#vox x reader

[transformers-spike]

May death do us part

It's been a longggg while since I started writing this fic, and I'm currently having a lot of trouble continuing it. Still, I want to show a piece of my work

This takes place during Vox's time as Vincent Whittman

It’s as though the world has disappeared around him. Everything except the ocean life. He’s not smiling. His expression is blank, but at the corner of your vision, you notice his eyes following the predators within the tanks.

A shiver runs up your spine. The air in the aquarium has suddenly turned cold.

When he tears his gaze from them, his signature smile returns.

“Come on,” he whispers, inches from your face. “I’ve saved the best for last.”

He leads you to the temporary exhibition.

Your heart freezes at the sight.

Two giant sharks swim past you, alone in their tanks, only coral and seaweed to decorate their tanks. The tank barely seems to contain the giant predators. Their jaws are outstretched, revealing hundreds of razor sharp teeth; their eyes are devoid of warmth, watching you as though contemplating if you’re worth a bite.

You instinctually back away, only to suddenly bump against Vincent’s chest. Before you can mutter an excuse, he sets his hands on your shoulders without so much as sparing you a glance.

He’s grinning.

“Gorgeous, aren’t they?”

The largest shark swims past, fin limply bending to the current. Its color is a faded grey. You begin to wonder how long they’ll last in such a small tank.

“The ultimate predators. The gods of the ocean. And these?”

He laughs against your nape. You shiver.

[lovetrouble123]

TODAY'S FORECAST: RAIN

Synopsis: Today's another rainy day in New York and after finishing up a recording, Vincent decides to step outside for a cigarette break. Only for America's favorite sweetheart—Y/N—to appear behind him, asking for a cigarette lighter.

TW: cigarettes

A/N: I’ve been wanting to draw Alastor but I can’t bring myself to do it☹️

Masterlist

Rain had a way of changing the city. It softened New York’s constant noise into something quieter, muffling the already impatient car horns along with the steady hiss of tires that rolled through the waterlogged streets. 

The side walks glistened beneath rows of streetlamps, every puddle reflecting distorted streaks of neon from local diners, theaters, and department stores that refused to let the gloomy weather keep customers away. Umbrellas drifted through the afternoon like colorful flowers as individuals hurried past businessmen while mothers ushered their children out of the rain.

Inside, New York's favorite television station was alive. 

Telephones rang nonstop. 

Typewriters clacked in uneven rhythm, their metallic sound echoing across the newsroom as reporters hurried to meet impossible deadlines. 

Editors called across crowded desks with stacks of papers being exchanged, and nearby, the smell of freshly brewed coffee mingled with the smell of cigarette smoke that had settled into the walls over the years. 

Every department had its own orchestrated chaos.

Producers disappeared behind studio doors carrying clipboards with revisions. Camera operators rolled equipment through narrow halls, asking those in the way to politely step aside. Makeup artists rushed from dressing rooms while actors rehearsed their lines under their breaths.

Today was just like any other rainy Tuesday. 

Inside one of the studios stood Vincent Whittman, New York’s beloved weatherman. He stood in front of a weather map, using his decorative lightning bolt pointer to aid him, a professional smile written across his face. 

“And remember, trust us with your weather!”

He said it so effortlessly like it had been rehearsed. Which, after a year of working as the weatherman, it had been. 

Once the lights turned off and the cameras stopped recording, Vincent’s smile dropped as the world continued to ignore him as it always did. 

Not that he particularly minded because right now the only thing in his mind was the need for a cigarette. 

Passing his pointer to a nearby assistant, he headed toward the exit of the studio and pushed the heavy metal door open as the smell of rain greeted him. 

Immediately, his shoulders loosened.

It was amazing what thirty seconds away from cameras and bright studio lights could do for a person.

Fishing out a cigarette case from the inside pocket of his suit jacket, he tapped one loose against his palm before placing it between his lips. His lighter followed shortly after—a simple silver thing that had accumulated a fair number of scratches over the years.

Click!

A small flame flickered to life as he cupped it against the breeze, shielding it with one hand until the end of the cigarette glowed a warm orange.

The first inhale settled deep in his lungs as he slowly exhaled it toward the sky.

For a few blissful moments, there was nothing demanding his attention.

No producers asking for last minute changes to the forecast.

No cameramen reminding him where to stand.

No frantic stagehands counting down the seconds until he was expected to smile for an audience of millions.

There was just rain.

Vincent’s eyes wandered across the city, idly watching raindrops ripple across the puddles collecting on the sidewalk.

Then, the studio door behind him creaked open and he glanced over his shoulder automatically, expecting another employee searching for a quiet smoke break.

Instead, his heartbeat forgot how to function.

Y/N stepped out, carefully pulling the heavy door shut behind her before absentmindedly brushing a few damp strands of hair away from her face.

Even dressed down between filming, she somehow looked effortlessly put together. A cream colored coat rested neatly over the costume she had worn on set, its collar turned up slightly against the damp air. She held a cigarette between two fingers, though it remained unlit as she took a moment to admire the rain falling over the city.

She hadn’t noticed him yet.

Vincent, however, had noticed her immediately.

Of course he had.

How could he not?

Everyone in the building knew who Y/N was.

She was one of the network’s brightest stars—a leading actress whose face appeared on magazine covers nearly as often as it appeared on television screens. 

Viewers adored her. 

Critics adored her.

And Vincent…he had been hopelessly infatuated with her for nearly two years.

Not because of the magazine covers.

Not because of the television interviews.

Not even because half the country seemed convinced she was the most beautiful woman alive.

No. 

It had started on a rainy afternoon in the employee parking lot, when she had accidentally locked her keys inside her car.

Vincent had been the unfortunate soul to witness her trying—and failing—to pry the driver’s side window open with a ruler she had borrowed from a receptionist.

He had offered to help her, but neither of them had accomplished much besides laughing at how unqualified they were.

By the time maintenance had arrived with the proper tools, they had spent nearly half an hour talking.

She had laughed at one of his awful jokes.

He had made her smile.

Then she thanked him, waved goodbye and life continued.

Since then, their interactions had consisted almost entirely of polite smiles in passing, the occasional “good morning” in the hallway, and once sharing an elevator ride in complete silence because both of them had been too exhausted after filming to manage conversation.

Ridiculous.

Two adults working in the same building, and he had somehow managed to make absolutely no progress whatsoever.

Y/N finally turned, her eyes landing on him as recognition brightened her expression almost instantly.

“Oh! Vincent.”

He offered what he desperately hoped resembled a normal smile.

“Hello.”

It came out a touch higher than intended, but either Y/N didn’t notice or had graciously pretended not to.

“I was hoping someone else would be out here.” She lifted the unlit cigarette between her fingers with a small grin. “Smoking alone always feels a little depressing.”

Vincent let out a quiet chuckle.

“I suppose misery prefers company.”

“It certainly does.”

She wandered over beside him. "But you know, I've always loved rainy days because the world seems to slow down," Y/N confessed. "People stop pretending like they're in a hurry. They duck into cafes and linger under awnings...everyone seems a little more patient."

"I've never thought about it like that."

Y/N laughed. "Well, you get to be pretty observational when you're trying to convince audiences that you're someone else."

Vincent smiled despite himself.

"I spend my days observing the clouds."

"See?" She teased. "We're practically colleagues now!"

Vincent let out a quiet laugh.

"I suppose we are."

"Actually, I've caught your broadcasts a few times."

Vincent blinked, looking at her.

"You have?"

Y/N only smiled and looked away, patting the pockets of her coat before she huffed in annoyance.

"Oh, come on..."

"Did you lose something?" Vincent curiously asked.

"Honestly," she sighed, "I think someone in wardrobe is stealing my lighters."

"You think there's a lighter thief?"

"There has to be," Y/N replied. "I've gone through four this month."

"That's rather impressive."

"I should really start putting my name on stuff," Y/N admitted.

Without thinking, Vincent placed his cigarette into his mouth with one hand and reached inside his pocket for his lighter. But before he could hold it out for Y/N to use, she was invading his personal space.

She was close enough that he could see the tiny rain droplets on her eyelashes.

She was close enough to where he could catch the floral scent of perfume.

She was close enough he could see the small freckles on her face.

The ends of their cigarettes met with ease, the orange ember brightened before Y/N's cigarette caught.

She then pulled away, exhaling a stream of smoke into the air.

"There we go."

Meanwhile, Vincent stood there a flustered mess as every coherent thought had abandoned him, being replaced with the realization that the Y/N L/N had been right there.

Instinctively, Vincent took a drag of his cigarette in the attempt to appear nonchalant, but unfortunately, the smoke caught in his throat and he erupted into a coughing fit.

"Oh my gosh!" Y/N exclaimed, worry written across her face. "Are you okay?!"

"I'm fine," Vincent assured between coughs.

"No, I'm sorry for startling you!" Y/N apologized. "I thought I would just do something silly! I didn't mean for you to choke!"

Vincent continued to cough, although now he was starting to calm down a little.

"I'm usually much more composed than this."

Y/N tilted her head.

"I don't know...I think I find this version much more charming."

[ghosty-raven]

The next ask is coming soon! Stay tuned!

~GhostlyRaven 🦇

[writerisahazbin]

Vincent summons demon Alastor in a ritual and then Alastor takes payment in the form of dicking down his wife right in front of him.

Vincent sits in the cuck chair.

This has probably been done before.

Edit:

This post was partially inspired by this edit

[jamesdeanbby]

⏤ ( hazbin hotel ) 2019 .. "it'll be a happy day in hell!"

˙˚ʚ✞ɞ˚˙ alastor vox valentino velvette charlie morningstar lucifer morningstar vaggie lute adam rosie husk emily angel dust carmila ⁿᵒᵗ ʷʳⁱᵗⁱⁿᵍ ᶠᵒʳ ᵗʰᵉᵐ ᵃⁿʸᵐᵒʳᵉ

[dixontardis]

HIII welcome back! Can I request a fic of fem reader x Vincent Whittman, getting turned on by his violence, and his murders?

A/N: hope this is okay! i assumed when you said vincent you meant pre death haha

MDNI 18+

warnings: murder, blood, sex next to a dead body, blood kink, rough sex, light choking, public sex,

𝐒𝐄𝐗 & 𝐌𝐔𝐑𝐃𝐄𝐑

The alley smelled like rain and copper. Vincent Whitman wiped the blood from his straight razor on the dead man’s coat, the motion casual, almost elegant. Crimson streaked across his knuckles. His chest rose and fell steadily, like he’d just finished a light workout instead of slitting a rival’s throat and watching him bleed out on wet concrete.

You should have been terrified. Instead, heat pooled low in your belly, slick and insistent between your thighs.

He turned those sharp, pale eyes on you. “Still here, doll?” His voice was low, amused, with that dangerous drawl that always curled around your spine. “Most girls would’ve run by now”

“I’m not most girls” you whispered. Your back pressed against the brick wall, but you didn’t move away. You couldn’t. The way he moved - fast, precise, merciless - had lit something feral inside you. Every cut, every wet gurgle from the dying man, every drop of blood had made your pulse throb straight down to your pussy.

Vincent stepped closer. The razor clicked shut and disappeared into his coat. Blood still dotted his sharp jawline. He smelled like gun oil, cigarette smoke, and fresh death. His hand came up, fingers wrapping around your throat - not squeezing, just holding.

“You liked it” he murmured, tilting his head. His thumb brushed your racing pulse. “I saw your face. Pupils blown wide. Legs shaking. You’re soaked right now, aren’t you?”

You didn’t deny it. Couldn’t. Instead you reached up, grabbed the lapels of his blood-spattered coat, and yanked him down into a kiss.

He tasted like sin. His mouth claimed yours instantly, tongue sliding deep, teeth nipping your lip hard enough to draw a bead of your own blood. A low growl rumbled in his chest. The hand on your throat tightened just enough to make you gasp into his mouth.

“Filthy little thing” he breathed against your lips. “Getting wet while I paint the walls red”

His free hand shoved your skirt up roughly, fingers finding the soaked lace of your panties. He laughed when he felt how drenched you were. Two thick fingers pushed the fabric aside and sank into your pussy without warning, curling hard.

“Fuck, Vincent-” Your head fell back against the brick as he pumped them deep, thumb grinding against your swollen clit. The wet sounds of his fingers fucking you mixed with the distant city noise and the metallic scent still hanging in the air.

“Look at me” he ordered.

You did. His eyes were wild, pupils dilated with the same dark hunger you felt. Blood smeared across his cheek as he leaned in, biting down on the side of your neck while his fingers drove into you faster. The sharp sting of his teeth made you clench around him, a fresh gush of arousal coating his hand.

“You want me to fuck you right here?” he growled against your skin. “Next to the corpse I made for you?”

“Yes” you moaned, shameless. Your hips rocked desperately against his hand. “Please Vincent, I need it”

He pulled his fingers out, making you whine at the loss. In one smooth motion he spun you around, pressing your chest to the cold brick. You heard his belt buckle, the rasp of his zipper. Then his cock was nudging against your entrance.

He didn’t ease in. He slammed home in one brutal thrust, burying himself to the hilt. The stretch burned so perfectly you cried out, nails scraping brick.

“Fuck, you’re tight” he hissed, one hand fisting in your hair, the other gripping your hip hard enough to bruise. He started fucking you in deep, punishing strokes, the wet slap of skin echoing in the alley. Every thrust shoved you harder against the wall. “This what you wanted? My cock splitting you open while his blood’s still warm?”

You could only moan and nod frantically, pushing back to meet him. The violence, the danger, the raw power radiating off him - it was intoxicating. Your pussy fluttered around his cock, already close.

Vincent reached around, fingers finding your clit again, rubbing tight circles. “Come on then, doll. Come while I’m still covered in another man’s blood”

The orgasm hit you like a freight train. You clenched hard around him, thighs shaking, a broken cry tearing from your throat. Vincent cursed, hips stuttering, and followed you over the edge. He buried himself deep and spilled inside you, hot pulses of cum filling you up as he growled your name against the back of your neck.

For a moment the only sounds were your ragged breathing and the distant drip of blood from the body a few feet away.

Vincent pulled out slowly, cum and your slick dripping down your thighs. He turned you around again, kissing you slower this time, almost tender, if tenderness could exist on a man like him.

“You’re mine now” he said quietly, thumb brushing your swollen bottom lip. “Anyone else who touches you ends up like him. Understand?”

You smiled, dazed and sated, and kissed the blood off his jaw.

“Perfectly”

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Taglist: @gennemi @staley83

Click here for request info - taglist info  

[llllll-lana]

6.0!Vox x GN!Kindred (Reader) SFW AU

Having troubles with the front door lock, you decide to ask for help around the block – until a tall, fit, and absurdly gorgeous handyman next door saves your day and, possibly, your whole life.

Tags: SFW, second person POV, AU, Fluff, Slice of life.

Note: The work is focused on fictional characters (Kindred as the clan/generalized character and Vox himself). Treat my works only as a source of comfort or entertainment. Thank you. Enjoy!

Navigating a life of an average adult all alone is not easy, especially when it comes to moving houses. Trying to recover and forget everything after a painful breakup, you have moved to another city, hoping to have a fresh start and find new experiences, feelings, and people.

So far, organising stuff and packing boxes that seem to never end has been the most stressful thing, but once you step into your new apartment, its walls and surfaces bare like canvas for you to fill with memories, you are only yet to experience something life-changing.

Done with the transportation company as the last box is placed on the floor, you bid polite goodbyes to the workers and decide to walk down to the nearest round-the-corner shop for some food and basic necessities for a few days, your brain still too preoccupied and clouded.

Once everything is in the bag, and you're heading home, needing to have some lunch and rest as soon as possible, reminding yourself to go and greet your neighbours once you completely unpack and settle down; if only you have known that would happen sooner than you thought.

Your feet are guiding you to the memorised route upstairs, and once you take the keys out, maneuvering them between the heavy bags, you insert the main key, but the door simply refuses to open. Confusion growing obvious on your face, you try again but nothing changes.

"Fuck, what should I do?" Placing the bags down on the floor, you run your sweaty fingers through the hair, biting your lips nervously. You rummage through the pockets, feeling only the leathery surface of your wallet inside. "I've left my phone inside as well, fucking awesome."

You're completely alone in a new city, with no friends or relatives in here, no access to your phone, and your door is broken.

Brilliant.

Mentally cursing yourself and your life for being so unlucky, you come up with nothing else but knocking around neighbours' doors for help.

No one answers; it's a working day, so everyone must be at work.

Completely drained to check another floor, exhausted, hungry, and overwhelmed, you simply break down: crumble apart right at your front door mat, your knees pressed to your chest as you're unable to hold back tears.

However, some slow distant steps startle you, distracting you from crying. Having wiped your tear-stained face with a sleeve as fast as possible, you lift your eyes up to meet the most beautiful irides you have ever seen – like a clear sunrise above the still waters.

'Is everything okay?' Shortly after a low gentle voice asks, and you finally come back to your senses, noticing a tall man squatted down right next to you as he offers a dusty hand. Red overalls, stained with some motor oil, a black compression T-shirt on the muscular torso, a pair of clear glasses hanging off the nose, long black hair tied into a low messy ponytail; it is a man who smells like a car repair shop, sweat, woody perfume, and something so captivating that you almost forget about crying from a moment ago.

He looks like he has been fixing a car, but how on earth has he ended up here? Yet you remain silent, words get caught in your throat as you're getting lost in what to say or ask about.

'My name is Vox, I live here on this floor too,' the stranger smiles once you accept his help. 'I haven't seen you before...' Vox fixes his glasses before casting another friendly smile. 'Did you just move in?'

'Yeah, literally an hour ago or so,' you reply, fingers fiddling with your shirt. Vox radiates such a laid back aura that it loosens the tension in you too. 'But I'm the most unlucky person ever, and my door is already broken or something. It refuses to open, and I don't know anyone who can help-'

'Well, if you were so unlucky, then you wouldn't have met me. People call me the Handyman since I might have a talent for fixing stuff.'

Vox shakes a laugh off, and it echoes like a cheerful bell across the hall. He wipes his hands against the overalls and fishes his keys out of the chest pocket before his golden eyes cast a spark at you: they are gleaming like two polar stars guiding your out of the dark.

'Give me a second, I'm gonna fetch my tools real quick,' the handyman says calmly. 'And please, don't cry. You're not alone, I will do my best to help you.'

He must have noticed the dried up tear trails on your face, so you can only give an embarassed nod in response.

'I'm Kindred, by the way,' With all of this worrying, you have completely forgotten to introduce yourself; you hurry to do so, saying your name as it reaches Vox's back, making him turn around.

'Nice to meet you, Kindred, my new next door neighbour,' Vox sways long bangs off his face to look back at you before stopping in front of the door next to yours; the number plate "520" near the "522" of yours.'Don't go anywhere, I'll be right back,' His syrupy voice hums until he disappears behind the door.

Once this Apollo's statue of a man is not in the sight, you take a deep breath in only to exhale with a loud sigh, your heart drumming stacatto against the ribs.

"And THIS man lives right next door? I might have won the lottery," the inner voice cheers.

Perhaps, you aren't as unlucky as you thought you were.

***

Surprisingly, Vox has fixed the door faster than you could get really scared: handling the tools like a true professional, he solves the issue in no time while you are left to stand next to him, controlling the process – or rather, admiring the fair veiny hands, exposed to your curious eye. Anyone would admit how extremely, even absurdly attractive Vox is – how smoothly his muscles are rolling under that tight tee, how intricate his inky face and arm tattoos look, how comforting he smells despite the motor oil odour, and how gentlemanly he behaves.

You have caught yourself thinking how wonderful it would be to get to know Vox better – at least as a friend since you have no friends in this city.

'Would you like to come in? At least let me treat you with a cuppa tea,' Once the door is finally open, you ask him shyly.

The taller man takes his glasses off, looking at you through the long lashes while his hands are resting in the pockets – you haven't realised how MUCH taller than you he stands! – and you're almost ready to accept the negative answer, until:

'That would be very kind of you.'

***

With the peaceful whistle of a kettle in the back, you and Vox get into an ordinary conversation about this and that, and what each of you does for a living. From what the handyman has told you, he lives alone here, doing odd jobs on demand: repairing, car fixing, painting, installing, plumbing, and many other different things. It is an honest and respectable job that allows him to have a stable source of income to enjoy his life and hobbies, which coincide with yours – more topics to ramble about.

Being a simple man, Vox acts and speaks in such a sweet manner that makes one naturally drawn to him, as you have concluded. No wonder you have fallen into this too, mesmerised by how open-minded yet humble he is.

'May I take your number?' The handyman pulls his phone out of the pocket to hand it over to you.

Your happy gaze speaks louder than words when you exchange phones with your new acquaintance; almost a treasured set of numbers named by "Vox apt.520" is gleaming on the screen. Distracted by that, you don't notice a small smile on Vox's lips once he has saved your own number.

'Feel free to call me anytime if you need my help or anything,' Vox passes the phone to you, your fingers brushing against his own, obviously rough, in a fleeting touch – yet it sparks so much electricity that you snap your palm away immediately as if having gotten a real shock.

'I don't want to bother you, but thank you, really.'

'No, DO bother me,' the taller man insists; there is no pressure in his voice, only the desire to be as welcoming as possible. 'I know how lonely it gets when you move to a new place. I don't mind hanging out just as friends.'

Vox stretches a hand out for you to shake, and once the warmth of his skin reaches yours, you can't help but relish in the sensation of callousness of the handyman's palms contrasting the tenderness of the way he moves.

"A gentle giant," a thought runs in your mind.

'I wanna go to the local market tomorrow, fancy joining me? As your neighbour, I'll show you some cheap and good spots,' The man's sunny smile is warming your entire soul, and you don't try to refuse the offer.

A new chapter of your life has truly begun.

To be continued... 🛠♥️

[dixontardis]

HI HII CAN I REQUEST AN ANGSTY VOX X F READER, it’s pretty much the reader is in the position that Valentino was in which Vox was prioritising his beef with Alastor instead of his love with the reader, creating issues between them, making the reader feel like he just keeps her around for publicity or something like that lol 🫶

A/N; I am so sorry on the wait for this, here you go!!

warnings: angstttt

𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐂 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐒

The penthouse at the top of VoxTek Tower glowed with the cold, electric blue of a thousand screens. You stood at the floor-to-ceiling window, arms wrapped around yourself, watching the chaotic sprawl of Pentagram City flicker below. Another night. Another broadcast where Vox spent forty-three minutes straight ranting about Alastor’s latest minor victory while your name was only mentioned in passing “and of course, my lovely partner is here supporting the cause”

Support. Right.

The elevator dinged. You didn’t turn around. You already knew the rhythm of his footsteps, the low static hum that always followed him like a second shadow.

“Busy night” Vox said, voice cheerful in that artificial way he used when he was still riding the high of performance. His claws clicked against his phone as he scrolled. “Ratings through the fucking roof. The clip of me calling that radio freak a washed-up has-been is already trending”

You stayed silent.

He finally noticed. “Hey. You okay?”

You laughed once, bitter and short, “Define ‘okay,’ Vox”

The static in the air sharpened. He set the phone down and approached, the reflection of his glowing face sliding across the glass until he was right behind you. His hands settled on your waist, possessive, automatic. Once upon a time that touch had made you melt. Tonight it felt like a brand.

“What’s this about?” he asked, voice dropping into that smooth, modulated tone he used when he wanted something from you. “You’ve been weird all week”

You turned in his arms, forcing him to look at you. Really look. Your eyes were tired. You hadn’t slept properly since the last time he’d cancelled dinner because “Alastor made another move on my territory”

“I’m tired of being the pretty accessory you trot out when the cameras are rolling” you said quietly, “I’m tired of waiting in this tower alone while you chase a man who doesn’t even care that you exist”

Vox’s left eye twitched, the red rings spinning faster, “This again? It’s not chasing. It’s business. It’s survival. Alastor is-”

“More important than me” you finished for him.

He recoiled like you’d slapped him, “That’s not true”

“Isn’t it?” Your voice cracked despite your best efforts, “When’s the last time you asked how I was doing without it being foreplay? When’s the last time you stayed in bed past sunrise instead of running to the control room to check overnight clips of that stupid deer?”

Vox’s mouth opened, closed. For once the great Media Demon had no script.

You stepped back, out of his reach, “I used to think you kept me around because you loved me. Now I’m starting to think you just like the optics. Vox and his gorgeous, adoring girlfriend. Perfect for the brand. Makes you look stable. Makes the investors wet”

“That’s fucked up” he snapped, static screeching. One of the nearby monitors flickered and died. “You know that’s not why-”

“Do I?” Tears burned your eyes but you refused to let them fall. Not yet. “Because from where I’m standing, Valentino and Alastor both get more attention from you than me”

Vox’s claws flexed at his sides. The air filled with the smell of ozone. “You have no idea what I deal with. The pressure. The constant need to stay on top. If I slip for one second that fucking radio bastard will-”

“and I’ll what?” you interrupted, “Disappear? Embarrass you? Stop being useful?”

He moved fast, grabbing your wrist, not hard enough to hurt, but tight enough that you felt the tremor in his hand. “Don’t you dare put words in my mouth”

You looked down at his grip, then back up into his face. The tears finally spilled. “Let go, Vox”

For a second he didn’t. His expression flickered through rage, panic, something almost like fear. Then his fingers loosened. You pulled away.

“I love you” he said, voice glitching, “You know that”

“Do you?” You wiped your face with the back of your hand. “Or do you love the version of me that smiles for the paparazzi and doesn’t complain when you leave me alone for three days straight?”

He didn’t answer.

The silence hurt worse than anything he could have said.

You turned back toward the window, staring out at the city again. “I’m not going to keep waiting for scraps, Vox. I won’t be your Valentino 2.0 - kept around because I’m pretty and useful until something better comes along”

He stepped closer again, but this time he didn’t touch you. His reflection loomed beside yours in the glass, jagged smile flickering.

“I can’t lose you” he whispered. The words sounded almost broken.

You closed your eyes.

“Then stop making me feel like you already have”

The city lights blurred through your tears. Behind you, Vox’s static hummed, uneven, uncertain for once. You didn’t know if he would stay, or if he’d go back to the monitors like always. You weren’t sure you had the strength to find out tonight.

But you knew one thing:

If he chose Alastor again… you weren’t sure you could keep choosing him.

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Taglist: @gennemi

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