— Human!Vox x Wife!Reader & Vox x Wife!Reader
Or, as his human name has been revealed to be: Vincent Whittman. — Summary: You are Vincent's devoted wife in life and death. So devoted, in fact, that you go crazy when he dies.
(This fic is outrageously long, per request of my followers. Enjoy!)
(Warning: gruesome details, including death and choking.)
𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚
All you ever wanted was for your husband to be happy.
To which Vincent would always respond by professing: "I am already happy, my love. Because I have you!"
And you knew that Vincent meant every word.
But you also knew how desperate Vincent was to become even greater in the television industry. How Vincent sought after new position, after new proposition, after new segment. And yet, was always shooed away.
You knew how this shattered Vincent. The sheer number of late-night conversations that ended in you consoling him was proof of his chagrin.
"I only make so much as a weather man." Vincent whispered to you late one night, as the two of you cuddled underneath your shared covers. "I mean, it's not bad— but, I want to make so much more. I want to be so much more. For us, for you." Vincent sighed.
"Vince, you're all I could ever want you to be, and so much more already," you assured him. "If you want to become greater for me, become greater at loving yourself, as I love you."
Your sweet words silenced Vincent completely. After a few moments of pondering on what you said, a smile was etched onto his face so wide—it could parallel the moon. And you would be his sun.
"You are too good for me," Vincent cooed as he kissed your forehead. "I swear. You could—" Vincent awkwardly chuckled. "You could talk yourself out of a murder if you wanted to."
And how ironic, that a few short weeks later, you would practically have to start doing just that? Albeit not for yourself, but for your husband.
"You did what—?!" You screamed, as Vincent approached you. He placed his arms on top of your shoulders, an unsuccessful attempt at mitigating your emotions. Your husband's hair was disheveled, his breathing rapid. But through it all, he carried a smile.
"I did what I had to do, my love! For us! They told me yesterday that I could finally get that news anchor position if that other guy stepped down, and—"
"So you killed him—?!" You whispered, harshly.
"We both know that egotistical freak was never going to step down! I had to do what I had to do, for us!" Vincent rationalized, as your breath now quickened. "I got rid of the body perfectly, sweetheart. They'll never find it."
"Vincent, did you ever stop to consider the outrageous timing aligned with all of this?" Tears began to swell in your eyes, as you realized more and more, with every word, how badly your husband had incriminated himself. "You have been relentless in your pursuit of that very position for so long, and the day after you're told that you would be his successor—the VERY next day—he's mysteriously dead!"
"They'll never suspect me, honey, never. Trust me, okay?" Vincent promised, as he lifted your chin with his hand, before kissing you.
"I trust you, Sharkfin." You pledged, Vincent smiling at your usage of your unique nickname for him.
And you did trust Vincent. Endlessly. You just did not trust other people, and you certainly did not trust Vincent's boss. That's why the next day, an hour before your husband made his debut on television as the newest anchor, you knocked on the door to said bosses' office. You were adorned with an ocean blue, flowy dress. Your hair was done neatly, for the most part. You had a few messy strands out here and there, as Vincent revealed to you one night that all men love that look. Including him. Encased in your hands, however, was a strawberry pie that you had prepared just hours prior. You lathered that pie with homemade magic and love, hoping that your sweetness would completely blind Vincent's boss of any suspicion.
"I just wanted to thank you so much, sir, for giving my sweet husband this opportunity. I understand that you must be going through so much during this...tragic time," you spoke as you laid the pie onto the man's desk. "But through the heartbreak you must be facing, you have managed to warm my husband and I's hearts. We appreciate you so much."
Between the glimmer in the man's eyes, and his mouth, that would not remain closed for the next fifteen minutes, it was safe to assume that he melted into your honey. As you stepped outside of his office, watching Vincent make his anchor debut from behind the camera, you sighed in relief that it was over.
Over the next few years, Vincent grew hungrier for "power." He was never satisfied with a position for long. And anytime Vincent felt discontentment for his position, it was always accompanied by envy for someone else's. The second anyone would start to garner any semblance of the praise Vincent received, they just had to be gone.
And you? You just had to create never-ending alibi's.
"Vincent and I made chili last night! Do you want some?" You asked a friend, hours before the body of that game show host would be discovered.
"Vincent and I usually see her whenever we come into the studio. But neither of us were here yesterday! My sweet husband was trying to teach me how to hunt. Do you want to see the pictures I took of us? Let me show you!" You presented said photographs to the police officers, who were scouring the studio. They were trying to figure out how the woman who would broadcast her recipes every night, could have gotten her neck caught on a microphone wire. Perhaps if they weren't so encapsulated by your sweetness, they would have remembered that date stamps can be altered on photographs.
You truly felt as if this would be your life forever. Your husband constantly freeing himself of any competition, while you subtly created alibi's to maintain his innocent appearance. And although you would constantly plead for Vincent to stop—for him to hold onto any sort of contentment with a position for more than just a little while—you knew he wouldn't. Because you knew that Vincent believed that he was doing the best "for us." You knew that his hunger for, what he perceived as better, would always grow. And both of you knew that you would never leave him for it. You would always love him immeasurably, endlessly.
And your love for Vincent was proven to you in the most gruesome way possible, the night of his "baptisms."
Throughout the years, Vincent had garnered a large cult-following. People who would watch his programs religiously, and were completely enamored by him...who would do anything for him. Vincent, who was so infatuated with himself, fed his followers this narrative of him being the only source of true entertainment. That anyone else besides Vincent Whittman was untrustworthy and ghastly.
The night of Vincent's "baptisms," he had collected everyone his cult, leading them into a giant room with a V-shaped chair in the middle. Around the chair was a pool filled with shallow water. And draped across the ceiling...were a dozen televisions.
Standing on the V-shaped chair, Vincent preached to his followers, all of whom were standing in the pool of shallow water. You, on the other hand, sat in the corner of the room, watching the baptism from afar. Vincent said that as his devoted wife, you had no reason to be baptised.
"My sweet angel, you do not need to be apart of this," Vincent told you that morning. "But your support will be so appreciated by me."
As Vincent preached, his words and tone both grew more and more passionate. However, one of the televisions above him started to break away from the wires holding it up. In what would end up being the worst moment of your life, with you watching from the side of the room, the wire went—
The sound of your husband's screams echoed across the room. You stood in horror, your screams instantly joining his. The television that snapped from it's wires fell directly on top of your husband, electrocuting him and everyone in the pool instantly.
With you watching from the side of the room.
You watched your husband die.
You also witnessed all of Vincent's followers die. But you couldn't even comprehend that. No. There was no room in your mind to entertain any thoughts other than your husband being gone.
To say that you were inconsolable would be a severe, severe, severe, severe, severe, unfathomably severe, understatement.
For weeks, you did nothing but lay in you and Vincent's shared apartment, holding onto his clothes. It took weeks for you to feel like you could even breathe air again. But even then, the air felt only sustaining, never nourishing. You never felt alive after that day, only ever living.
People tried to contact Mrs. Whittman. The majority only hoped to hear from the wife of Vincent Whittman, commenting on her husband's unfortunate demise. People who desperately wanted to profit off of your pain, off of your husband.
But there were a few people who tried to contact you. There were some people who tried to hear from a wife, who had tragically lost her husband in the most horrific way possible. And witnessed it.
One of the many voicemails that were left unacknowledged on you and Vincent's house phone, came from Melissa Muller. She was the wife of Michael Muller, the man who would end up succeeding your husband. Michael took on the very position on television that your Vincent had left behind, the very night that Vincent died.
"Hello! My name is Melissa Muller. My husband, Michael, took on your husband's role on television. I know that we don't know each other, and I don't expect a response, but I cannot imagine what grief you must be enduring right now," the voicemail began. "And similarly, I can't imagine how alone you must feel right now. If you ever feel horribly alone, and you just need someone with you, call this number. And I'll have you over for tea or coffee within the hour! Michael and I are here for you, Mrs. Whittman, and we are so incredibly sorry."
That voice message burnt your heart to hear. You listened to it a mere four days after Vincent passed, and it was the first time you heard the name of Vincent's successor. It was the first time you heard someone say out loud that Vincent even needed a successor. It was like witnessing Vincent die all over again, but through another woman's voice.
You took a moment to close your eyes in gratitude for Melissa and Michael, before ultimately placing your house phone up, and never responding.
Exactly one year after Vincent passed, and you remained encased in your house, out of pure grief. That day was no different. At first.
The moment the clock displayed 12AM, introducing the day, you turned on your television. It automatically went to the channel where Vincent used to be broadcast. All day, you waited for, what you were sure would be, a segment purely in your husband's memory.
You even saw Michael Muller on television around 6pm. In the same chair that used to be Vincent's chair, sporting the same television smile that used to be Vincent's smile.
But not even Michael mentioned Vincent. Neither did anyone else. Because the moment that the clock once again displayed 12AM, concluding the day, your heart raced with fury.
"Are you KIDDING ME?!" You raged. "My husband gave everything to this station! Everything! It's exactly a year after he tragically passed, and no one even mentions him!"
In that moment, the picture of Michael Muller flashed before your eyes again. You felt utter disdain towards the man flood through your body.
"And you! Michael! My husband was your predecessor! You wouldn't even be a fraction of where you are now without him!" You screamed to the air. "I hate you. I hate you! I hate you, I hate—"
In that moment, you glanced over at your house phone, porched onto the wall. You remembered that voicemail Michael's wife had left you a year prior. And most importantly, you remembered her oh-so generous offer. You could come over any time.
And clearly, Melissa meant her offer. Because the next day, within an hour of you calling Melissa, you sat right across from her in her living room.
"I was very surprised to see that you called me," Melissa admitted to you. Her smile was comforting, and her voice was soft. Her hand also laid on top of her stomach, as she was visibly pregnant. "But I am happy that you did. I am glad that you did not allow yourself to be alone any longer!"
You smiled, taking a sip of your tea.
You were not there to be "not alone any longer." No. You were there to ruin Michael Muller. You didn't know how, nor did you even know what your definition of ruining him was. But what you did know were two things: one, that you had to impart justice onto Michael for not even acknowledging your husband. Two, that the only reasonable way to ruin Michael, in any capacity, was to get close to Melissa.
"I appreciate you so much, Melissa. Tell me all about yourself!" You requested.
And so, Melissa told you all about herself. And over the next few weeks, you would be over at Melissa's house almost every day. You became Melissa's closest friend and confidant almost instantaneously.
To your complete delight, the moment that you had been patiently waiting on, finally came three weeks into knowing her. When you and Melissa were baking together for fun in her kitchen, and you heard the sound of a door slamming.
"Michael, honey, you're home?" Melissa called out from the kitchen.
"Shut up, I'm in a bad mood!" Michael yelled back from the entrance way, before causing loud footsteps to be heard from the stair-well.
You watched from Melissa's left as she instantly became a shell of herself, quietly proceeding with the brownies you two were making.
"Melissa, does he always do that? Yell at you? Tell you to shut up? Slam doors around you?" You questioned, your voice laced with disapproval.
"Well, yes, but only when he's mad." Melissa responded, her tone of voice meek.
After that day, you began to plant ideas into Melissa's mind, all of which were disguised as genuine concern.
"I was married once before," you told her.
"He was, a horrible man. He began by yelling at me and slamming doors," you continued.
A DOOR HAS NEVER ONCE BEEN SLAMMED IN YOUR FACE.
"Once they start slamming doors, it's only a matter of time before they start slamming you," you began to wrap your hands around your neck, mimicking how it would appear to be choked.
YOU WERE TRULY MIMICKING HOW VINCENT HUNG THAT WOMAN WITH THE MICROPHONE.
"Be careful, Lissa. Please. Be careful for you, and your baby." You concluded, as you placed your hand on Melissa's stomach.
Based on the look on Melissa's face—horror mixed with concern—you knew that you had Melissa where you needed her.
The next day, Melissa had left you alone in the kitchen, as she went to the bathroom. After a few minutes, you heard the distinguishable sound of Michael's boots against the floor. Once they had approached the room, you began to "choke."
"I'm— urgh! Urgh — !" You feigned, wrapping your hands around your neck, as you forced yourself to pretend you could no longer breathe.
Michael, who heard what was going on, ran over to help you. He wrapped his arms around your waist, and began to tighten his grip on you. He was trying to get you to cough up whatever you were choking on. But you knew exactly how this scene you had meticulously planted, would appear to Melissa.
So as you stood there, still pretending to choke, you saw Melissa's figure come from around the corner.
"HELP ME— !" You screamed out, nothing short of terror emitting from you.
Melissa instantly entered the room, her eyes in horror at the sight. You were hunched over, tears in your eyes as Michael had his arms wrapped tightly around your waist. She immediately ran towards you and Michael, and Michael assumed that Melissa was running over to help him force out whatever was lodged in your airways.
But in that moment, everything you had been meticulously planting in Melissa's head came through, and she could only see one possibility:
Michael was trying to kill you.
So as she ran over, she grabbed the knife that was sitting on top of the island, and stabbed Michael in the neck. Michael instantly let you go, as you fell to the floor. Melissa retracted the knife from Michael's neck, and grabbed you in exchange. She took a few steps back, as Michael flailed on the floor.
You pretended to catch your breath, as Melissa ran over to the house phone, calling the police.
"He was trying to choke me!" You said, speaking what you had rehearsed into a giant camera. "But that's when Melissa came from around the corner, and she saved me."
The camera panned over to Melissa. She was disheveled, and it was clear that she had been crying for hours.
"No. She saved me." Melissa proclaimed, in reference to you. "She had noticed weeks ago the red flags in Michael's behavior. If she hadn't warned me, I don't think I would have even known what I was seeing. I don't think I would have acted. I think it would be both of us dead right now instead of him." Melissa paused, before continuing with: "To my fellow women out there, if you have any inkling that your husband may be treating you horribly, I implore you to contact Mrs. Whittman. Write to her. She will talk sense into you, as she did me. She is an angel."
To your delight, and your expectation, the network shut down after this tragedy occurred. No one wanted to support the network that employed "Michael the Murderer." You had earned justice for your husband. Everyone paid the price for their disrespect and ignorance.
Ironically, the very same woman who previously begged for her husband to cease his killing, was the one who had killed. Better yet, who had completely manipulated someone else into committing the bloodshed for her. And you did not feel an iota of guilt.
But to your surprise, Melissa's closing statement during her interview...opened a whole new door for you. You would immediately begin to receive a flood of letters from women begging for your input on their marital situations. Asking you if they should be scared, if they should be ready to "take action" as Melissa was.
You can have the strongest morals. But if your moral compass suddenly breaks, you’ll end up heading in the opposing direction, still under the impression you’re going in the correct direction. And your compass broke the moment you witnessed Vincent die.
You wrote back to all of those women, inviting them to you and Vincent's apartment, telling all of them to arrive on the same day and time.
Once they all came, you lectured all of them on how abhorrent their husbands were, through one large speech. The women began to truly believe that their husbands were also out to kill them, even if their husbands had never shown any true signs of abuse. Vincent had always said that you were so persuasive.
"It is imperative that we watch over ourselves! That we protect ourselves!" You preached as you stood, mirroring what your husband used to do. "If you believe that your husband would harm you or your babies, you have to either be willing to protect yourself to the extreme, or die to the extreme."
You set the women in anticipation for a scene that was bound to occur, but perverted the meaning, so they would be terrified when such moment would arise.
“Watch out for when he raises his voice at you,” you warned. “Next, it would be his hands that he would raise! And use them against you, to kill you.”
Without truly realizing it, just like your husband, you had now garnered your own cult following. A fact that you would soon come to realize in the most horrible way, a woman who had followed your advice and rid herself of her "horrible husband," told police officers of your teachings.
You stood in your apartment, holding a weapon to your head, as you heard sirens ring in the background. Once you heard the berating knocks against your door, you took one final deep breath, muttering...
"Vincent, wherever you are, I hope that's where I go."
The next time you opened your eyes, it took a few seconds for you to collect your thoughts. But once you did, you realized that you had to be in the bad place. Hell.
You glanced around, and quickly found a mirror. You looked so similar, albeit so different at the same time. The one thing that stood out to you most, though:
Faux angel wings. You had faux wings, that appeared like angel wings.
You did not spend long dwelling on your appearance, however. Because after you took a few minutes to yourself, you immediately sought after your husband. He had to be down here too. You worried that it would take forever to find Vincent, though. If you ever would. That thought alone made you want to cry. You could tell that hell was humongous, what if you simply never found him down here?
To your inarticulable relief, it did not take long before you saw a giant television plastered across a building. And you heard the voice you knew so well, boast:
"Trust US, with your entertainment!"
It was your husband. It was Vincent! That was your lover's voice, and that was your lover's slogan. It took a few moments to calm your rapidly increasing heartbeat, to take a deep breath and acknowledge the giant letters at the bottom that read:
VISIT VOXTEK TODAY, LOCATED AT VEE TOWER!
Eventually, you would reach Vee tower. You entered through the glass doors, and you were somehow even more overwhelmed than you already were. Where would you even—
"Can I help you?" A voice called out.
You turned to see who the voice belonged to, and you saw a woman sitting behind a desk in the corner. Her brow was arched at the sight of you, and she had an earpiece lodged into her right ear.
You approached the desk nervously, before saying:
"I'm looking for my husband, Vincent. He's the guy on the television with the— well— television, for a head. Saying to trust him." You explained.
"His name isn't Vincent, it's Vox," the woman at the desk explained. "And you're claiming to be his wife? You don't even know his—"
"I was his wife. In life. I just died. I just got here, please," you interrupted, pleading. "Let me see him. Please."
The woman paused for a moment to contemplate. On one hand, she didn't believe you at all. But on the other hand, there was a possibility that you were telling the truth. And she knew what would happen to her if that tiny possibility ended up being the truth, and she denied Vox's WIFE entry.
"Go to those elevators over there," the woman pointed. "Click on the button for floor 66. That will take you right to his office. I'll press my button here to let you in. Okay?"
You smiled in gratitude, practically running over to the elevator door. As soon as it opened, you stepped inside, pressing the button for floor 66.
The moment those elevator doors closed, everything settled on top of you at once. This was IT. You were finally seeing Vincent again, after all these years. Oh, what would you even say? What would you do? Could you hug him? Kiss him? Oh my gosh, what if he moved on and—
You saw him. Directly across from the elevator, his desk was parched so far away, it took him a second to realize that someone was even there. And even then, he did not look up until—
"Vincent?" You called out, stepping out of the elevator.
His eyes immediately widened. His head shot up, and once he saw you, he immediately stood up. No one had called him Vincent since he was alive. He was Vox now. And yet, here someone was, calling him by that name.
He took you in, looking up and down as the breath left his lungs. Your form was beautiful. And those eyes of yours, were unmistakable. But there's no way, there's no way—!
"Honey?" Vox called out, his voice cracking with emotion.
"Vincent! It is you! It is me!" Your eyes immediately swelled with tears, as you ran across the room to your husband.
Vincent wanted to run to you, but he was absolutely frozen still in shock. You wrapped your arms around him, holding him tight.
"No— no. This can't be, you can't be here! You can't be here! You—" Vincent pushed you off of him, before taking a few steps back. His eyes were now overloaded with tears. "You can't be my wife! Honey, that can't possibly be you—"
"It is me! It is me! It— it's me, Sharkfin." You confirmed. The moment you referred to him as that nickname, he could deny it no longer. It truly was you.
"My angel, you— you have angel wings," he said, as he immediately stepped towards you, gently grabbing your wings to caress them. "What are you doing here? You should be in heaven! And you—" Vincent took in your form once again, noticing things he hadn't noticed the first time. "When did you get here?"
"An hour or two ago!" You explained. "I instantly searched for you!"
"Only an hour or two ago? Baby, how can that be? You're an— you're an overlord." Your husband explained.
"A what? What's that?" You inquired, utterly confused.
Vox—as you learned was the name he goes by now—asked you what you did on earth after Vox arrived in hell. You explained everything. Awkwardly, but thoroughly, you explained.
"You had a whole group of people committed to you? Like I had? People who obeyed you, and killed just because you said to?" Vox asked, confirming what he learned from you.
Vox proceeded to explain what exactly an overlord was. He explained that you were a "baby overlord," for lack of a better term, but an overlord nonetheless. Vox explained that having people completely obedient to you, going as far as killing for you, was what landed you such a position upon entry in hell. You stood there for a moment, taking in everything you were just told.
"I don't care about that," you sobbed. "I am just— so happy to see you, and— wait. You haven't moved on, have you?" You began to sob harder at the question. "You haven't remarried? Found someone else?"
"Absolutely not!" Vox immediately clarified. "My angel, since I've been down here, I have never once stopped thinking about you. I am...so immensely glad I'm with you again."
Vox cupped your cheek with his hand— or, well, as it was now—claw. He pulled you in for a sweet, longing kiss, that seemed to last for eternity. You pulled away, just to ask:
"Did I make you proud?" Your hands held onto his waist, as his hands held onto your waist.
"I'm not exactly thrilled that you ended up killing people like me," Vox answered, truthfully. "I always wanted you to be better than me." He paused. "But I also think that you did something far better. You reunited us, and I am so grateful for that. So yes, baby, I am so proud of you."
You smiled. This time, you pulled Vox into a sweet, longing kiss.
You were reunited with your husband, happily, in hell. <3
𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚
You guys probably thought I was bluffing when I said this would be outrageously long! Nope.
I hope you enjoyed! If you did, please leave a comment! I love love love comments, and they are what keep me writing! :)
