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Breaking news: An employee of El Paso County’s Office of the Medical Examiner said it is likely to classify the death of Geraldo Lunas Campos at an ICE detention center as a homicide. A detainee says he witnessed Campos being choked to death by guards.
https://www.elpasotimes.com/story/news/immigration/2026/01/15/cuban-immigrants-death-at-camp-east-montana-was-likely-homicide-report-el-paso/88204666007/
TRIM
Homicide makes Punk ride the mechanical bull. This is even better than the strip club thing. I'm in awe.
This man knows exactly what he’s doing
do you really understand what forces you play with?
The Lesson
Vox x Reader
Summary: Vox comes home to find you lying in a pool of your own blood.
As soon as the security cameras in your shared penthouse went dark, he knew something was very, very wrong.
His screen shut off as he focused on any nearby surveillance cameras, only to find that he couldn't get a good angle no matter which direction he turned them to. With a feral growl of frustration, he sent himself through one of the ground-level cameras, ignoring the startled yelps of unsuspecting pedestrians as he zapped into existence.
A path parted for him as he stormed into the building, flashing into the elevator and rigging it to move four times as fast.
He barely restrained himself from just busting down the door in his terrified fury, instead carefully twisting open the doorknob with a white-knuckled fist.
Silence was the second warning. The apartment was never silent, either with Vark thumping around cheerfully or you humming to yourself as you moved through the hallways or tapped away at your keyboard.
The eerie lack of background noise sent an ice cold chill down his spine. He found that he could barely breathe.
With soundless steps, he crept further into the apartment, afraid of what he might—or might not find waiting for him.
He found Vark first, nearly stepping in the growing puddle of blood if he hadn't pulled his foot back in time. Vox strangled a noise in his throat, hastily dropping to his knees as he shrugged off his jacket and tied it as tightly around the shark's mangled side as he could, trying to staunch the bleeding. A numbing thought surfaced in his mind. If Vark was in this condition, then you...
No longer concerned with being silent or careful, Vox flashed into different rooms in your apartment. The bathrooms, the kitchen, the living room.
He found you in your shared bedroom, slumped against the wall as your hair shielded your face. Vox spasmed and glitched, having to mentally force himself to shove his worries in the back of his mind in order to keep control of his movements.
"Y/n?" He whispered, afraid to approach you. Terrified of what he might discover.
You didn't respond, making the cold ball in his chest expand until it felt like his airways were freezing solid. Like his entire body was shutting down.
No. NonoNONONONO.
He half stumbled, half fell at your feet, clawed hands grasping your soft arms and shaking lightly—then harder, when you stayed unresponsive. His knees were wet, something warm—blood, his mind unhelpfully supplied—and his vision was getting concerningly blurry. His hands slid up your shoulders, ignoring the large oozing gash across your chest, and cupped your limp face, where blood was also dripping down the right side in slow rivulets.
"Y/n?" His voice cracked.
When you didn't stir, he let out a choked sob, hastily divesting himself of his dress shirt and pressing the scrunched up ball into your open wound. You didn't even flinch. Fuck.
"Come on, sweetheart, don't do this to me," he said, voice strained as he desperately checked your vitals. His heart nearly stopped when he discovered that yours had.
"Noo," he moaned, sending bolts of electricity into your chest, fruitlessly trying to restart your failed heart. Cursed his lack of proper lips that made CPR that much more difficult.
It took a while before he stopped trying, tiring himself out until crushing sadness replaced the pulsing adrenaline. Vox leaned against the wall, panting as he cradled your cooling body in his lap. He held you when your lips went blue, stroking your hair tenderly like you were still alive. He held you until the first notes of color started to replenish your cheeks once more, until your chest began to delicately rise and fall as your insides repaired themselves.
When your eyelids finally fluttered open, it was to bloodshot, red rimmed ones staring back at you.
"Vox?" You whispered softly, causing your lover to let out a ragged breath. "W-What—?" And then suddenly it all came back to you with a jolt. The demons who broke in and killed you. They didn't want anything you offered them, only to cause as much pain to the TV demon as they possibly could. And what better way to kill him than with his heart? Your bottom lip shook as the horrible memories replayed in your mind, only cut off by the warm chest your face was shoved into.
"Don't," he croaked, shaking his head. "I can see what you're doing, stop it."
Your eyes welled as you let out your own shuddering breath, weak fingers coming up to clutch at the bare skin of his back. He held you as silent tears ran down your face, holding you tighter every time your fingers flexed.
"I'm sorry," he murmured, fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of your neck. "I'm sorry I didn't protect you."
"They didn't want anything," you heaved, burying your face deeper in his shoulder. "Th-they just said they wanted to hurt you and—oh my god, Vark!" You immediately moved to get up, only to be pulled back down again.
"Shh, it's okay," he soothed. "The cameras are back online, I can see him moving around in the kitchen." Internally though, his heart pounded with an incredible rage. So some suicidal fuckers thought they could break into his house and lay their hands on you? Holy fucking shit, when he got his hands on them they were going to wish they'd just stayed in the shadows. That was a promise.
You sagged with relief against him, and he let you stay curled up against him for a few more minutes, before he carried you to the shower. After gently helping you clean off, rubbing your tense muscles when your hands trembled, he dressed you in the fuzziest sleepwear you owned, before depositing you carefully under the silk covers.
"Don't leave," you pleaded, making his heart ache. He acquiesced, staying until he was sure you were asleep, before his screen went dark as he lost himself in the flowing web of information that he'd built himself.
His screen flashed red as a single eye opened. "Found you."
That morning you woke up to lean arms draped over you, a defined chest pressed tightly to your back. A small smile graced your lips.
"Morning," he whispered into your ear.
"Morning," you smiled back. And when you asked the silent question, did you do it? He nodded, pulling you closer.
You leaned your head on his chest, thank you. He squeezed your hand, of course.
***
Art inspiration for the scene “Found you.” HERE (from zerochan, as unfortunately I could not find the direct post)
Artist above (Kwiisha) twitter account HERE
𝘈 𝘚𝘶𝘥𝘢𝘯𝘦𝘴𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘮𝘢𝘯, 𝘭𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘦𝘹𝘱𝘰𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘰𝘱𝘦𝘯, 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘥 𝘶𝘯𝘤𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘥, 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘢𝘳𝘮 𝘣𝘢𝘳𝘦 —𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘷𝘦𝘪𝘭𝘦𝘥. 𝘚𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘳𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘦𝘥 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘣𝘺 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘸𝘩𝘰 𝘵𝘰𝘰𝘬 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘩𝘰𝘵𝘰 𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘢𝘮𝘦 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘸𝘩𝘰 𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘰𝘧𝘧 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘩𝘪𝘫𝘢𝘣, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘢𝘮𝘦 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘸𝘩𝘰 𝘦𝘹𝘦𝘤𝘶𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘩𝘦𝘳.
𝘚𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘯𝘰 𝘰𝘳𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘳𝘺 𝘸𝘰𝘮𝘢𝘯. 𝘚𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘢 𝘴𝘺𝘮𝘣𝘰𝘭. 𝘚𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘚𝘪𝘩𝘢𝘮 𝘏𝘢𝘴𝘴𝘢𝘯, 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘮𝘦𝘮𝘣𝘦𝘳 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘺 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘚𝘶𝘥𝘢𝘯𝘦𝘴𝘦 𝘗𝘢𝘳𝘭𝘪𝘢𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵. 𝘕𝘦𝘪𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘭𝘦𝘨𝘢𝘤𝘺, 𝘯𝘰𝘳 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘱𝘰𝘴𝘪𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯, 𝘯𝘰𝘳 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘷𝘰𝘪𝘤𝘦 —𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘤𝘩 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘢𝘭𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘥𝘦𝘧𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘰𝘱𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘦𝘥 —𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘵𝘦𝘤𝘵 𝘩𝘦𝘳.
𝘞𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘙𝘢𝘱𝘪𝘥 𝘚𝘶𝘱𝘱𝘰𝘳𝘵 𝘍𝘰𝘳𝘤𝘦𝘴 𝘮𝘪𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘪𝘢 𝘪𝘯𝘷𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘪𝘵𝘺 𝘰𝘧 𝘈𝘭-𝘍𝘢𝘴𝘩𝘪𝘳, 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘪𝘳𝘴𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘥.
𝘚𝘰 𝘪𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘢𝘵𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘭𝘥 𝘬𝘯𝘦𝘸 — 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵, 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘯, 𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘢𝘵𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘦 𝘸𝘩𝘰𝘮 𝘯𝘰 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸𝘴?
𝘏𝘰𝘸 𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘺 𝘨𝘪𝘳𝘭𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘸𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘯 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘤𝘳𝘶𝘴𝘩𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘩𝘢𝘥𝘰𝘸𝘴 —𝘶𝘯𝘴𝘦𝘦𝘯, 𝘶𝘯𝘯𝘢𝘮𝘦𝘥, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘶𝘯𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘥?
