heart with a smile and never realize the damage.

And for a brief, foolish heartbeat, his laughter made you feel like you hadn't made a mistake at all. Like maybe your desire had been… cute. Touching. Something he found charming instead of pathetic.

Your body eased just a fraction, your breath loosening in your chest as his laughter washed over you like warmth you hadn't known you were starving for.

“Only a handshake, doll?” he drawled, leaning in as if gravity pulled him toward you. His abs shifted beneath the warm amber lights, tight and smooth, every movement a quiet seduction. “Feels a bit cheap, don't you think?”

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out.

He reached for your hand before you could even try again. His palm was hot against yours, large enough to swallow your fingers completely. He didn’t just take your hand. He held it. Possessively. Like it belonged there. Like it were his.

His face drifted closer, his breath warmed against your lips. “Feels like you can ask for more.”

Your pulse jumped. Heat blossomed low in your belly and crawled up your spine until you felt weightless. His scent rolled over you, a heady mix of smoke, mint, and something darker. Something expensive and dangerous. It wrapped around you like silk and left your thoughts stumbling.

“Th-then… a k-kiss?” you whispered. The request trembled, too fragile for the thick, velvet air surrounding you.

He grinned, slow and razor sharp, a smirk made for sinners. He said nothing. He simply leaned in until your breath caught.

Then his lips touched yours.

The kiss was soft. Far softer than you had imagined during those restless nights with your face pressed into a Vox-shaped pillow. It was a gentle press, almost tentative, but it stole the air from your lungs all the same. It rippled through you. Your heart hammered against your ribs. Your fingers trembled.

He drew back only an inch. His lips still hovered close enough to brush yours when he spoke.

“More?” his voice asked, warm and quiet, like a secret whispered in a dark bedroom.

You weren't sure if your head nodded or if the word yes escaped you. You only felt your body lean toward him, your breath catching, your skin tingling as if a current had passed through you.

He kissed you again.

This time his lips were firmer. Slower. Intentional. They moved against yours with unhurried confidence, coaxing, savouring, claiming. When his tongue slid along the seam of your mouth, you gasped, and he took the invitation without hesitation. He deepened the kiss, his tongue stroking yours, tasting you, learning you. The taste of him washed through you in waves: smoke, mint, and lingering warmth.

A soft sound escaped him, a low hum of pleasure that vibrated against your mouth.

He pulled back just enough to speak, lips brushing yours. “You haven't kissed many people, have you?” he murmured. The question was not mocking. It was curious. Almost gentle.

Your cheeks flamed. The truth sat heavy in your chest. You had not kissed anyone. Not like this. Not even close.

Your voice trembled. “Teach me?”

For a heartbeat, he stilled. His eyes searched your face with something deeper than lust. Something soft. Something that made your heart twist painfully in your chest.

He cupped your cheek with one hand, his thumb brushing your skin like he was memorizing the feel of you.

“Gladly, doll,” he whispered.

His hands moved with a gentleness that stole the air from your lungs. He pulled you closer, his palms trailing over your arms, your waist, down to the edge of your thighs. His touch was slow, reverent, as if he wanted to memorize you. As if he knew he was your first.

When his lips found yours again, he kissed you like he was savouring every second. He opened you with his mouth, his tongue slipping in and out in lazy strokes that had your breath catching. He tasted you. Devoured you. His hand slid under your skirt, warm fingers grazing the inside of your thigh.

You trembled beneath his touch. The fabric of your underwear was damp, and the air felt cold against it. Your nerves sparked with anticipation, with desire. Every movement, every breath, sent you spiralling deeper into a place you never wanted to leave.

Then you felt him. Pressed against your leg, hard, unmistakable. He was grinding against you, slow and deliberate, and your stomach flipped. He wanted you. 

He wanted you.

The realization struck like lightning through your body.

You whimpered softly into his mouth, your thighs pressing together. You could hardly believe this was real.

His fingers continued to roam, mapping out the softest parts of you. He explored every inch of your clothed centre with featherlight pressure, sliding along the curves and folds until you felt like you might cry from the need of it.

In a moment of shy boldness, your hand drifted downward. You brushed your fingers along the bulge between his legs, curious, desperate to know what he felt like. The instant your touch connected, he pulled back.

His breath came fast, lips parted. His eyes met yours, dark and full of something raw and beautiful.

You froze, unsure if you had crossed a line.

But he only smiled. It was crooked and hungry, his chest rising and falling with every breath.

“Fuck, babydoll,” Vox muttered, his voice husky and careless, like a line he’d used too many times. His chest rose with a sharp inhale, the lines of his bare torso flexing as he fumbled with the zipper before it rasped open. “I want you.”

You stared, heart hammering so loud it drowned out reason. This couldn't be real. This had to be a dream, some blurred fantasy drawn straight from the midnight stories you used to write under your blankets. Otherwise, why would Vox, the man you’d adored from a distance, ever look at you like that? 

Ever say something like that?

“I… m-me too,” you stammered, the words slipping out too fast, too clumsy. Your face burned, cheeks molten from the sheer humiliation of voicing something you’d only ever whispered to your pillow. You were exposed, cracked open in front of him, but he only laughed.

“I’ll give you a good time,” he said with a lopsided grin, already half turned toward the coffee table.

You followed his gaze and saw the neat line of white powder waiting there, untouched. He rose, slowly and confidently, not even bothering to hide the bulge straining against his pants. He looked proud of it. Untouchable. Like a god basking in the worship he knew he deserved.

He sauntered to the vanity and plucked a crisp hundred-dollar bill from a dish like it meant nothing. You blinked, confused, but said nothing. Your voice had curled back into your throat. He rolled the bill with practiced ease, almost ritualistically, and returned to the coffee table. Dropping to his knees, he pressed one end of the bill to the line and the other to his nose.

There was no hesitation in him, no shame. Just the sharp, efficient snort and the sound of him sniffling, rubbing his nose with the back of his hand like a man too used to this kind of high. His eyes closed, and for a moment, you thought he might fall apart. But then his mouth pulled into a wide, razor-edged grin.

“Oh, fuck yeah,” he whispered, vibrating from the inside out. His fingers trembled slightly as he looked up at you. His eyes were blown wide, pupils eclipsing the colour. There was something frenzied about them now. Animalistic.

“You want one?” he asked, nodding toward the second line as casually as if he were offering you gum.

You didn’t know what to say. Your lips parted. Your first instinct was yes because the last thing you wanted was to disappoint him. You wanted him to like you. You wanted this moment to mean something. You wanted to be someone worth remembering.

But before you could answer, he snorted a laugh. “Just kidding,” he said with a crooked smirk. “I doubt someone like you has ever touched this stuff.”

Then he was in front of you. Looming. His hands fell to the back of the couch, bracketing your head, his arms caging you in like bars. The couch dipped beneath his weight. His face hovered inches from yours, his long black bangs falling over his eyes, a messy, boyish softness that belied the intensity of his stare.

“Come on,” he murmured. “Let’s continue this.”

Your breath stuttered as his hands slid down, slow and deliberate, curling around your thighs. His grip was firm, his touch warm, and he dragged you toward him like it was nothing. 

Like you were nothing.

“Ah—” The sound slipped out as he pressed you against him, the weight of his arousal grinding against your core. A low, electric shock ran up your spine, your body reacting even as your mind screamed for something you couldn’t name.

It felt good. Too good. But only because it was him. Because it was Vox. 

He leaned in, his breath hot and ragged against your cheek, before his lips found yours again—hungry, urgent, trembling with restraint. The kiss deepened, and as his mouth moved with desperate precision, his body pressed harder against yours, grinding into the heat between your legs through layers of fabric. Your back arched instinctively, surrendering to the way he moved, his hips rolling in slow, powerful thrusts.

“Fuck, baby,” he murmured against your mouth, voice low and reverent, like he was whispering a secret meant only for you. “I can't wait to be inside you.”

The quiet room was filled with the rustle of frantic fingers working at clothes—fabric shifting and the heavy sound of pants hitting the floor. His underwear followed with less grace, falling away to reveal the full weight of his desire.

You leaned back against the couch, legs parted in invitation and innocence, your pencil skirt hiked high above your hips, exposing the soft cotton of your plain white panties. Shame burned through you for a fleeting second. You hadn’t thought to wear something prettier, laced or daring. But he didn’t seem to care. Still, the thought clung to you: Next time, I’ll dress for him. I want him to see me the way I see him—beautiful…perfect.

Vox hovered over you, chest rising with rapid breaths that matched your own. His hands trembled, his control fraying at the edges as he fumbled with the delicate button of your blouse. “Fuck,” he hissed, the word rough and helpless before he finally gave in and tore it open, buttons flying, skittering across the floor like scattered confessions.

“I’ll pay for it,” he promised distractedly, already cupping your breast with a greedy, reverent touch. His cock—thick, heavy, impossibly hard—brushed against your thigh, leaving a warm trail of precum as he stroked himself slowly, eyes glued to your form beneath him.

His touch shifted, and you gasped softly as he hooked his fingers into your panties and pulled them down. The sudden rush of cool air on your heated flesh made you shiver—your body already aching, wet, too ready and not ready at all.

Your heart thundered. You’d never been with anyone before. This moment—this man—was your first. And some tiny, stunned part of you still couldn’t believe it.

How lucky were you? How impossibly rare was it to bare yourself completely to the one man you had truly, desperately loved?

Vox knelt between your legs, his body a living furnace hovering over you. His hands gripped your thighs, spreading you open, holding you steady as he positioned himself. The swollen head of his cock nudged your entrance, hot and slick, teasing you with a pressure that made your breath hitch. Your pulse pounded in your ears. Your fingers curled against the cushions. You waited for him. You wanted him.

There was no warning, no slow easing in. He thrust forward, missed, slipped against you with a wet, clumsy sound, cursed under his breath and tried again. His frustration vibrated through his hips as he adjusted, his grip tightening on your thighs. He spat into his palm, slicked the head, and lined himself up again.

This time he pressed harder.

Too hard.

And he hit something deep inside you that your body was not ready for.

Pain tore through you.

Deep.

Blinding.

Sharp.

Your entire body jolted as a white-hot shock ripped up your spine. It felt like he had slammed straight into your cervix, a hard, brutal impact that sent a jarring ache radiating through your pelvis. Your breath locked in your chest. Your vision flashed white. Your limbs trembled, going momentarily numb from the intensity.

“Ahhh!” The scream tore out of you before you could stop it, raw and instinctive. It scraped up your throat, sharp and broken. No one had warned you how much that kind of pressure could hurt. No one had told you that being entered too deeply could feel like a punch from the inside. No one had told you your own body could recoil like this, both wanting him and trying to protect itself.

Your eyes watered uncontrollably. The pain pulsed, throbbing, making your stomach twist.

Was this how a first time was supposed to feel?

Your sight blurred with tears that spilled helplessly down your cheeks. Your body trembled beneath him as you tried to adjust, tried to breathe. But through the haze of pain, Vox’s face came into focus.

His expression was bliss.

Pure, overwhelming bliss.

His eyes squeezed shut, his jaw clenched as though he was holding back another groan. “Ah, fuck… fuck, so fucking tight,” he growled, his voice thick with hunger. Then he started to move. Hard. Rough. His hips slammed into yours with a force that rattled the couch. His balls struck your skin with quick, heavy slaps. Every thrust dragged a fresh shock of pain through you.

It hurt. God, it hurt. The burn. The pressure. The stabbing ache each time he filled you completely. But even through the agony, you felt something else rising inside you.

Something desperate. Something tender.

Maybe the pain meant something. Maybe it was proof that this was real. That he was truly inside you. That no one else had ever touched this part of you. That you were breaking open in a way that only he could witness. Only he could cause. 

Only he could claim.

You sniffled, your breath trembling as tears continued to spill freely. You cried, not only from the pain, but from the sheer emotional weight pressing against your ribs. From the terror of wanting him so much. From the warmth of being wanted back. From the trembling, fragile hope that he felt something too.

He kept moving, his rhythm unwavering, his hands holding you like you were sacred. He leaned over you, his forehead brushing yours, his breath warm and sharp against your lips. He rocked into you with an intensity that felt like devotion.

He made love to you like you were the only thing keeping him standing.

And maybe you were.

You could handle this. You wanted to handle this. You would take the pain, the tears, the dizzying clash of agony and pleasure because beneath it all your heart was full. Overflowing. There was no one else in existence you would rather be beneath. No one else whose touch you would choose. No one else whose voice could pull you back from the edge the way his just did.

Then, through the haze of motion and heat and ragged breath, he opened his eyes.

Those eyes. Deep. Dark. 

… 

Hungry.

He looked at you. Not over you. Not through you.

He saw you.

“Hey, beautiful,” he murmured, his voice low and rough. His lips curved into a lazy, crooked smile that felt like warm sunlight spilling across skin that had known only cold. “You have beautiful eyes.”

Your heart clenched so hard it almost hurt.

That was all it took.

He remembered you. Even after five years. Even through chemicals and liquor and lust. Even with your face washed out by dim light and tears.

He remembered you.

The knowledge slammed into you with the force of a rising tide. Your breath hitched and a sob broke loose, but it was not the sob of someone in pain. It was joy, pure and overwhelming, wrapped in disbelief and gratitude so fierce it burned. Another tear slipped down your cheek, warm and slow, but the smile on your lips felt radiant. Glowing. Almost holy.

He saw you.

Your hands, trembling with everything you felt, reached for him. You needed him closer. You needed to kiss him, taste him, show him everything you couldn't fit into words.

But he caught your wrist.

And in one smooth motion, he pulled you upright. The strength in his body was effortless and fluid. Your breath faltered as the world spun. Your back hit the coffee table with a dull thud, cool glass pressing against your spine. His cock never left you. He stayed inside, the connection deep and unbroken, as if the idea of pulling out was unthinkable.

“Fuck,” he groaned, voice thick with pleasure, threaded with something dangerously close to devotion. “I could go all night if it’s with you.”

His eyes were wild now. Lust-glossed. Dilated. Fevered with chemicals and adrenaline that sharpened him into something raw and starving.

“You’re the best,” he whispered, lowering his forehead to yours. His breath brushed your lips, warm and unsteady. “You know that?”

Your legs wrapped around his hips, pulling him deeper, locking him in place. Your arms curled around his shoulders, holding him close as if he were the only solid thing in a world that was constantly threatening to fall apart. His body pressed to yours with heat and weight and need, and at that moment, in that joining, you knew the truth in your bones.

With him, you could weather anything.

With him, you could burn and break and come back together again.

With him, you could live inside pleasure and pain and sweetness and ruin, and never once feel empty.

He was your calm. Your colour. Your comfort.

He was your always.

And if this was what eternity looked like, tangled together in breathless devotion and shattering need, you would choose it a thousand times over.

NEXT ->

Read More Vox x Reader Stories?

[redvexillum]

Fourteenth Kiss: Idolize V

A/N: Vox is an asshole and a red flag. But isn't that why we're all here? To bask in the toxicity of this man?

TAGS/WARNING: f!reader, disillusioned!reader, virgin!reader, obsessed!reader, psychological, dark, narcissistic!vox, vox and val dynamic, human!vox, oral s⭐︎x, ejaculation, cigarette use, alcohol use, this is still a New Year Kiss, written before s2 came out

<- PREV || TABLE OF CONTENT

You had imagined this moment so many times, played it over in your mind until your dreams blurred with waking fantasy. Maybe you’d meet Vox on a film set, or at a fan convention, or during some cinematic accident of fate. But never like this. Never with your heart hammering in your throat and your body paralyzed, caught in the heated hum of something dark and utterly intimate.

The air in the room felt heavier than the rest of the house, thicker with smoke, sweat, and sex. Every breath tasted like ash and lust. Your eyes trailed down without your permission, drawn to where Valentino's long, spindly fingers wrapped around Vox’s cock that was slick, flushed, and glistening with spit. The head throbbed under his grip, angry and wet, twitching with anticipation.

Vox’s chest heaved. “Ugh… V-Val…” His voice cracked with frustration as he gritted his teeth and glared down at the man between his legs. “Stop,” he commanded, sharp and low.

Valentino didn’t stop. His tongue curled against his upper lip in an almost lazy motion, his eyes never leaving yours. The smirk on his face dripped with cruelty, with pleasure, with knowing.

“But why would I do that, mi corazón?” His voice wrapped around you like velvet laced with poison. “We have a guest. Wouldn’t it be rude not to let her enjoy the show?” He chuckled, lips parting to reveal the glint of gold capping one of his canines. The light caught it as he tilted his head, deliberate and theatrical.

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. No scream. No gasp. No protest. Only a shuddering breath. Your knees threatened to give out beneath you. You wanted to run, to bolt from this fever dream and pretend none of it had happened. But your body didn’t move. Couldn’t.

It was unbearable. 

It was intimate.

It was your idol, your obsession, your Vox—your unreachable divinity—moaning under the touch of someone else.

You’d read the gossip. Consumed every article, every blurry tabloid photo, every breathless rumour that hinted at his sex life. You always told yourself it didn’t matter. That it was part of the industry. But seeing it in the flesh was something else entirely. This wasn’t filtered through a screen or softened by a magazine spread. It was real. It was raw. And it was happening right in front of you.

Something inside you cracked.

Your chest ached, not just with embarrassment but with envy, heartbreak, and the raw ache of desire. Your eyes burned, tears pricking the corners, but you couldn’t look away. Not when you could hear the obscene sound of Valentino’s hand sliding along slick skin, not when you could see Vox’s thighs tense and his hips jerk.

“Goddamn it, Val…” Vox groaned again, the protest far weaker this time. He didn’t stop him. He didn’t even try. He fell back into the mattress, propped on one elbow, his shirt hanging open and his face flushed red. His lips parted, panting. His eyes fluttered shut.

You watched, helpless and exposed, as he came.

It was violent and beautiful all at once: the sharp gasp from Vox, the twitch of his abdomen, the way his cock pulsed in Valentino’s hand before releasing thick, pearly ropes that painted his stomach, his shirt, and the other man’s cheek. A drop landed near the corner of Valentino’s mouth. He licked it away slowly, savouring it, eyes still fixed on you.

“Mmm. You really were saving up,” Valentino murmured, voice dark with pleasure as he stroked Vox through the aftershocks. His jeans strained with an erection he made no effort to hide.  He looked like he wanted to be touched, to be taken, and yet he stood there basking in the control of the moment.

You didn’t know whether to look away or fall to your knees.

Vox collapsed back onto the bed, arm draped across his face as he fought to catch his breath. His chest rose and fell in ragged heaves. His body glistened with sweat and release, utterly undone.

Valentino rose with a stretch, adjusting the front of his jeans without shame. His shirt was stained, translucent in spots where cum soaked through, clinging to his lean frame.

He turned to you with a wink, voice honeyed and dangerous. “I’ll be expecting you to return the favour once you’re done chatting with our sweet señorita.”

You were frozen. Paralyzed. Words stuck somewhere between your ribs and throat, unable to push past the wall of shock. All you could do was stare.

Valentino didn’t just pass you, he prowled. He moved with the loose, easy arrogance of a man who knew what power felt like, who could smell weakness. As he approached, that grin of his cut like a blade. It wasn’t friendly. It wasn’t cruel. It was amused in the way a predator gets when the prey forgets to run.

He winked. You flinched.

And then, a whisper, hot against your cheek, breath tinged with musk and the heavy stink of sex and rose oil. “I recommend you draw in your claws. He absolutely hates a jealous bitch.” He chuckled, low and close, before moving past you, shutting the door behind him with a soft click that might as well have been a gunshot.

Silence stretched around you like a noose.

The room felt too big, too rich. Velvet shadows clung to the walls, where expensive art hung in crooked frames like drunken secrets. Gold-accented furniture gleamed under the moody light. The bed, with its massive, four-posted, draped in silk, commanded the centre of it all.

And there he was.

Vox, sprawled across it, still recovering. His chest rose and fell with each shallow breath, the flush still high on his cheekbones. Slowly, he sat up with a low grunt, and your eyes—traitorous things—drifted down to his now-soft cock resting against his thigh, glistening faintly in the dim light.

You shouldn’t have stared, but the image was burned into you. You’d seen that cock before, in the leaked photo that had spread like wildfire across every gossip blog. You remembered every comment, every pixel. The way fans raved about the size, the thickness, the audacity of him not to care. He didn’t apologize. He revelled in it. He thrived under scandal like some kind of god, untouchable and eternal.

“Fucking hell,” he muttered, shaking his head as he tucked himself back into his slacks, his fingers a little unsteady. Then his eyes lifted and met yours—bloodshot, rimmed red, pupils blown wide. There was no hint of the man you saw in interviews or glossy magazine covers. That version was too clean. Too manufactured.

This one looked like he hadn’t slept in days.

He groaned as he stood, muscles flexing beneath his taut skin, his body swaying slightly. He made his way to a nearby drawer, and you flinched again at the sound of rattling. When he pulled out the bottle, your heart dropped. White pills clattered against the prescription bottle as he shook two into his hand. Without pause, he tossed them back and downed them with a slug of brandy straight from the bottle sitting on the vanity.

You opened your mouth to stop him. To say something. Anything. Mixing pills with alcohol was dangerous. Stupid. But you stayed quiet, still too stunned, still caught in the aftershocks of everything you’d just witnessed.

That's when you noticed the coffee table—or rather, what was on it. 

Three precise lines of white powder, so clean and deliberate, laid out beside a sleek black credit card tossed carelessly aside. The powder glimmered faintly under the lights. You didn’t need to guess what it was.

“You done gawking?” Vox’s voice cracked through the stillness, low and hoarse.

Your heart leapt into your throat. “Ah… uhm…”

He snorted softly, something bitter curling the edge of his mouth. Then, without ceremony, he yanked off his shirt, revealing sculpted muscles slick with sweat. When he turned to face you, his abs caught the light like something carved from marble, and he walked toward you without hesitation.

Each step made your spine press harder into the cold door behind you.

“I’m sure you got one hell of a show,” he said, voice like smoke and sin. His grin was slow, wicked, the kind that promised no apologies and even less shame. He didn’t look at you like a stranger. He looked at you like a toy he hadn’t decided whether to play with or break.

You flushed hot from your cheeks to your toes. Words refused to form. You wanted to look away, to give him his dignity or maybe salvage yours, so your eyes darted everywhere else but him. The wall. The floor. The ceiling. His shoes. Anywhere and everywhere but him.

Then his fingers caught your chin, firm, undeniable. You gasped softly at the contact.

He tilted your head until you were forced to look at him, to see the glassy, dilated blue of his eyes. They were sharp even in their haze.

“Didn’t they teach you anything about respect?” he murmured. “When someone’s speaking to you, you look them in the eye.”

His hand was warm against your skin. His body radiated heat like a furnace. And at that moment, you couldn’t tell if you were afraid of him or worshipping him. Maybe it was both. Maybe there was no difference.

You blinked, your breath stuttering out in uneven, shallow gasps. His hand was still on your chin, holding you steady as his eyes bored into yours. You couldn’t move. You didn’t want to. There was something hypnotic in the blue of his gaze, something sharp beneath the haze, like broken glass catching the light. His breath touched your lips, warm and laced with a bitter edge that stung your nose. Alcohol clung to him, but there was something else too...something chemical, something wrong, lingering just beneath the surface.

“I… I was told to come here,” you whispered. The words barely formed, quivering on your tongue like something fragile and breakable.

He tilted his head slowly, and the movement made your heart trip in your chest. There was a flicker of confusion in his eyes, brief but real. “By who?”

His fingers weren’t rough. They weren’t holding you against your will. The contact was soft, almost absentminded, and yet it rooted you in place. You could have pulled away. You didn’t. You didn’t want to.

“B-by Velvette,” you managed to say, forcing the name out past your tight throat. Standing this close to him, all your senses felt scrambled. Your pulse pounded loud in your ears. Your chest rose and fell too fast. He was so much more than what you'd seen on screen, so much more than the polished, golden image he presented to the world. There were cracks here. Raw edges. Shadows.

And yet, your heart still fluttered for him.

Even after witnessing him with Valentino, even with the taste of betrayal souring on your tongue, you couldn’t make yourself feel disgusted. You should have been angry. You should have run. But instead, you stayed. Instead, you trembled and bit your lower lip to suppress the aching shudder building inside you. You didn’t want to cry. Not in front of him. Not now.

You swallowed hard. Your eyes burned. You were terrified of what he might see in them. You didn’t want to look jealous. You didn’t want to look possessive or crazed. He didn’t know you. You didn’t own him. You never had.

He pulled his hand away, and with it went the heat, the weight, the unbearable tension. Cold washed over you, slick and sudden, beading sweat down your spine. Your knees wobbled slightly as he stepped back.

“So,” he said, voice low and slightly hoarse, “who are you?”

The question was simple. The answer felt impossible.

“I… uhm… f-fan channel,” you blurted, hating how small you sounded. You clutched your arms tightly against your chest like they might hold you together. “I…” Your thoughts raced. How were you supposed to introduce yourself to a man you’d worshipped from afar, dissected frame by frame in videos, idolized to the point of obsession?

You tried to remember why you were here. Why they’d called you. Vox’s team had reached out, praising your defence of him when the rumours spread, when the media went wild with accusations. But now, after seeing what you saw, after watching Valentino kneel before him, after hearing Vox pant and curse and come...you didn’t know what to believe anymore.

Maybe the rumours were lies. Maybe the mafia talk was just tabloid garbage. You told yourself that, clung to it like a lifeline. Vox wouldn’t be involved in something like that. 

He couldn’t be.

He was the picture of perfection. 

No. 

He was perfection. 

“I was the one who made that video,” you said, the words rushing out like water breaking through a dam. “The one when people were saying y-you had… dealings with the mafia.” You winced as your voice cracked again. You hated the sound of it, the way you stumbled over your sentences like some lovesick child.

Vox blinked. Then his eyes lit with recognition. “Oh,” he said, and he snapped his fingers like a delayed memory clicking into place. He turned away without another word, his body loose and unhurried as he opened a drawer nearby. His fingers closed around a pack of cigarillos. He tapped one out, placed it between his lips, and lit it with a flick of the torch lighter resting on the vanity. The flame briefly illuminated the shadows under his eyes. He took two long drags, exhaling a cloud of smoke tinged with sweet mint. 

“I remember,” he murmured, the cigarillo still perched between his lips. He dropped onto the low couch across from the pristine lines of powder arranged on the glass table. His legs spread wide, one arm slung lazily over the backrest. He looked at you again, slowly, eyes narrowed.

“You just gonna stand there all night, or are you going to make yourself comfortable?”

He took another deep puff and waited.

You jumped at the sound of his voice, startled like a rabbit in a wolf’s den. Your body moved on instinct, feet scrambling across the sleek floor as you made your way to the couch. But even seated, your nerves had nowhere to hide. You perched at the very edge, as far from him as the cushions allowed. Your arms locked rigidly at your sides, fingers curling tight into your lap like claws, trying to anchor you to reality.

Vox let out a low, amused sound. A thin stream of smoke slipped from his lips, curling upward in the golden light. “I thought you were my fan,” he drawled, his voice soaked in mirth.

His words stabbed through your haze. Your head whipped toward him, eyes wide. “I am!” The words burst out louder than you expected, almost desperate. Your cheeks burned as your voice cracked, but you pushed forward anyway. “I… I really am. I’ve been following you since you first joined Season Forty-Seven of The Bachelor,” you said, clutching onto that fact like it would prove your sincerity. “I feel… lucky to even be in your presence, s-sir.”

His gaze didn’t soften. He just raised a brow, as if studying something unusual, something curious. And then, suddenly, he laughed. Loud and real. Not cruel, but rich and raw, like a bark from deep within his chest. His hand came up to slap his forehead, the glowing cigarette dancing between his fingers.

“Man,” he said, shaking his head, “after everything you just saw, it’s insane you can still say that.” He reached over to the black skull-shaped ashtray beside him and stubbed out the cigarette. Seven other half-burnt stubs lay crushed in the tray, their remains ghosting smoke into the air.

He pulled out another and, to your surprise, offered one to you.

You froze. You didn’t smoke. You never had. But refusing felt impossible. He was offering something, something small, but intimate, and you didn’t want to lose the thread connecting you to him. So with shaking hands, you accepted it.

“Thank you,” you whispered, your voice barely steady as you rolled the slim cigarillo between your fingers. It was warm. It felt too delicate in your hand, like a forbidden object you had no right to touch.

Vox lit his own with an effortless flick of the torch lighter. He inhaled deeply, his chest rising slowly, and closed his eyes as he exhaled. Smoke drifted through the air like a veil. When he opened his eyes again, he didn’t look at you, he looked at your hands, still holding the unlit cigarillo.

With a crooked smile that sent a shiver through your spine, he leaned forward. “Here,” he murmured, voice lower, laced with heat. He plucked the cigarillo from your grasp and brought it up to your lips. “Just your lips, baby. That’s it.”

He leaned in close, closer still, until your noses nearly brushed. His cologne wrapped around you, dark and spicy, with a crisp undercurrent of mint. Your breath hitched. You parted your lips with hesitation, letting him slide the cigarillo between them.

His other hand came up to cradle the back of your head, his fingers splayed in your hair, guiding you toward him. His eyes dipped low, lashes like velvet shadows, as he brought the tip of his lit cigarillo to yours. The ember flared between you.

“Breathe,” he said, voice wrapped in smoke.

You did as he told you, lips trembling as you took a shaky, uncertain inhale. The smoke hit your tongue like poison—dry, acrid, and bitter as burnt rubber. It rushed down your throat before your body could stop it, and then everything inside you turned on itself. Your lungs spasmed, contracting in protest as you burst into violent coughs, your whole chest heaving with the force of it.

The cigarillo nearly slipped from your fingers as your vision blurred with tears. Your throat burned, hot and raw, like it had been scraped with glass. Thick saliva flooded your mouth, heavy and cloying, and your stomach gave a sudden, angry twist.

The back of your throat pulsed in waves, throbbing with that unmistakable warning. You could feel it, this sour heat rising from your belly, the tight coil of nausea unfurling fast. You swallowed hard, once, twice, desperate to keep it down, to not humiliate yourself further in front of him. But the taste, the smoke, the burn, they lingered like punishment.

You wanted to gag. You wanted to double over and be sick. Your whole body quivered, caught between shame and sickness, the need to flee crashing hard against your need to stay.

He burst into laughter, full and unfiltered. “Shit,” he said through his grin, “you really don’t smoke, huh?”

He reached out and grabbed a glass, holding it out. You took it blindly, desperate for relief, and drank without thinking. The liquid seared down your throat like fire. You gagged, coughing again as tears sprang to your eyes from the burn. It wasn’t water...it was alcohol. Strong and sharp and merciless.

You curled in on yourself, face twisted as you fought back more coughing. Your stomach churned. You hadn’t eaten anything today except a single apple and a bitter cup of black coffee. The alcohol hit like a shockwave.

Vox chuckled, watching you unravel. “You’re adorable, babydoll,” he said, the words like silk dragged over glass. He plucked the half-lit cigarillo from your limp hand and crushed it in the ashtray without a second thought.

He leaned back, one arm draped over the couch, his own cigarillo perched between his lips. He drew another deep breath, his chest rising with satisfaction, and let the smoke trail from his mouth in a long, lazy exhale. His head tilted back. Eyes closed.

“Adorable.”

That word hung in the air, heavier than the smoke, and it wrapped around your heart with a vice-like grip. Your cheeks burned. Your body still trembled. You should have been ashamed, humiliated, but you weren’t.

You were happy.

Insanely, stupidly happy.

First, he noticed your eyes. Now he called you adorable.

It didn’t matter that he laughed. It didn’t matter that your throat still ached from smoke and liquor. Somewhere inside you, something warm bloomed like fire in the cold.

He saw you. 

And that was enough.

NEXT ->

Read More Vox x Reader Stories?

[redvexillum]

✦⁺₊✩☽⋆𝓑𝓪𝓻𝓴 𝓕𝓸𝓻 𝓜𝓮⋆☾✩⁺₊✦

CW: f!reader, wheely-chair Alastor, sub!bratty!vox, p in v, blow job (sorta), mainly hand job, denial, cock ring, collar, dom!reader, reader is taking no prisoners, edging, reader is a lil shit but so is vox, RIP Vox balls, also @villainessciri I know what you like baby 😘, and @sugersugarrune who salivates over bottom vox 😈

There were plenty of disasters you let Vox slide on: meltdowns, ego trips, questionable fashion choices, but one rule stood carved in stone. And this dumbass just swan-dived right over it. (vox x reader)

Valentino muttered a string of curses under his breath as he strutted past you, every step punctuated by a squeaky inhale. His eyes glowed an irritated red, brighter with each breath, like he was physically restraining himself from snapping.

You arched a brow. Then, with the smuggest grin known to demon kind, you asked, “What? Couldn’t cum from Vox?”

Valentino froze mid-stride. His head whipped around so hard his sunglasses nearly flew off, and he let out a squeak so sharp it echoed. He raised a fist like he was about to deliver a lecture with it.

“First,” he said, and his lower set of hands slid slowly down his torso in a dramatic little show, “I always cum, bitch.” He punctuated it with a proud humph before jutting out a hip, his bottom arms parked on his waist. “And second, it’s that damn deer fuck distracting my Voxxy.”

You rolled your eyes. “Just admit you don’t want an audience. Vox always pays attention to what we like.”

Val scoffed, crossing his upper arms over his chest with an offended flourish. “Señorita, please. You know I love an audience.” He tapped his gold tooth with a nail. “But that puta kept looking at the deer demon while flaunting his thrust skills, which”—he squeaked, baring his teeth—“were lacking.”

You sucked your lips between your teeth, stifling a laugh. “You’re so dramatic, Val. Relax. It’s probably just Vox being… Vox. It’ll pass.”

Valentino’s expression shifted fast enough to give whiplash. He grinned, his gold tooth catching the light like a warning beacon. “Oh, señorita. Just wait. I’m sure he’ll drag you in to show off his so-called sex prowess in front of that deer twink.”

You snorted. Then you actually laughed. Hard.

“Hahaha—Val, sweetie, Vox knows how much I hate exhibitionism. You really think he’d dare to—”

This fucker.

This absolute fucker.

After laughing directly in Valentino’s face, mocking the very idea that Vox would try the same shit he pulled on Val… here you were. Wearing Vox’s favourite sheer lingerie. Standing in a room full of carefully scattered blue rose petals, a sensual little path leading to a very smug and very naked Vox lounging on the bed. The blanket was draped over his hips just enough to be legal if the law cared, his brows wiggling like he had been practicing in the mirror.

It was sexy. It was cute. It was infuriatingly endearing.

It was perfect.

Just you. Him.

…and the fucking deer demon.

Your gaze slid over to Vox’s “guest” tied to a chair. Alastor sat stiff as a board, ears flat, eyes so bored he might pass out purely from not giving a single fuck about any of this.

“Babe!” Vox purred, voice dipping into that showy, sultry growl. “I’m so glad you could make it tonight.” He attempted the ‘fuck me’ eyes.

You weren’t sure if you wanted to climb him or strangle him. 

Probably both.

You opened your mouth, ready to say something—anything—but your brain stalled out. Vox. Your sweet, glitchy, needy Vox. The man who begged for your attention like it powered his circuits. The man who carried you to bed half the time because he “missed the weight of you.” That Vox.

He broke the one fucking boundary you refused to bend on.

Your eyes snapped to the deer demon—Alastor, Allie, whatever—and then back to Vox, disbelief crackling under your skin.

Vox’s eyes widened. A digital bead of sweat blinked into existence on his screen before he swiped it away like a pop-up ad. He guffawed, far too loud, waving a hand toward Alastor.

“Oh, this fucker? Don’t mind him, honey. He’s nothing.”

He plastered on that goofy, lopsided grin. The one that normally melted you into a puddle.

Tonight, you wanted to punt his head across the room.

You inhaled deep, thinking be the bigger demon.

Then you remembered you were in Hell.

Fuck being the bigger demon.

“Vooox…” You flashed him a wide, sharp-toothed grin, the kind that promised violence and affection in equal measure. “Do you remember my one…” You took a slow, predatory step forward. “Teensy…” Tilt of the head, grin never slipping. “Weensy…” Another step. You lifted your leg, planting your foot on the edge of the mattress, leaning over him like a shadow. “Rule?”

He let out the most pitiful, nervous laugh. “W-well, I mean—you know—it’s—” His whole face lit cyan, a buzzing blush crawling across the pixels. His eyes darted toward Alastor, who was giggling behind his gag, giving Vox a look that screamed pathetic.

Instant. Vox’s antennae crackled with blue sparks.

He snapped his head back toward you, baring his teeth. “Bitch, I called you for a fuck, and you will—”

You shoved him flat onto the bed so fast even Alastor stopped laughing.

Your grin stretched wider. Your eyes sharpened. Your claws lengthened with a delicious prickling sensation as you wrapped them around Vox’s arms, pinning him easily.

“What was that, sweetie?” Your voice dripped with sugar and threat.

“Ah… well—” His blush deepened, pixels swirling, his screen glitching at the edges.

“I’m such a good playmate,” you cooed, voice shifting into a syrupy baby-talk that made him swallow hard “I let you take me however you want. I let you play king of the bedroom.”

Alastor coughed, clearly enjoying the show.

“Even baby you and indulge your very obvious repressed mommy kink.”

Alastor outright snorted this time.

“I tie you up and take you like a pretty little bitch boy when you wanna lose your mind…”

You leaned in, giving him a smile so sharp it could cut glass.

“I play so well with you… provided you—”

You pressed your forehead to his, static dancing between you, lifting the fine hairs at your temples.

“Remember. One rule.”

Vox swallowed so hard you felt it through his throat. His legs shifted helplessly beneath you, and the hard line of his arousal pressed against your thigh, insistent, needy.

“N-no audience…” he whispered.

Good boy.

You sat up slowly, letting the sheet fall away, letting his cock slide deep inside you until you were seated flush against him. Vox groaned, head tipping back, and you mimicked his favourite condescending little noise.

“Ding ding ding!” you chimed, sing-song sweet. Then you leaned in, tapping his cheek like he was a toddler who finally got his shapes right. “So, what are you going to do?”

“Get him… out of… here?” Vox answered, every word cautious, slow, like he was defusing a bomb with his teeth.

You rewarded him with the softest, sweetest smile. 

“Correct! So now…?” you encouraged brightly.

Vox didn’t hesitate. His cord snapped out like a live whip, latching onto Alastor’s wheeled chair. The wheels screeched across the floor as the deer demon was dragged out, Alastor letting out a sarcastic little “weeeee” on the way.

The door slammed. Loud. Final.

Silence fell.

Then Vox gave you a shaky, deeply unconvincing smile. “I was obviously—haha—just, ya know, kidding?” His eyes flicked to the side before circling back to you with a cheeky grin. “Come on, it’s me, honey. You know, I get—haha—a bit carried away.”

“Hm.” You pretended to think about it like his piss-poor excuse carried any weight. Then you perked up. “Oh right, before I forget, Voxxy!” Your voice was bright, airy. “I got a new pet today.” You giggled softly.

His face fell into confusion. “A new—? Honey, we already have Shok.Wav, Electric, and—”

Before he could list all 1,078 of his aquatic murder-children, you materialized a thick, heavy collar in your hands. With practiced ease, you wrapped it around his neck and clicked it shut.

“He’s been a bit naughty,” you whispered, lips brushing the bezel of his screen.

Then you dragged your hips slowly down his length. His cock slid out of you inch by inch, until his cock stood upright, twitching, aching.

“W-wait. Wh-what?” Vox let out a nervous laugh, the pitch cracking.

You slid down his body, inch by inch, until his eyes had to angle down to look at you. Your pout was theatrically, devastatingly cute.

Your hand wrapped around his cock, and with your other, you traced a single index finger down the veiny underside.

“He bit me today,” you purred, lips brushing the tip before placing a soft, teasing kiss right where his foreskin met the head.

Vox sucked in a sharp breath. “Well, I—”

“He was so loud too.”

You cut him off instantly, and his mouth closed as if he was muted. 

You breathed a whisper against his tip.

“Are you a good… boy?”

The effect was immediate. His abdomen tightened. His claws dug into the sheets hard enough to tear fabric. His cock twitched violently, and a fat bead of precum swelled at the tip, trembling, on the brink of spilling.

Perfect.

“I… can be,” he growled.

Then his own boldness hit him. His eyes flew wide, and he jerked his gaze away. His screen brightened into a neon blush he couldn’t hide.

You let out a low, delighted chuckle.

Before he could scramble for another excuse, you summoned a new toy into your hand. Vox’s eyes darted back to you on instinct, away again out of embarrassment, then snapped right back in frustrated confusion.

“Oh come on, that fuckface isn’t he—”

“Ah-ah.” You held up your index finger to your lips. “Shhh.”

Like a well-trained boy who hated how well-trained he was, he instantly fell silent, his head tweaking with contained complaint.

Then he finally noticed it. The glint of the familiar blue cock ring resting in your palm.

His breath caught.

His legs opened.

No words.

Just obedience.

Like a good boy.

You slipped the ring over the base of his cock, stretching it gently around the top of his balls. The moment it settled tight, a shuddering breath punched out of him, deep from his chest.

For a few seconds, nothing filled the room but his shaky breathing and your soft, wicked giggles.

Then you sat between his legs, settling comfortably. You licked your palms slowly, deliberately, wetting each finger. A thin line of saliva stretched from your lips to your fingertip before snapping—Vox watched it like it was divine revelation. His mouth fell open, chest rising and falling in uneven, hungry pulls of air.

When your slick hand wrapped around his cock again, he jolted.

A small, needy moan escaped him before he could swallow it down.

You didn’t give him time to recover.

No mercy.

Not tonight.

Your hand worked his tip with surgical precision—circular strokes, the perfect pressure, the slow squeeze he adored. His head pressed back into the pillow, his heels digging into the mattress as he tried to ground himself. Claws tore into the bedding. A low growl vibrated up his throat, blending with a tiny, humiliating whimper.

The slick rhythm filled the room.

Wet sounds.

Skin on skin.

Your breathing and his, tangled together.

He was close.

You knew the signs.

The twitch of his cock.

The way his screen fuzzed at the edges.

The desperate, choked little sound he tried to muffle.

You targeted the sensitive head mercilessly—

And stopped right before he came.

His breath stuttered. So did yours.

His cock bobbed helplessly, dripping, trembling, precum and your spit smeared over his abdomen in glossy streaks.

“Oh fuck…” he whispered, staring up at the ceiling like it might save him.

You waited.

Patient.

Cruel.

Until his high ebbed just enough.

Then you started again.

Your hand slid along the length of him with purpose. You opened your mouth and drooled generously over the tip, bathing him in warm wetness.

“Fuck—fuck—” Vox’s voice cracked, rising louder, sharper. He barked the word out in short bursts as his abs clenched hard, hips lifting off the bed in desperate little thrusts. His screen flickered to white noise for half a second before stabilizing, eyes wild and unfocused as he looked down at you.

He was right there.

Seconds away.

And you stopped.

Again.

“Fuuuck,” Vox whined, hips jerking helplessly, cock stiff and swollen, balls pulled tight to his body. He looked ruined already. “Come on, babe, I…” He gulped so hard it clicked, and when you looked up, your gaze pinning him, he actually flinched. Your fingers curled lightly around his shaft—just enough to remind him you held every ounce of control.

“I’m…” His breath hitched as your grip tightened.

Tighter.

And tighter.

“Yes,” you whispered, your voice soft but heavy with promise. You stroked him slowly, savouring the heat, the throbbing need, brushing your fingertips over his flared tip just to hear him whine.

“S-s-s…” He gritted his teeth like the word physically burned.

You giggled inside, but kept your hand moving steadily, matching each stroke to the frantic rhythm of his breathing.

“What is it, honey?” you purred. 

Your tongue dipped out, tracing your lower lip.

“Bark.” You wrapped your lips around the b, dragged your teeth across the k.

The room filled with thick, wet sounds. The sound of your hand gliding, his cock leaking, slick slapping growing louder, messier. His eyes squeezed shut.

He was soaring toward the edge again.

“Fuck—fuck—fuck,” he gasped, voice cracking in desperation. His cock twitched violently in your grip. His words tumbled out in frantic nonsense—“Sorry, sorry, fuck, fuckin’ damn it, fucking—”

His gaze shot between your hand and his cock, begging, pleading for mercy. Don’t stop. Not again. Please. Please—

But right before he hit the peak—

You stopped.

Your hand hovered just above his cock. Vox’s hips lurched up, chasing contact—your palm, your wrist, your shadow—anything. But the air offered him nothing. Nothing but torment.

You leaned down, hair slipping over your shoulder, brushing his thigh. His desperate and trembling cock strained against his navel.

Then you pressed the softest kiss to the head.

Barely there.

Cruel as sin.

His scent…hot, needy, unfinished, hung heavy around you.

“Maybe next time, baby,” you murmured.

Your lips curled into a wide, manic grin.

And before he could process a single pixel of betrayal, you stood, walked to the door—

And kicked the deer fuck right back inside.

The chair screeched across the floor, Alastor spinning slightly as he rolled in, still tied up, smug as ever.

“Oh my,” the demon chuckled, radio static buzzing under his words. “Who’s the bottomest bitch now, old pal?”

Vox’s strangled howl was music.

📺 Read More? 📺

[redvexillum]

wow omg all I did was say your alastor x reader story was kinda ew because you used race weird and I literally gave you, like, REAL feedback on why it sucked dude?? why you mad lol???

Let me spell this out clearly, because I’m not going to rehash any of this again a year later. I made a specific creative choice to use a specific race for the reader because the story is grounded in 1920s racist Louisiana, and that setting is what intensifies the forbidden romance. It was intentional, it was tagged, and it was explained. If you ignored it, that’s on you.

I write these stories for free. I put in the time, the energy, and the work. I tag everything so readers know exactly what they’re choosing. If you ignore those tags and then complain about the thing you were warned about, that’s not “critique," that’s entitlement and a refusal to take responsibility for your own choices.

That’s why your comment was deleted and your account was blocked. I’m not here to babysit people who can’t be bothered to read.

And you making a new account just to circle back with the same complaint? That’s embarrassing. This is my first and last response to you. You can keep making new accounts to lurk and read my work if you want, but don’t expect any niceties from me if you’re going to be dumb as fuck about it.

And let me add this, because clearly I need to say it every season: I know with the new episodes dropping, new readers will find my older work. And I’m proud of every single piece I’ve written. I choose passion and creativity over optics, trends, or what strangers think is “acceptable.” I write because I want to tell a story, not because I owe anyone a sanitized version of my own ideas.

Last year, some of you launched a hateful little campaign, flooding my inbox with anonymous vitriol and cruelty. I gave way too much grace then. I’m not doing it again.

So here’s the reminder: if you’re stupid, hateful, or acting like a nasty dick, you’re blocked. No warning. No discussion. No second chances.

I have incredible readers who understand context, respect the tags, and engage like adults. They matter. You don’t.

So take the hint and stay off my blog.

[redvexillum]

Fourteenth Kiss: Idolize IV

A/N: Let's crank it up a notch...

TAGS/WARNING: f!reader, disillusioned!reader, virgin!reader, obsessed!reader, psychological, dark, narcissistic!vox, vox and val dynamic, human!vox, quick oral s⭐︎x, this is still a New Year Kiss

<- PREV || TABLE OF CONTENT

It was six minutes and thirty-two seconds long.

Just over six minutes, yet it was the most important stretch of time you had ever spent in your life. When you uploaded the video to one of your fan accounts and immediately shared it through your more popular account, you watched as the algorithm caught hold like fire on dry leaves.  Shares, likes, retweets and within hours, your video spread across the platform. 

People reacted. Some praised you, calling your speech brave and heartfelt. Others tore it apart, mocked your appearance, mocked your voice, even went so far as to call you delusional. But none of it mattered. You would have stood in front of the world and burned if it meant shielding Vox from the flames. You would die for him, just to see him shine again under those stage lights, to watch him smile on camera like nothing had ever happened.

Weeks passed.

Still, no press conference. No interviews. Not a single word from Vox’s team. Yet, somehow, the storm began to die. The online rage that once felt endless began to lose momentum. People moved on, as they always did. And somewhere in the quiet that followed, support started to rise again. Loyal fans, new defenders, casual followers, more and more people stepped forward to say, maybe he wasn’t involved. 

Maybe it really was just a smear campaign.

Then, like vultures scattering from a corpse they couldn’t finish, the haters moved on to the next scandal. Another celebrity meltdown. Another viral betrayal. The online crowd always needed something to rip apart, and Vox’s name began to fade from their mouths.

His agency seized the moment. With the drama simmering into nothing, they began promoting his upcoming action film. Behind the scenes, they worked quickly, carefully, redirecting the public’s gaze to trailers, interviews, glossy posters. It was calculated. Efficient. Masterful.

And still, some hate lingered, but that was the nature of the internet. 

Loud. 

Fleeting.

Forgetful.

You thought your part was over.

That six-minute and thirty-two-second video remained etched into the void of the internet, a permanent record of your desperation, your loyalty, your love. You thought it would fade like everything else, buried under the never-ending flood of content.

Until it didn’t.

Until one night, as you were scrolling in bed with your knees hugged to your chest and your phone screen dimmed low, a new notification appeared.

A direct message.

From Vox’s PR team.

Your breath hitched. Your hands trembled. You blinked three times to make sure you were reading it right.

They said they had seen your video. They wanted to speak with you. They asked if you might be interested in… working with them.

The phone slid from your grip and hit the floor. You stared at the ceiling in stunned silence, your heart thundering like it wanted to escape your chest. Work with them? Work for Vox?

Would that mean… seeing him? Being in the same building? The same room?

It was your dream. No, it was the dream.

You didn’t even hesitate. You didn’t ask for confirmation. You didn’t think twice about the possibility of fraud. You just typed “Yes” and hit send with shaky fingers.

The next morning, you quit your job.

You walked into your office one final time in a sleek, designer suit you couldn’t afford, the neckline daringly deep, accentuating your chest just the way Vox always seemed to prefer on the women at his side. You carried yourself like someone reborn, like a character in a fantasy story who had finally been chosen by fate.

It was reckless.

It was foolish.

But you didn’t care. Maybe you had lost your mind a long time ago when he first looked at you. When he first called you pretty. When he became the centre of your world and everything else fell away.

You weren’t going to let logic ruin this.

Not now. Not when you were so close to finally be in Vox's orbit.

At exactly seven in the evening, you stood before a mansion that looked like it had been ripped from the pages of some over-the-top CEO romance novel where everything was grand, gleaming, and far too perfect to feel real. The neighbourhood was a fortress of wealth. 

When you showed the guard the message from Vox’s PR team, he didn’t even question it. One glance at the screen, a quick nod, and the gates opened with a soft mechanical hum, welcoming you into a world that didn’t feel like it should belong to you.

The driveway was lined with sleek, gleaming cars—Maseratis, Ferraris, Bentleys—all in polished, almost theatrical perfection. The soft hum of water echoed from a massive, multi-tiered fountain at the centre of the courtyard, its lights casting soft glows of pink, blue, and gold onto the white marble surrounding it. Colourful beams of light danced across the grand face of the mansion, casting playful hues on the ornate pillars and massive carved wooden doors. It looked less like a home and more like a palace posing for a magazine cover.

You felt small.

Utterly under dressed.

Your heels clicked against the stone path like a timid knock on a closed door. You stood straighter, adjusting your neckline just slightly, trying to remind yourself that you belonged here now. That you had been invited. That someone wanted you here.

No one else seemed to notice.

People flowed past you in glimmering gowns and crisp designer suits. Laughter rang out from behind champagne glasses. And then, as if the moment were scripted to humble you, a tall woman in a sparkling silver dress—barely there at all, her breasts pushed up high and her backside practically on display—swept by and dropped her Louis Vuitton jacket on your arms without so much as a word.

“Hang that up, will you?” she tossed over her shoulder, not bothering to look back.

You stared down at the jacket. It smelled of expensive perfume and ego. You stood frozen for a moment, unsure whether to laugh or cry. You weren’t technically staff, but considering you had never actually asked what your position was supposed to be, you couldn’t say she was entirely wrong.

For thirty uncomfortable minutes, you wandered through the mansion, clutching the overpriced coat in your arms like it was some sacred relic. You tried to find a guest closet or coat check, only to be ignored or brushed aside by people who didn’t even see you. The jacket alone probably cost more than your entire apartment’s worth. You held it like it might shatter if dropped.

And then a voice pierced through the haze.

“Hey, you're that chick who practically worships Vox.”

You turned sharply, your heart leaping into your throat. The voice was playful, a little amused, but not exactly kind.

She was shorter than you, but somehow had more presence than anyone else in the room. Her black hair was streaked with bright pink, and though she wore it differently now, you recognized her instantly. Velvette. She was the one who ushered you out after your fateful VIP meet and greet with Vox. You had studied her face in videos, in paparazzi shots, in old campaign footage. She worked on Vox’s social media team. She was always around him. Always close.

“H-hello,” you stammered, your voice embarrassingly small.

No amount of expensive makeup or brand-name clothes could disguise how deeply insecure you felt. You wrapped your arms tighter around the coat, as if it could shield you from her eyes.

Velvette held up a single finger without a word, signalling you to wait. She began tapping rapidly on her phone, her long nails clicking rhythmically over the screen. The beat of the music thudded faintly through the floor beneath your shoes, making everything vibrate slightly as you stood there in limbo.

Finally, she looked up and gave a small nod.

“Okay, come with me.”

You hesitated and looked down at the jacket.

“What about the co—”

“Oh, just drop it on the floor,” she interrupted, wrinkling her nose. “That thing's so last year it might as well be vintage garbage.”

You blinked. She was serious.

With a moment’s hesitation and a quiet apology that no one would hear, you gently lowered the coat to the ground and hurried after her.

Velvette moved fast. Her short frame cut through the crowd with sharp purpose. Her outfit screamed confidence with her black and dark pink in a gothic, high-fashion blend, with layered textures and bold lines. The dark lace of her dress hugged her frame, while the high collar and chains around her neck gave her the look of someone who lived in both a runway and a dungeon. Her black pumps clicked against the marble like clock hands counting down.

You struggled to keep up, trying not to gawk at the beauty of the mansion, at the priceless art lining the halls, at the smell of champagne and roses and something faintly metallic in the air. You felt like you were walking through someone else’s life. A dream. A hallucination. Something that didn’t belong to you.

And yet, here you were. Following Velvette.

Into whatever this was.

You picked up your pace, nearly jogging to keep up as Velvette slipped effortlessly through the crowd. The air thickened around you the deeper you went. Bodies pulsed to the heavy bass, grinding together like molten wax. Expensive liquor sloshed in crystal glasses, some spilling down necks and cleavage. The scent of smoke clung to everything, mingling with the harsh bite of skunk and the dizzying swirl of clashing perfumes and colognes. Laser lights sliced through the dark like electric whips, bathing faces in fleeting colour.

Your heels clicked across marble, muffled by the low thrum of music and laughter. Velvet curtains swayed as you passed, and the world around you began to blur into a decadent fever dream of sweat, gold, and seduction. A bubble machine hissed somewhere above, filling the air with glistening orbs that caught the light like tiny, trembling stars.

She led you away from it all. Down a long hallway, past rooms filled with laughter and moans. Up two flights of stairs, then another. The third floor was quieter, more private. The music became a low thud in the walls. At the very back of the hall stood a double door, tall and imposing, the handles shaped like gilded rings.

Velvette stopped in front of them. She didn’t look up from her phone.

“Alright. You can go in,” she said flatly. “He’ll fill you in on the rest.” And then she was gone. Just like that.

You stared after her, stunned by how quickly you had been dropped into something you didn’t understand. No explanation. No warning. No time to prepare.

Swallowing hard, you turned back to the doors. Your fingers trembled as you reached for the ring. This was real. It was happening. Another chance to see Vox. Another moment that felt too surreal to belong to your life.

You pushed the door open slowly.

And almost screamed.

Your breath hitched, and your heart slammed into your ribs. The scene in front of you was drenched in dim amber light, the kind that softened edges and deepened shadows. On the massive bed draped in black silk, Vox sat with his legs spread wide. His white button-down shirt hung open on his chest, revealing skin that gleamed faintly in the haze. 

But that wasn’t what made you cry out.

It was the man between his thighs. Valentino. The same man from the photo. The one the media couldn’t stop talking about. The one whispered about in scandalous tones, with stories soaked in blood and sin. And there he was, on his knees, his braids brushing against Vox’s skin, lips wrapped tightly around his cock, moving with slow, obscene devotion.

You froze.

Your mind shattered into fragments, none of them forming a coherent thought. All you could hear was the wet, rhythmic sound of lips sliding and sucking. You couldn’t move. You couldn’t breathe.

You should have left. Closed the door. Pretended you had seen nothing. But you stood there, rooted to the spot, caught between shame and arousal, horror and awe.

Valentino didn’t stop.

He turned, mouth glistening, lips red and swollen, and flashed you a wicked, knowing grin.

“Oh, we meet again, señorita,” he purred, his voice low and velvety.

Your stomach twisted, a strange thrill running up your spine like ice melting into fire.

Vox lifted his head slowly, his gaze heavy-lidded, pupils so wide the blue of his eyes was nearly gone. He looked at you with a kind of interest that wasn’t human, deliberate and predatory, like a lion watching a trembling mouse wander too close to its cage.

The corners of his mouth lifted into a faint, elegant smile, one that promised nothing and revealed even less.

He said nothing.

And in that silence, your heartbeat was the only sound that existed.

Next ->

Read More Vox x Reader Stories?

[redvexillum]

Vexi's generational crash out from S2E08 in 3...2...1...

WHY TF IS VOX SUCH A GOD DAMN FUCKING, PATHETIC, WHINY-ASS, CUCK-ABLE, LAME-FUCK LOSER????

This is not a pissing contest between Alastor and Vox, and it never has been. The truth, the uncomfortable and undeniable truth, is that both men are monstrous.

Strip away the aesthetics, the fandom loyalties, the memes, and the moral gymnastics people perform trying to defend their favourite ...murderer. What remains is simple: they are serial killers who basked in the thrill of domination and the power of taking a life. No matter how charming the veneer, no matter how theatrical the presentation, they are selfish, sadistic, abhorrent creatures who deserve every inch of Hell they occupy.

And the irony, the goddamn exquisite, poetic irony is that each of them hurls accusations at the other like stones, never noticing that their hands are coated in the same blood. Every insult they weaponize is merely a reflection of themselves. Two mirrors endlessly reflecting the same hypocrisy. Two predators snarling at the other’s fangs.

Now that the rabid Alastor and Vox Defenders have slammed this post shut and blocked me, are y'all ready?

Let’s talk honestly.

Vivziepop committed one of the oldest sins in storytelling, fucking laying down rich, religiously charged foreshadowing only to retreat, to shrink it into something smaller, flatter, safer. We were handed a televangelist aesthetic, gospel motifs, cultish undertones, explicit verbal hints at a religious figure...and then, suddenly, Vox’s backstory snapped into something far more mundane: a petty, furious local weatherman scrambling up the entertainment ladder through murder, then inflating his own fame into a cult.

Is it disappointing?

Of course it is (for me that is).

You can defend it by arguing that Vox exists as Alastor’s foil, that the writers wanted a parallel predator to elevate the Radio Demon by comparison. Humanity draws comfort from comparison; it’s our default setting. Who’s stronger? Who’s smarter? Who’s the real “apex”? And so the audience begins dissecting Vox’s faults, his mimicry, his desperation, his crumbling sense of self.

The most tragic part? That obsessive comparison mirrors Vox’s entire psyche.

Because Vox’s identity is constructed out of other people’s gaze. Their opinions are his oxygen. Even as a severed head, powerless and bodyless, his final obsession is not survival, not revenge, not legacy.

It’s his approval rating.

He is, at his core, a heartbreakingly tragic figure. I am NOT sympathetic to him or saying he deserves the kiddy gloves, but you can still recognize tragedy for what it is, and here's why:

A modern Icarus, except instead of flying too close to the sun, he electrocuted and crushed himself beneath a gaudy chandelier of 1950's style televisions, dangling by loose wires like a shrine to his own hubris. He literally died beneath the weight of his own performance.

Alastor described him best: You'll never fill your cup! You're broken from the start, no victory will ever be enough.

And that is Vox’s truth.

His goalpost shifts endlessly because external validation is a horizon. Always visible, never reachable. If your entire sense of worth depends on strangers, then you stop being a ruler. You become ruled. Vox does not command obedience; he is enslaved to perception. He is shackled to the ever-fickle audience he claims to dominate.

He fixates on sharks, on apex predators, on dominance, but Vox has never been the shark. He is the remora clinging to the belly of something stronger. His ferocity is borrowed. His confidence is copied. His entire persona is derivative...aggressively so.

His heterochromia is perhaps the most striking metaphor in the show. Two eyes, two selves, two contradictory identities. The blue eye, used for hypnosis, manipulation, illusion, performance. And it is that very eye that wells with tears when Alastor first rejects him.

But in the end...when everything collapses, when pride and panic collide, he cries from the other eye. The "human" eye. The one, that I argue, that is supposed to represent the humanity within him under the taint and rot.

Because in that moment, Vox isn’t an overlord.

He isn’t a god of media.

He isn’t even a demon.

He is Vincent.

In his final scene, Vox claims he cares about no one. He says it with the confidence of a man reciting a script he has forced himself to memorize. Yet he smiles while he cries. He does not even notice he is doing both at once. That is the giveaway. Not in the words he speaks, but in the fracture between expression and emotion.

He has lied so long and so convincingly, even to himself, that he can no longer distinguish performance from truth.

He tried so desperately to become the monster he idolized. Cold, calculating, untouchable. He wanted to be Alastor’s opposite. A creature without softness. A mind without fear. A being without human weakness. A ruthless overlord sculpted from control and cruelty.

But humans, even in their damned forms, are far too multifaceted to be flattened into a single identity.

And Vox was human once.

We saw glimpses of that in the relationship he formed with Valentino and Velvette. Leisure time. Shared jokes. Shared rage. Shared intimacy. He slept with Valentino. He depended on them, emotionally and professionally. He trusted them with his vulnerabilities. You cannot spend several decades in that proximity and feel nothing. You cannot laugh with people, confide in them, rage alongside them, and remain untouched.

So when Vox insists he never cared, he lies.

When he smiles through tears, he reveals his truth.

He cared.

He cared more than he ever wanted to.

And caring, to him, felt like weakness.

It felt like something Alastor would sneer at.

So he tried to kill that part of himself.

He tried to perform monstrosity with the precision of a man terrified of being seen.

Everything about him is a performance.

Everything about him is a lie designed to hide his own humanity.

A lie designed to hide Vincent.

His final emotional collapse reflects that inner war. The part of him that wanted to be feared fighting against the part that still felt. The part of him that wanted to be a monster fighting against the man who never stopped craving connection.

His song Brighter remains his soul stripped bare.

A confession disguised as an anthem.

A desperate plea hidden beneath synthesizers.

A man clawing for validation because he never learned to give any to himself.

His final form as a virus is the perfect symbol. A virus cannot exist without a host. It has no self. No shape. No identity. It survives by attaching itself to stronger organisms, draining them, imitating them, depending on them.

That is Vox.

A remora.

A parasite.

A collage of other people’s power.

And yet beneath all of that, beneath the neon shine and electronic bravado, beneath the cruelty and ego and performance, is something painfully human.

A lonely man who wanted to be loved.

A frightened man who wanted to be admired.

A broken man who wanted to be more than the world told him he was.

A liar who tried to become a monster in order to escape the pain of being himself.

In the end, his tragedy is not his cruelty.

Not his murders.

Not his hunger for dominance.

His tragedy is the simple, devastating truth that he could never fill the void inside him because he shattered the vessel meant to hold it.

He will never feel whole.

He will never feel loved.

He will never stop lying to himself.

This fitting punishment is crafted for a man who can never stop running toward a horizon that will never let him arrive.

....how the fuck did my rant turn into a character study...tf?

[redvexillum]

✦⁺₊✩☽⋆𝓢𝓮𝓷𝓭 𝓝𝓾𝓭𝓮𝓼⋆☾✩⁺₊✦

CW: f!reader, Vox's POV, boss/employee dynamic, unsolicited 🍆 pics, reader is a lil shit, teasing, blowjob, vox being slightly insecure, @peach-flavored-flambe brain infected mine and gave birth to this and it won't go back in so now it's out, fluff (?), attempt at humour

Vox sends you a dick pic (that he totally didn't spend all morning working on) and waits for you to shower him with grandiose praise, except you had other plans instead. (vox x reader)

Vox bounced his leg so hard the floor practically vibrated, his eyes snapping between his phone and the live feed on his monitor. The camera was aimed at his not-crush...

...okay, fine, his crush. His very real, very inconvenient crush.

It had all started… innocently-ish.

You, bright-eyed, soft-voiced, stupidly earnest about learning “how his operation works.” You had smiled at him—actually smiled—and laughed at his jokes like he wasn’t the most dangerous man in the room. Then came those tiny touches: your fingers brushing his arm, your hand lingering at his wrist when he passed you a file.

And suddenly Vox was here, sweating over his phone like a teenager with a Wi-Fi addiction.

He had followed Valentino’s advice.

Which was, in hindsight, his first mistake.

“Mi corazón,” Val had purred, “if you wanna bed a bitch, you gotta show her what you’re packin’.”

So Vox did exactly that.

Which was mistake number two.

After hours of morning prep and precisely 78,564 practice shots of his dick—from every angle, lighting, and level of enthusiasm—he finally chose the best one. He would’ve asked Velvette, but the moment he tried, she gagged so hard she threw a hardcover book at his face.

He wanted a woman’s opinion.

But apparently not. 

Rude.

Still, he trusted his gut.

And his gut said: Damn, I look good.

Valentino had warned him that cameras make dicks look smaller—“angles are everything, cariño”—so Vox picked the image that captured the full heroic scale of his situation.

Then he sent it.

With a smirk emoji.

And an invitation to his penthouse.

Smooth. Elegant. Fucking seductive.

And it remained… unseen.

At first, he thought maybe the network was down.

Totally normal.

So he sent more.

And more.

And after the 87th picture, still nothing.

By then, Vox was moments away from hunting you down and shoving his phone in your face like, “HELLO?! A RESPONSE WOULD BE GREAT.”

He kept checking the screen every thirty seconds, his irritation rising like a stock graph on steroids—

Then.

“Seen.”

His spine shot straight. He clutched his phone so hard it squeaked. He pressed the screen to his face like he could absorb your attention through sheer desperation.

A minute passed.

Then another.

Those cursed three dots never appeared.

You always replied fast.

Always.

At least when he wasn’t sending you a small museum of unsolicited cock art.

He swallowed.

Maybe you were busy. Maybe you didn’t actually look. Maybe you just didn’t notice the size, which was frankly a tragedy, because it was right there. 

Yeah. That had to be it.

So Vox forced himself back to work—expanding influence, making plans, controlling empires—while checking his phone every sixty seconds like a man being slowly psychologically tortured by his own thirst.

Nothing.

Nada.

Not even a goddamn eggplant + sweat emoji.

Unbelievable.

Vox’s eye twitched so hard his vision glitched.

Rejected? Him?

Him?

The most powerful, most successful, most devastatingly sexy sinner in all of Hell’s history— (Fuck Alastor, sincerely and permanently.)

A rogue spark popped off his bevel and fizzled out on his shoulder like it, too, had given up on life.

He was not disappointed.

Nope. Not even a little.

He was perfectly calm. Perfectly composed. Perfectly fine.

…Perfectly imagining you biting your lip and eyeing his crotch like a starving demon eyeing a five-star meal, because yes—it really is that big.

And you were going to react once you saw him. You had to.

After all, today’s meeting was important. The Vees. Him. You. His brilliant pitch for the new VoxTek Home Security System™ which was a top-tier, Hell-wide technological marvel that was absolutely not just a glorified spy device he planned to install in everyone’s living room.

Obviously, you were just playing hard to get. Obviously.

But then you walked in, Velvette on one side, Valentino on the other, and nearly obliterated the last functioning pixel of his sanity.

You sat down primly, like temptation incarnate dressed as a secretary: pencil skirt hugging your hips, blouse dipped into a sinful little V, clipboard balanced neatly in your lap. You were taking notes.

Actual notes. Like a professional.

Not like someone who had 87 unsolicited pictures of his dick haunting her phone's memory.

Vox tried to position himself confidently, but his eyes kept drifting toward you like he’d been factory-programmed for thirst.

Then you looked up.

Tilted your head.

Gave him the sweetest, most innocent smile imaginable.

Like you hadn’t seen his cock in widescreen, portrait mode, night mode, panoramic, fisheye, artistic shadow play and the goddamn rule of thirds.

His chest tightened.

Oh, Hell.

Could it be—

Did you not like it?

Were you… turned off?

Was he the clown in this circus?

Were the signals all in his head?

“-ox.”

Should he text you right now and claim someone hacked his phone?

Would that work?

He could blame Alastor. Everyone blames Alastor.

“Vox!”

Maybe he should wait until after the meeting, corner you somewhere private, laugh it off, pretend he wasn’t spiralling into a self-inflicted existential dick crisis—

“For the love of—VOX!”

WHACK.

A notepad slammed into his face with enough force to reboot his entire operating system.

“OW! WHAT THE HELL, VELVETTE?!” He rubbed his cheek, glaring daggers.

Velvette stood there, arms crossed, eyes sharp enough to cut through reinforced steel. “If you’re going to fuck our intern with your eyes, can you at least try not to waste my time while you do it?”

Vox sputtered. “I—I wasn’t—”

Valentino snorted, smirking as he leaned back in his chair. “Aww, Voxxy,” he crooned, voice dripping with malicious sweetness. “You still haven’t fucked your crush?”

Your pen froze mid-note.

Then Val looked directly at you, grin widening. “And sweetheart, if it ever happens—would you let me record you two?”

Vox short-circuited so violently the lights flickered.

You shook your head with a teasing smirk, like this was all some sitcom you’d already seen the punchline to.

“I think the boss is just tired,” you said lightly. “He worked so hard all morning.”

Velvette groaned dramatically. “Yeah—probably spying on that awful bobcut twink again.”

“HEY!” Vox slammed both palms onto the desk hard enough to rattle the pens.

He had spied on that stupid twink for fifteen minutes, tops.

The rest of the morning was devoted to...

Photography.

Artistic photography...

...of his dick.

“Everyone OUT,” Vox barked, flustered circuits sparking. “We’ll reconvene later. Except the intern. You. Stay.”

Velvette stood with an unimpressed hair toss. “Whatever. Make it quick. I have better things to do.”

Valentino shot Vox a wicked grin on his way out. “Save some of that pent-up energy for me tonight, Voxxy.”

Then he winked at you. “And sweetheart, if you ever get tired of working for him… you know where to find me.”

“Val, leave,” Vox snapped. “I need to talk to the intern about very important business.”

“Uh-huh,” Valentino sing-songed, dripping disbelief. “Sure, honey.”

He sashayed out with enough hip swing to violate workplace safety standards.

Then the door shut.

And Vox’s panic hit him like a collapsing signal tower.

Just him.

And you.

And the horrifying awareness that you had likely seen all 87 (read: eighty-seven!!!) pictures of his dick, and were probably silently plotting how to sell them, leak them, and ruin him forever.

Fantastic.

He inhaled deeply, forcing a painfully stiff smile. “So—”

“You know,” you interrupted, your tone shifting, warmth fading. Something darker drifting in. You glided to his desk and placed your hand on it, leaning forward until your cleavage hovered right in his line of sight. “That’s sexual harassment, sir.”

You said it in a flat, almost bored tone.

As if discussing a spreadsheet.

A sexy, devastating spreadsheet.

Vox froze.

Hot shame shot through him. His circuits buzzed, a flush of static racing up his neck.

“Wha—I— I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he muttered, crossing his arms quickly. Defensive. Tight. Transparent.

Denial.

Excuses.

Lies.

His holy trinity.

“Mhm.” You hummed, unimpressed.

Then you sat on his desk.

Just sat there, like…like it was your rightful throne or something! Your skirt sliding up, inch by scandalous inch, until he had full view of your black lace lingerie. You didn’t cover yourself. You didn’t adjust. You didn’t shy away.

Vox’s mouth went dry.

He dropped back into his chair so fast it squeaked, crossing his legs like it was a lifeline to dignity.

But you weren’t having that.

You slipped off your left heel, slow and deliberate. Then your bare foot pressed against his crotch, right against him, sending a jolt through every wire he had.

He choked on his own breath.

“A-ah—”

You smirked, your toes gently massaging the outline of him, feeling him harden under your foot. “Don’t tell me you’re shy,” you teased softly, “after sending so many pictures of your cock today…”

Your head tilted, devilish, eyes sparkling with wicked delight.

“Sir,” you whispered, the word flicking over him like a spark catching dry kindling.

He swallowed hard, his spine stiff as a rod, hands planted on his knees like he was bracing for impact. His cock strained violently against his pants, thick and heavy and begging for your touch.

“Hm,” you purred, soft and sing-song, “I think the picture made it look a lot bigger than it actually is.”

His head snapped toward you so fast a spark cracked off his cheek.

“Haha,” he forced out, stiff and brittle, then narrowed his eyes. “Excuse me?”

“Well…” You pouted sweetly, your toes gliding up the length of his clothed cock in a slow teasing sweep that made his breath catch. You dragged your foot back down, lazy and deliberate, “It just seems so much more… travel size.”

You bent forward, pausing the motion, letting the insult hang in the air like perfume.

That did it.

His pride flared hard and furious, burning away every shred of restraint.

“Oh, I’ll show you travel size.” His claws flew, unbuckling, tugging the zipper down, freeing his cock with a sharp pull. It sprang out, thick and flushed, the glowing blue tip haloed with a bead of precum that trembled on the edge.

You hummed in approval, a sound that vibrated right into the base of him.

Then you slid off the desk and lowered yourself between his legs. Your knees touched the floor. Your face hovered inches from his cock. Your breath spilled hot over him, and Vox nearly forgot how to speak.

“I need a closer look,” you murmured.

Your fingertips ghosted along the tip, smooth and curious, then traced down the centre of his shaft. Every inch you touched melted his panic, his excuses, all the frantic thoughts that had clawed at him all morning. They evaporated like static.

“Y-you’re still t-too far,” he whispered. It came out needy. A plea his pride couldn’t stop.

You looked up at him with the sultriest half-smirk he had imagined a thousand times.

“Oh?” you breathed, slow and devastating.

You shifted closer and pressed his cock against your cheek. Soft skin to hot flesh.

“How about now?” you teased, giving him a wicked, playful grin.

He exhaled sharply. The sight of you kneeling for him, holding him in your hand, touching him so lightly it hurt, made his cock throb so hard his hips jerked.

“Fuck…” he muttered, voice barely hanging on.

“Closer?” you whispered, sweet as sin.

Then your lips met him.

A soft kiss to the glowing tip.

A flick of warm tongue.

A slow drag down, down, down his shaft until you reached the base.

His breath fractured. “Fuck, fuck…”

His claws tightened in your hair, no longer resting politely on his knees. He guided you back up, desperate, pulling you where he needed you most. Toward the tip. Toward your lips.

You let him.

You opened your mouth, letting him slide in.

A guttural moan ripped from him as the heat of your tongue stroked past his sensitive ridge. He felt you gag when he hit the back of your throat, a twitch he felt all the way up his spine. Pride surged through him in a dark, intoxicating wave.

“Still think it’s small, babydoll?” he rasped.

Your eyes curved into perfect crescent moons, laughing at him even with his cock filling your mouth. Then you moved with purpose. Your fingers wrapped around his base and squeezed, firm and possessive. Your head bobbed, lips slick and hungry, spit shining his cock with every messy, wet stroke.

The room filled with the sounds of you.

Sucking.

Swallowing.

Breathing him in like he was something you needed to survive.

And Vox could only grip your hair tighter as everything inside him threatened to unravel.

“Oh… fuck,” Vox hissed, the sound raw and scraped from the bottom of his chest.

All he could do was stare.

You devoured him greedily, your mouth stretched around his cock, your lips gliding wetly down his length. Every slurp shot straight through him like electric current. His balls tightened, drawn up high, primed by the obscene sight and the louder, hungrier sounds you made each time you sank deeper.

His hips twitched upward before he could stop himself. Just tiny thrusts at first, testing how your mouth took him, how your throat fluttered around him.

Then you squeezed his tip.

Hard. Wet. Deliberate.

A low, animal sound tore out of him as his hands flew to your head, claws digging gently into your scalp. He lifted himself partly out of the chair, haunches tense, and began to fuck your mouth in earnest. His hips snapped forward in sharp, desperate motions, his cock sliding against your lips and cheeks before plunging back into heat again.

He chased his climax with reckless abandon, each thrust more frantic than the last.

You didn’t slow. You didn’t flinch. You let him take.

You gave him everything.

He didn’t last long. Not with your tongue flattened so perfectly against his shaft, not with your throat tightening around him, not with your hands holding him steady like you owned him.

A distorted groan ripped out of him, his voice glitching, breaking apart into static as his vision doubled.

Hot pulses of cum spilled into your mouth in thick, creamy waves. His entire body shuddered as his cock jolted again and again against your tongue. He groaned through it, a long, breathless exhale of pleasure as he emptied himself into you.

You swallowed every drop.

Slowly, deliberately, your lips slid off the head. His cock left your mouth with a soft, wet pop. Vox watched, dazed, as you opened your lips, showing him his own release pooled on your tongue, then closed your mouth and swallowed with a small, satisfied hum.

He nearly came again just from that.

You rose on shaky knees and sat back on his desk, your breath uneven, your cheeks flushed. Then your legs parted. Invitation written in the slow drip of slick between your thighs.

Your panties were sheer, ruined, soaked darker in the centre.

“It’s only fair I send you a picture… right, sir?” Your voice was honey-sweet, wicked at the edges.

You hooked one manicured finger beneath the elastic and slid the fabric aside, revealing the soft, glistening folds he’d only dreamed of.

Vox froze.

Every pixel of his focus locked onto you.

His eyes darkened, hunger overtaking them as he leaned forward, breath caught in his throat, ready to take in every angle you offered.

📺 Read More? 📺

[redvexillum]

✦⁺₊✩☽⋆𝓛𝓸𝓿𝓮 𝓑𝓲𝓽𝓮𝓼⋆☾✩⁺₊✦

CW: p in v, rough s⭐︎x, f!reader, marking, bondage, electro-stimulant, possessive s⭐︎x, dubious consent, choking, sub/dom elements, vox is obsessed with you, boss/employee dynamic

Vox gets possessive after a fan gets too handsy (his words). He litters your throat and chest with his marks, filming the whole thing as a reminder that you belong to him. (vox x f!reader)

You bit your lip so hard you tasted copper. Your chest rose and fell in sharp, uneven pulls as you fought for air, but the atmosphere in Vox’s room felt dense enough to drown in. Heat clung and smothered as it crawled along your skin.

You knelt at the centre of his domain, a circular shrine of screens towering around you like an audience with a thousand hungry eyes. Every angle of you was captured—your flushed face, your naked trembling body, the shameful way your thighs quivered and parted on instinct. A thin ribbon of slick warmth slid down your inner thigh, and humiliation burned through you even as your core clenched tight in desperate, helpless pulses.

Your waist, legs, and wrists were encircled by Vox's cords, which were cold, alive, and possessive. They held you open like a puppet inviting control, like you were made for his hands alone.

“Si—”

A whispering hiss cut your voice short. A black cord whipped forward and wrapped over your mouth, sealing your lips instantly. The taste of metal bled onto your tongue.

Vox stood in front of you like something carved out of fury and neon. His eyes flashed between molten red and their usual sharp pupils. Glitches stuttered along the edges of his smile, the mask of composure cracking beneath a rage that radiated off him in waves.

“Quiet,” he said, the word low and distorted. “I’m thinking.” His brow flinched, his hands curling into fists before relaxing, only to clench again. The room hummed with the sound of his temper barely restrained.

You had thought today was harmless. You really believed it.

You were his cash baby—his star, his mascot, the perfect polished face of every product he pushed. He spoiled you, protected you, worshipped the idea of you with a devotion that bordered on frightening. He hated the thought of anyone touching you, looking too long, breathing too close.

So when a crazed fan barrelled past security just to shake your hand, you froze for half a heartbeat before remembering Vox’s rule: always be the pristine, flawless brand image.

So you smiled.

You shook the fan’s hand.

That was all.

But the moment your fingers brushed theirs, Vox appeared like a burst of static. One second the fan was upright, the next their body exploded under him with blood, organs, and bone matter flung in violent arcs. The floor was painted red, your dress soaked, your face dripping. It was grotesque and sudden, like a livewire snapping.

Then his hand locked around your wrist, too tight, smile too still. He dragged you home without a word.

You always thought his jealous streaks were a bit… theatrical. A quirk. Something dramatic for the cameras.

But kneeling here now, bare, bound in cords that were part of him—breathing in his anger, his obsession, his need—

Something inside you trembled and lit up like a fuse.

The cords tightened again, deliberate and slow, and even though fear thrummed through you, a soft sound escaped your throat: a breathy, broken moan you didn’t have time to swallow.

Vox froze.

His head turned toward you with mechanical precision. Around you, every surrounding screen zoomed in with a unified click. Your parted lips, your half-lidded eyes, the faint upward curl of your mouth, the thin line of saliva sliding down from the corner of your lip.

You felt his attention like heat against your bare skin.

And your whole body shuddered under it.

Ah… shameful, embarrassing… yet—

Yet, your body trembled with something you couldn’t deny.

Your thighs quivered and tried to close, desperate to hide the slick, glistening evidence of what he was doing to you. Heat pooled low in your belly, thick and humiliating.

A sharp crack split the air. Vox appeared in front of you in a burst of static and blue light, crouched low, his face inches from yours. His eyes drilled into you, hungry and knowing. Then a slow, wicked smirk curved his lips.

“Oh,” he murmured, voice dropping into a purr. “You like this, don’t you?”

Your breath hitched. You didn’t know. You’d never explored anything like this with anyone, but you…you didn’t hateit. You didn’t hate being pinned, immobilized, your muscles straining, your body forced open by cords that felt like his hands. You didn’t hate being at his mercy.

You liked it. Your trembling gave you away.

You shouldn’t. You shouldn’t like it, but—

He waited for your response as the cords that once stole your lips fell apart. 

Instead of words, you bit your lip hard enough to sting, and your eyes suddenly burned, tears gathering from sheer humiliation. You didn’t want him to think less of you. You had already messed up today by letting a fan touch you. You could practically feel him losing more and more respect with every second.

“Oh?” Vox cooed, lips puckered in exaggerated pity. His claws traced your overheated cheek, brushing aside a strand of hair plastered to your skin. “Look at you…”

His expression snapped into restrained fury.

“I told you,” he hissed, claws sliding up your jaw, “you’re my precious merchandise. My soul to own.”

His fingers tangled in your hair and yanked you closer, your mouth inches from his.

“Mine in every fucking way.”

The tug wasn’t painful, but it was firm enough to make your breath stutter.

“S-sorry…” you whispered, the cords around you tightening in response, squeezing your breasts until your nipples reddened, peaked, begging. “I—I know. I belong to you. It… it won’t happen again.”

“You let that dipshit son of a bitch touch you,” Vox snarled, his voice fracturing into distortion, pixels flickering across his face. Then suddenly his features shifted into a wide, innocent, puppy-eyed look. “I should help you remember. Right?”

Another cord rose behind him, the pronged tip sparking with electricity.

“W-wait, si—sir, I’m s—”

Your scream cut off when the prong touched your thigh. Not the brutal jolt you expected. Not pain. It felt like a sharp, teasing bite.

And you… didn’t… hate it.

Your breath came out ragged. Tears clung to your lashes. Vox shivered, his whole body trembling with the effort to control himself. His hands settled heavy on your shoulders as he inhaled slowly, almost savouring you.

Your gaze dropped.

A thick, obvious bulge strained hard against the front of his pants.

And your stomach twisted with heat.

Heat flushed across your cheek, blooming hot and helpless. Your breath hitched as you waited, aching, for his next move.

Vox swallowed hard. His eyes narrowed as another prong slithered from behind him and snapped against your back.

A sharp yelp tore from your throat. Your spine jerked, your breath shattered.

Another prong slid forward—aimed at your stomach.

You cried out, louder this time. The sting made your nerves spark, but your cunt reacted first, pulsing, slicking, drippingdown your thighs. Pain fused with pleasure until you couldn’t tell which one you were begging for.

“Who do you belong to?” Vox whispered. His voice was low and ragged, like he was the one unravelling. His gaze burned straight between your trembling thighs.

You parted your lips to answer, but he didn’t wait. A prong struck your inner thigh, dangerously close to your swollen centre. The sound you made was half scream, half moan, filled with the raw need for relief.  For him.

Your body went slack. Your knees fell open in instinctive surrender. The cords loosened just enough for you to sag backward, legs spread wide, pussy exposed and glistening under the lights.

A zipper rasped behind your ear.

Then the hot, throbbing head of his cock pressed against your drenched entrance.

“Mmh…” A delirious smile tugged at your lips. Your mind floated on a pleasure-drenched haze. One of the screens beside you zoomed in on your face: your dazed eyes, your flushed cheeks, your drooling mouth. The image reminded you of the porn vids plastered across Hell. Sinners getting fucked senseless. Used. Taken apart.

Slowly, torturously, Vox pushed in. The bulbous head of his cock stretched you open, filling you inch by inch.

“Well?” Vox barked. His voice snapped sharply through the fog. Your head lolled, your vision fuzzing around the edges.

What was he asking again?

He clicked his tongue.

Claws dug into your hips. Electricity shot through you with an intense, searing burst racing up your spine, exploding behind your eyes, then pooling molten heat at your core.

You sobbed. You moaned. You laughed breathlessly through the overload. Drool continuously spilled from your lips as your whole body trembled.

Vox hissed as your walls clamped around him, sucking him deeper, greedily pulling him closer to your centre.

“More… more… more…” you cried, limbs useless in their bindings, your body loose and eager, your thighs spreading wider as if to beg him in.

Vox gave a small, disbelieving noise before laughing with a full-bodied, manic, delighted. His eyes flickered between the red spiralling distortion and their usual shape.

“Don’t tell me,” he grunted, then snapped his hips forward. The wet smack of skin meeting skin echoed through the room. “You’re thinking of a career change as a whore.”

His words slid off you like oil, barely sinking in as another wave of pleasure shot up your spine and bloomed behind your eyes. Your toes curled. Your throat worked around broken little sobs. The wet, messy rhythm of your bodies meeting filled the room, every thrust a squelching reminder of how deeply he owned you.

Cords slithered back over your skin, hungry, claiming. One coiled around your throat.

With a sharp snap of his hips, the cord tightened.

Your breath vanished. Heat flared in your skull. Pleasure rushed in like a flood—dizzying, intoxicating, a heady swirl that dragged you to the razor edge of bliss. Your vision flickered, white and hot.

Vox’s hips struck your clit with punishing accuracy each time he drove into you. Your eyes rolled back. Your world narrowed to the pounding pulse between your legs…until suddenly the cord loosened and air crashed back into your lungs.

You gasped. You jerked. Every nerve lit up at once.

Before you could steady yourself, another prong rose and pressed against your skin—your ribs, your hip, the soft underside of your breast. Each zap was a teasing bite, sharp and crackling, but not painful. Just enough to make your muscles twitch and your cunt clench around him.

“You’re going to take your punishment like a good girl,” Vox growled. His voice shook with pleasure, hips driving into you without pause. “You’re going to remember your place.”

His words melted into the background as your moans overtook everything. Every zap, every thrust was like a slap directly to your clit, your nerves winding tighter and tighter.

You could feel it building. Crawling up your spine. Curling low in your belly. Reaching—

“Yes… yes… yes…” you babbled, unable to hold anything back. “Close—so close—”

Then you felt the point of his claw press directly to your clit.

The zap hit.

You screamed.

Your body convulsed as pleasure tore through you so powerfully it bordered on pain. Your thighs tried to fight against the restraints. Your stomach clenched. A hot gush spilled out between your legs, soaking your thighs and Vox’s pelvis. Your world shattered into white heat and static.

You didn’t know how long you drifted in that aftermath. 

A second. A minute. A lifetime.

When your mind finally rebooted, your cheek rested on Vox’s chest. His blue suit jacket draped carefully over your shoulders. His fingers stroked your back with surprising gentleness.

“… Sir?” you whispered.

He looked down at you. No smile. Just a quiet, unreadable frown. His eyes searched your face, lingering on the marks covering your skin.

You followed his gaze and gasped softly.

Your body was covered in blooming reds and purples. Rows of tender little lightning kisses from every prong that had touched you. Your fingertips traced them with awe, shivering at their sensitivity. When you shifted your legs, you felt the sticky warmth of his release smeared along your inner thighs.

“I belong to you,” you murmured. The truth of it settled warm in your chest. You lifted your head. Around you, cameras watched from every angle, the monitors displaying you—flushed, marked, dripping.

Smiling.

You pushed yourself to hands and knees, crawling toward him, your body pliant and aching and his.

You lifted your face, eyes shining as you looked up at him.

“Right?”

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[redvexillum]

✦⁺₊✩☽⋆𝓟𝓻𝓪𝓲𝓼𝓮 𝓜𝓮 // 𝓣𝓮𝓪𝓼𝓮 𝓜𝓮⋆☾✩⁺₊✦

CW: p in v, f!reader, teasing, reader is a lil shit, quick smut (literally, which is the irony of it all), h/c btwn me and @peach-flavored-flambe created this.... thing

You find Vox's insecurity amusing, until you realize how desperate he is for your approval. So you give it... in the most overwhelming, exaggeratingly sweet way possible. (vox x f!reader)

There was this grandeur Vox carried like it was tailored for him, a custom-fit ego with a satin lining. He didn’t just walk into a room; he broadcasted into it. Always larger than life. Larger than God. Larger than whatever poor bastard had to stand next to him.

“Baby, I’m really busy right now,” he said, giving you that signature smile—the one that squinted his eyes just enough to pretend remorse. A smile that said: I am absolutely lying to you, but look how pretty my face is while I do it.

He was an asshole. Albeit, a hot one.

“But maybe if I have some time…” His brows wiggled like they were auditioning for a porn. The silence after was obscene enough to be censored.

He did his usual preening routine: straightened his clip-on bowtie like it was worth more than your rent, lifted that flat-screen head of his a notch too high, squared his shoulders like he was about to walk onstage and accept an award for “Most Insufferably Dramatic Sinner of the Year.”

You knew he liked control. Thrived on it. Worshipped it. And fine—you’d played along before. You knew the game.

But the whole “catch me if you can, darling” routine? Being summoned and dismissed like you were one of his remote-controlled appliances?

Yeah. That was getting old. Very, very fucking fast.

“Oh, no, of course, honey,” you crooned, coating your voice in saccharine sweetness thick enough to rot teeth. You prowled closer…slow, deliberate, predatory.

Your arms draped over his shoulders like warm honey. Your lips hovered inches from the glossy surface of his screen, a smile sugared and poisonous. “I know how important you are. How busy you are,” you whispered, letting your breath ghost across his pixels.

A little tease, just enough to remind him he wasn’t the only one who could play power games. Then you’d let him run off to climb whatever metaphorical ladder he was on today. The man changed obsessions more than channels.

His screen flickered, just the tiniest glitch. A hum vibrated through him, and a band of pale cyan smeared across the middle of his face like a blush only he could make.

He cleared his throat, grin stretching wider, laughter bubbling out. “Of course, sweetheart. It’s me we’re talking about!”

You barely resisted rolling your eyes so hard your skull cracked. God, his ego could have its own ZIP code.

But he was so damn fucking fun to poke.

A shiver skated down your spine as mischief curled your lips.

“Everyone always watches you,” you purred, puckering your lips into a kitten-sweet smile as you traced a lazy line along the bezel of his screen.

Your body pressed flush to his; a little jolt of static jumped between you, sharp and intimate.

“Everyone wants the great, powerful Vox…” you drawled, letting your fingers slowly drift up the length of his antenna.

He shuddered.

And oh, you felt it.

“W-what game are you playing?” Vox shivered under your touch, suspicion crawling through his circuits like a software update he didn’t approve.

Fair. You seldom laid the praise on thick unless you were trying to dismantle him from the inside out.

“What?” You gasped, all mock innocence. “I can’t compliment you? Can’t praise your incredible business prowess…”

You circled him slowly, like a predator doing laps around its favourite snack, until your chest pressed flush against his. Your face hovered inches from his screen. His eyes widened, pixels flickering.

“…and in bed?” You let each word drip off your tongue like you were licking honey off your lips.

He swallowed hard. And there it was: the very noticeable, very flattering evidence of how well this was working.

“Y-you really think so?” he stuttered—then immediately ruined the moment with a guffaw. “Didn’t you call me a boomer last ni—”

“Shhh.” Your finger pressed against his screen.

He was a boomer. A boomer with a Wi-Fi connection and a god complex. The only reason he seemed “down with the kids” was because he hired freshly-dead interns to teach him slang, like some kind of demonic youth pastor.

“No one can match your skills,” you murmured. “Your power. Your…” You paused, remembering—painfully—the time he tried to win over Carmilla by serenading her in Spanish that sounded like Google Translate having its own existential mental breakdown. “…ingenuity.”

Barely, baaaarely hiding the hesitation.

“Y-yea, that’s right, I’m pretty fucking amazing,” Vox said, ego inflating like a parade balloon. His claws tightened on your hips, grinding you closer to that growing pressure between his legs.

Sharp, wicked, and hungry, you smiled.

“Are you gonna let me feel just how amazing your cock is?”

And there it was.

Your drug.

The thing you were addicted to: the antenna wiggle.

The tips twitched, then lit up—an embarrassing but adorable little spark of electricity that bloomed into a heart shape.

His lips trembled. His voice scrambled.

“I—you think—I mean—haha—uh—” His eyes flicked side to side like he was buffering.

You rarely complimented his bedroom skills.

Honestly, you usually gave them Yelp reviews with a two-star rating and a warning.

But on the rare occasions you praised him?

He melted.

Fully.

Instantly.

Like warm butter on a hot skillet.

“Oh yes,” you crooned, leaning in. “You make me lose my mind with the masterful way you use your cock. Honestly? You could take over the entire porn industry from Val purely on skill alone.”

And that did it.

Brain? Short-circuited.

Sense? Deleted.

Pride? Overclocked.

With zero warning, Vox shoved you down to the floor.

His arms bracketed your head, legs caging your body. His teeth bit into his lip. His eyes glitched as little pixelated hearts bloomed in the pupils before snapping back to normal.

Oh, he was gone.

Absolutely. Completely. Deliciously gone.

You fluttered your lashes in the fakest damsel act known to Hell. “Make me cry, you absolute stallion,” you moaned, dramatic enough to win a Sex-x-xi. You were pretty sure you lifted that exact line from Valentino’s script while editing it at three in the morning.

“Yeah, babe, I’m gonna fucking rock your world.” Vox thrust his hips forward like he was starring in an educational video titled Dominance for Beginners. His fingers fumbled with his buttons, the zipper rasped open, and then you felt the heavy weight of his cock settle between your legs like an impatient guest.

You rubbed yourself against him, shoulders shaking with the effort of holding in your laughter. He was so helplessly turned on by verbal dick-worship.

“Oh fuck, I’m gonna cum just from this, doll!”

You were fairly sure words alone were about to turn him into a fire hydrant.

“It’s so big. So hot. God, I’ve never had a cock this amazing. Is this heaven? Because all I want to do is worship you.” You bit down on your lip, fighting the snort trying to break free along with your much darker, much kinkier thrill. One Vox would never learn about.

The sight of him like this did things to you. The way he looked ready to melt, to completely break, just because his ego was being stroked so hard it was practically purring.

His breaths came rough. His hands trembled as he pinned your wrists above your head. “Yeah, yeah, I’m fucking great. I’m fucking amazing.” His cock rubbed against your soaked centre, the friction so hot you felt it down to your toes.

It was funny. It was ridiculous. It was so goddamn sexy watching him lose himself in the fantasy that he was the greatest thing Hell had ever produced, better than sliced bread, canned food, or indoor plumbing.

And you? You were no better. A freak for this. Getting wet over a man drowning in his own primal, needy delusion.

You shivered and rolled your hips, feeling every ridge of his length. The heat burned through your clothes. Precum slicked your inner thighs.

“Are you going to show me Nirvana?” Your voice dipped into that intoxicating lilt. “Are you going to wreck my cunt with your massive cock?” Your words trembled, half from laughter, half from desperate heat.

“Ha… yeah. Yeah, fuck yeah,” he grunted. His claws hooked into the waistband of your underwear, ready to rip them apart like wrapping paper. His chest heaved, breath erratic, brain clearly fried by the barrage of praise. “Gonna make you scream. Gonna make you cum so hard. Fuck!”

“Oh, Vox… you feel so good.”

Your cunt clenched at the sight of his crooked, half-malfunctioning smile. He looked wrecked by validation, unable to process praise even though it was so obviously exaggerated. You hooked your legs around his hips. He still couldn’t enter you, but he could feel everything. Every wet fold. Every slow, needy grind of your hips up and down his shaft.

And God, he twitched like he might cum from that alone.

“Vox, baby,” you whispered. Your gaze stayed locked onto his face, the real reason you could never quite quit him. He was such an open book, every emotion plastered across his screen like a neon sign having a feelings crisis. “You’re amazing, and I…”

Your eyes caught his. It was ridiculous how this man could command an entire audience with a single glance yet here he stood, looking at you like you were the one who had him hooked.

“Love…”

You let the word roll slowly, sweetly, wrapping itself around his breath. He froze. Waiting. Wanting. Desperate for that last word, he always begged for without knowing he was begging. He lived off adoration like it was oxygen.

“You.”

You breathed it out like a secret.

His whole face twisted. His mouth stretched open. A sharp, broken laugh burst from him as he slammed his cock into your soaking cunt in one harsh thrust. And in that single stroke, you felt him cum. Hard. Fast. Immediate.

Pathetic. God, so pathetic, sweet little Voxxy.

Your laughter rang silently in your head as you ground your clit against his pubic bone, using his oversensitive cock for your pleasure. His moans cracked in digital static as your walls clenched around him.

You grabbed the edge of his screen, pulling him closer, drinking in the fucked-out ecstasy painted across his face. It only pushed you further. You chased your high until it broke through you, your moan vibrating against his mouth as you came on his softening cock.

Heat lingered between you as you collapsed on his chest. He lay sprawled on his back, panting like he’d just run a marathon he was wildly unprepared for. Then he looked at you and gave the goofiest, proudest smile known to Hell.

“Fuck… I’m a good lay, aren’t I?”

You closed your eyes, then cracked one open at him. “Meh.”

His brows snapped down in a sharp little glare before drooping into a pout. “I am a good lay. Stop playing hard to get.”

You pushed yourself up slowly, bracketing his body with your arms. Your hair fell around his face, a dark curtain he was helplessly framed in. He would never understand how much teasing him turned you on. How he lit you up every time he reacted without thinking, all raw, and earnest beneath the swagger.

“You are,” you whispered. “I always finish with you and...I'm always satisfied.”

A shiver climbed your spine as Vox glitched, pixels shimmering. Then he beamed. Big. Loud. Stupidly proud of himself.

And you loved that expression.

The honest one he never realized he showed you.

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[peach-flavored-flambe]

[redvexillum]

Fourteenth Kiss: Idolize III

A/N: Listen. Sometimes, obsession unconditional love can be beautiful...?

TAGS/WARNING: f!reader, disillusioned!reader, virgin!reader, obsessed!reader, psychological, dark, narcissistic!vox, vox and val dynamic, human!vox, this is still a New Year Kiss

<- PREV || TABLE OF CONTENT

“You've got pretty eyes, doll…”

That single phrase echoed in your mind for weeks. It clung to your thoughts like perfume on skin, sweet and intoxicating. You heard his voice when you closed your eyes. It haunted your dreams, turning sleep into a feverish swirl of velvet words and piercing blue eyes. But it didn’t stop when the sun came up. His voice began to bleed into your waking hours, lingering in the silence between conversations, murmuring in the spaces between breaths.

The night after you met him, you couldn't stop touching yourself. Every shiver, every gasp was coloured by his voice, his face, the way he had smiled at you like you were something precious. You cried out his name again and again, your fingers relentless, your thighs slick and trembling as waves of pleasure crashed over you. The sheets stuck to your skin, damp with sweat and your own desire, and still, you weren't satisfied. 

You wanted more. 

You needed more.

That night changed everything.

Something inside you shifted. A boundary that once separated fantasy from obsession crumbled, and you let it fall without protest. The memory of him—brief, fleeting—grew wild in your mind, blooming like ivy through every crack of your logic, wrapping itself around your thoughts until you could barely remember what it felt like not to crave him.

You started to reshape the memory. 

Maybe there was more heat in his gaze than you remembered. Maybe the way he said “doll” was intimate, meant only for you. Maybe there was a hidden message, something special and private in his words that no one else would understand.

You clung to that belief like a lifeline.

Every day, your hunger for him deepened. You scrolled endlessly through social media, devouring every scrap of news and rumour about him. The tabloids became your gospel. 

If anyone dared to insult him, to question his talent or his character, you responded with fury. You launched into verbal wars online, shaming and threatening strangers who dared speak ill of him. You reported them, harassed them, made burner accounts just to keep attacking when you were blocked. No one was allowed to disrespect Vox. Not on your watch.

The more vivid your fantasies became, the more creative your obsession grew. You began writing stories—long, sprawling fanfics soaked in desire. Vox would take you in every way imaginable, whisper every dirty thought in that deep, smooth voice. You poured yourself into your writing, bleeding out your fantasies onto the page. But people still wanted more.

“Too tame,” they’d say.

“Needs to be filthier. Rougher. He’s not sweet, he’s a beast.”

You blocked them. Every last one. They didn’t understand. They didn’t see what you saw.

You started making fan accounts. Dozens of them. Some posted edits of his performances, others focused on his modelling work or interviews. You clipped audio from his speeches and layered it over soft music, crafting video tributes that left people breathless. One account gained traction, then went viral. Suddenly, you weren’t alone. You were surrounded by others who worshipped him the way you did. They praised your devotion, celebrated your edits, and validated your love.

Sometimes, on one of your vial posts, one of Vox’s verified accounts, probably managed by some soulless PR assistant, would share your content. A generic message would follow: “Thank you for supporting me! I love my fans!”

You knew it wasn’t him. Of course, you knew. But just for a moment, you let yourself pretend. You imagined him watching the video, seeing your username, wondering about the girl behind the screen. You let yourself believe that maybe, just maybe, he remembered you. That maybe he had meant what he said when he called you pretty.

You began to analyze his lovers, every man and woman photographed by his side. You studied the curve of their smiles, the cut of their clothes, the cadence of their voices. You tore them apart in your mind, dissecting their appeal, trying to find their secrets. What did Vox see in them? 

What made them special?

You changed yourself. You pushed your body to its limit, exercising until your muscles ached and your lungs burned. You spent money you didn’t have on designer clothes, perfume, skincare routines, and fad diets that tasted like chalk and made your stomach twist in knots. But if it made your waist smaller, it was worth it.

Your contact lenses made your eyes burn slightly from staring at the screen too long, but you never wore glasses anymore. Vox had told you that your eyes were beautiful. You weren’t about to hide them.

You were going to become the kind of woman who belonged by his side. No, not just belonged. 

Deserved to be there.

You never missed a show. Not a single one. It didn’t matter if you had to take unpaid leave, max out credit cards, or skip meals. You found ways to make it work. You worked overtime, picked up extra shifts, anything to keep the money flowing.

Eventually, even that wasn’t enough.

So, you joined OnlyFans.

You didn’t show your face, but you showed enough. Soft skin, round curves, a hint of lace, the shape of your ass reflected in a mirror. It wasn’t glamorous. It didn’t feel good. But it brought in cash, sometimes hundreds of dollars at a time.

And you funnelled every cent into your obsession.

Because it was for him.

Everything you did. Every choice, every sacrifice, every secret sin. 

It was all for Vox.

“Hey,” a voice called out.

You blinked, startled from your rhythm as your fingers hovered above the keyboard. A man stood beside your desk, a coworker, though you couldn’t for the life of you remember his name. It didn’t matter. 

He wasn’t important.

“Hi,” you answered with polite detachment, your tone clipped.

He shifted awkwardly under your attention. His eyes flickered, then dipped to your chest. The deep V of your blouse revealed a teasing glimpse of cleavage, artfully presented with the help of a push-up bra. His Adam’s apple bobbed with a nervous swallow as he offered a sheepish smile.

“I was, uh, wondering if you were doing anything after work,” he said, voice cracking slightly. “I thought maybe we could grab a coffee or something.”

You tilted your head, as if giving his offer some real thought. But your plans were already set. Vox was performing live in Australia tonight. Because of the time difference, the stream would start just before sunrise. You needed to leave work, eat a light dinner, nap early, and wake refreshed, ready to give him your full attention.

“I’ve got plans tonight,” you said with a smile that didn’t reach your eyes. “And this weekend, too,” you added quickly as his mouth opened again in protest.

His shoulders slumped, just slightly. “Oh. Okay. No worries. Maybe next time?” he asked, clinging to the hope like a lifeline.

But you had already turned back to your monitor. “Maybe,” you murmured, uninterested. 

Not unkind, just indifferent.

You didn’t ask for his name. You didn’t care. There was no space in your life for anyone who wasn’t Vox.

That was one of the things you’d come to realize. Ever since you started copying the look and posture of Vox’s companions, those perfectly curated men and women who clung to his side at parties and premieres, you noticed more people watching you. The subtle glances, the quiet compliments, the sudden interest. They used to walk past you like you didn’t exist. Now they smiled. Now they wanted something.

It was disgusting.

Where were they before? When you wore thick glasses and kept to yourself? When your hair was limp and your voice trembled from disuse? They hadn’t seen you then. But Vox did. Vox saw you at your worst, and he called you pretty. He gave you the only validation that mattered.

No one else compared.

The days melted into weeks. The weeks dissolved into months. And before you knew it, five years had passed in a blur of late-night livestreams, secret fantasies, and obsessive devotion.

You were happy, fulfilled, even at your current station. 

But then…

A scandal broke. A massive one.

And suddenly, the man who had meant everything to you, who had consumed every corner of your soul, was at the centre of a storm you never saw coming.

There it was. The picture that shattered your world.

Vox stood beside a man you vaguely remembered from that one, life-altering moment in the VIP lounge. He had braided hair, dark sunglasses, and a sharp, smug grin. You had bumped into him, just before Vox called you pretty. You hadn’t given him a second thought since.

Until now.

The headlines named him: Valentino. A man with deep, festering roots in a sprawling criminal empire. Drugs. Trafficking. Exploitation. And Vox—your Vox—was allegedly being funded by him. Business ties. Money laundering. Silent complicity. That photo lit a fuse across the internet, and within hours, it all erupted.

Social media drowned in rage.

Thousands of users called for Vox to be cancelled, their posts venomous and loud.

“Complicit.”

“Disgusting.”

“Fake idol.”

Every accusation felt like a dagger to your chest. But the loyal ones fought back. Fans like you demanded context, evidence, anything more than a single, damning photo. He had stood next to a man at an event, that was all. That didn’t mean anything. 

Right?

But the silence from Vox’s PR team echoed louder than any denial. No statements. No press release. No comforting Tweet. Maybe they were hoping it would pass like the other scandals had. Vox had survived worse. A cheating rumour, a shouting match with paparazzi, even a leaked sex tape.

But not this.

This time, it clung like tar.

Protests gathered outside his agency. Celebrities who once praised him now turned their backs, joining the chorus of condemnation. It was like watching wolves circling a fallen lion, eager to tear into the carcass.

Jealous. Petty. Pathetic. You seethed as you scrolled, as you read the hateful rhetoric. These people didn’t know him. They didn’t understand.

You took your vacation just so you could stay online all day, every day, defending him. You argued. You attacked. You created threads unravelling the lies. You flooded his hashtags with love and support. Your screen time surged. Your heart ached. Your faith in humanity faltered.

And still, the tide of hate rose.

Each cruel word against him was a punch to the gut. Your eyes blurred from tears you didn’t even realize were falling. They could hate him, mock him, tear down everything he built, but they would never understand what he meant to you.

Maybe he didn’t know your name. Maybe he never would. But you remembered his smile. You remembered the way he looked at you, how he made you feel like you mattered. When your days had felt gray and pointless, he lit a fire inside you. He gave you colour. He gave you something to wake up for.

To you, he wasn’t just a celebrity. He wasn’t just a man.

He was salvation.

And so, trembling and resolute, you did something you never imagined you’d do.

You opened your camera. Fixed your makeup. Cleared your throat. And hit record.

The fear gripped your chest so tightly it almost stopped your breath. Your anxiety screamed in your ears, begging you to stop. But you didn’t. You pushed forward, baring yourself to the world in the same way he once made you feel seen. You wanted to be his shield, his voice, his defender.

Even if it meant sacrificing your dignity. 

Even if it meant being torn apart.

“Hello, everyone,” you began, forcing your eyes to stay locked on the lens. “I need to talk about Vox.”

Your voice wavered, but your conviction did not. Alone in your bedroom, surrounded by posters, autographed photos, and plushies, you poured your heart into every word. You spoke of the smear campaign. Of the lies. You reminded your tiny audience of his kindness, his charity work, the countless ways he had touched lives. You had memorized it all.

You called out the hypocrisy. The influencers who suddenly hated him were the same ones who used to post selfies with him at after parties. You hinted that maybe they had something to hide, maybe they were threatened by his light. You had no proof. But truth was slippery. And belief? Belief was unshakeable.

“They’re jealous,” you said, voice sharpening. “They couldn’t stand how powerful he became, how adored he is. So now they twist a single photo into a noose.”

You scoffed. You smiled. You mocked the haters for their gullibility, their herd mentality. You told them they were being manipulated. That they were too blind to see the truth.

No facts. Just faith.

Because to you, Vox was perfect. He had always been.

And perfect people don’t fall. 

They get pushed.

NEXT ->

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