Hello, I'm your wonderful author host who writes shitty fanfiction on a whim. Call me 'J' for now. Expect infrequent posts and lots of reblogging.
For writing purposes, I'd like to share that I have BPD and OSDD. I got shit about writing something related to yanderes, and said person didn't know I had BPD, so yikes; that's why I'm sharing.
I have no DNI besides the fact that I am uncomfortable with minors following me or interacting with some of my works; I also reblog a lot of nsfw. Anyone else is free to enjoy my works as long as you are respectful.
First off, my request guidelines are very simple and broad, so if something is unclear then just ask. I will write strictly MLM/NBLM content (most ships and x readers) for anything that pertains to the specific media I'm hyperfixated on. I'll likely write anything you send me as long as it fits within those two criteria, so go ahead, request anything you want.
The ask box is always open for anything you wanna tell me. Requests, kudos, doesn't matter.
I will warn now that requests are never going to have a guarantee of being granted because of multiple factors; such as, for one, being a human being. Let's just say that if I feel like it, I'll do it. Simple as that.
Please do not DM me to be friends or to chat. I will blissfully ignore you. If you have questions about anything else though, feel free. I'm okay with becoming mutuals, otherwise.
If you'd like to scroll through my writings, search #my writing on my account. If you'd like to see asks I've answered that aren't related to writing, search #asks. I don't tag anything else
That's basically it. Here's a link to my masterlist where you can navigate all my writings I've posted on here; and a link to my AO3 where I post extensive, more complex works with more effort put into them. I'll also be dropping links here whenever something new drops from my AO3.
Good morning to the best writer in this fandom! Might I interest you in my humble request? Your portrayal of Vox is so astonishing that canon Vox can only wish to be as corrupted as the Vox you're showing us, that's why I've been wondering about something regarding him in particular. Desperate, yearning Vox, the impatient, dry humping, coming in pants one, all because reader is somehow immune for his hypnosis abilities and he can barely handle it. For the plot, of course.
Whether you decide to write it or not, I wish you all the best!
. 𓂃 ࣪ ˖ ♡ 𖥻 𝑷𝑹𝑬𝑻𝑻𝒀 𝑷𝑳𝑬𝑨𝑺𝑬 : when sex with your boss is no different that putting a dog out of its misery. vox x reader ﾉ masterlist
( cw ᝰ.ᐟ✧ minors dni :: gender neutral reader :: dry humping / grinding :: coming in pants :: power dynamics :: mild choking :: under-negotiated kink :: semi-public sex / office sex :: humiliation kink :: yearning :: vox being somewhat pathetic & desesperated :: reader is a little mean )
notes : oh nonnie, this request was such a little treat— you’re so kind! thank you for thinking so, you got me giggling and kicking my feet; this also was the perfect excuse to finish an old draft after months of side-tracking my requests, hopefully is what you expected!
vox thinks of kissing you often.
after you put some report over his desk as he sits down, and you're hovering just a little too close. almost face to face. it would be simple to close the gap, just a matter of a few, bare inches. hardly any space at all. he thinks of kissing you as you step away, brush some imaginary dirt from his sleeve with a laugh. he thinks of kissing you as you wave him goodbye with a barely-there smile.
sometimes, vox really hates you. it's just the way you make him want you. that's all—
"sir?"
the glow across his screen stutters in a brief wash of static before settling again, and only then does he realize you've been standing there talking while he's done nothing except stare at your mouth for the past thirty seconds like a fucking idiot.
( he feels like he's going to do something he regrets. )
you blink at him, brows pinching a little but otherwise even, like this is a totally normal thursday. "velvette sent the quarterly reports?"
"hm," vox hums, not sounding like he really cares either way. he glances at the stack sitting directly in front of him, then waves a hand dismissively. "yeah, yeah, leave 'em there."
"and then?"
"and then what?" vox says flatly, trying so hard to just focus on the folders and not the the way your lips draw south. it makes him feel so—bad and out of control. like the rupturing of rules has unmoored something in his body that primarily registers as waves of burning heat between his legs. he really hates it. he really hates you. "you want a medal for delivering paperwork?"
"i want you to stop asking for things you don’t care about, sir." you walk closer to set your own tablet down on his desk and vox has to physically stop himself from following the movement.
"don't get hysterical on me, now," vox leans back in his chair, grin stretching sharp across his face. "you got a lotta confidence for someone working under me."
"i'm trying to understand why you dragged me up here just to waste my time." you realese a big, laborious sigh.
"waste your—" vox laughs once, loud and humorless, mood seemingly lightened somewhat by the breezy tone of your voice. "you think your time's that valuable?"
"you keep requesting me specifically, so apparently someone does."
"oh, fuck you."
it should feel like winning, getting under your skin, but instead there's something brutal and desperate budding in his chest. he feels like a cornered animal. he feels like he's about to do something he'll regret.
"what is your problem lately?"
"my problem?" the sound of vox's chair creaking as he gets up is enough to make you jump. the realization freeze you for a moment, gasping. "you wanna know what my problem is?"
"sir—"
before you can step back, vox reaches across the desk and grabs your jaw with one hand, long fingers pressing into your cheeks as he tilts your face toward him, the hypnotic rings flare violently across his eye, yanking you closer over the desk.
"just—" vox growls, frustrated enough to sound breathless and distorted. "for once, just fucking—"
vox panics all over again and you must see it in his eyes, because your frown shifts from anified annoyance to something soft, warm, pitying. vox fucking hates you.
he's an open wound on the floor, you could crawl inside it, you could become adhered to him as he coagulates. instead, you wrench your face sideways in his grip.
"vox," is all you say. no honorific, no jokes. you can't even muster the thickness of warning. it's like you're just saying his name, because you like the way it feels on your tongue. "i thought we already established this doesn't work on me," you add, a concession like death.
his face doesn't light up or anything, its not what he wants. not really. you know this. his grip loosens, fingers falling away from your face while embarrassment burns hot under his skin so fast it almost feels like anger instead. fuck. fucking hell.
"whatever. forget it." he mutters and he drops back into his chair with upturned eyes like miserable puddles of topaz, rainwater warmed with a street lamp. "you can go."
he's so used to knowing everything, to be able to control everyone around him at a glance. you want to be kind to him– he doesn't know what to do with that. he doesn't know what to do with any of it, only that if he makes any decision at all, you may shrink away from him, from this.
he can't even deal with that horror right now because you start rounding his desk, the sound of your footsteps against the floor seems absurdly loud in the sudden quiet. he snaps with a feeling like his insides have just gotten caught on a fisherman's hook.
"what exactly do you need from me so badly that you keep trying that?"
"what," his shoulder tense, predatory instinct kicks in automatically. "what the hell are you doing?"
"i won't do anything." you stop directly in front of him, close enough that he has to tilt his head back slightly from his chair. vox suddenly feels very aware of how large you seem standing over him like this. "i just asked you a question, sir."
you say that— i won't do anything. it's cute because he doesn't get it— that you're not worried about him doing something to you. not like you're worried you might do something to him.
"i don't need—" he starts, scoffing. "what kind of—"
"you do," you say, reaching out and putting your hand on the side of his casing, stomach lurching at the slip of softness of your palm. his eyes widen and flash. "you've been acting insane for months now, so explain it to me."
a spill of teal across his screen. he blushes so easily it's going to keep him up at night. "you think you're real funny right now?"
"no." your voice softens. "i think you are pathetic."
vox sputters immediately, offended. "excuse me? watch your fuckin'—"
your hand closes around the front of his throat at the same time your thigh slides between his legs like a knife through butter, forcing them apart as you wedge yourself closer, nearly seated in his lap now. the position pins him effortlessly against the chair, and he can feel the heat of you through the expensive fabric of his slacks.
"holy fuck. shit. christ." vox swallows, watching you with wide, excited eyes. you raise trace a finger over the exposed arch of his throat, feeling the throb of his pulse underneath.
"now," you murmur, letting your eyes go lidded. "try again."
"wh—" vox's throat clicks underneath your hand, dry. "what?"
talking is challenging because he's still so hard, it's depriving his brain of blood. you're so warm against him and you smell so fucking good and there's just never been a moment in all the time he's known you when he didn't want you in his mouth. under his skin.
and maybe he should assert some dominance if he wasn’t more focused on pressing his hot clothed length against your thigh.
"what would hypnotizing me even accomplish?" you press, and so does your hand. "you want me quieter? more obedient? nicer to you?"
velvette's love potion has never work on him before but he imagines this is what it's like to be drugged. he's dizzy, swaying on the spot but he doesn't care because all he can think about is your hands around his throat and the way your knee bumps his growing erection whether you mean for it to or not and how easy it would be to tilt his head forward and—
"i just—" his voice cracks into static. he feels so hot he's surprised the building hasn't lost power yet. his hands grip the arms of the chair hard enough to crack. "you never— fuck—"
vox doesn't whimper, though it's a close thing. his vision flickers, fragmenting, and he doesn't know if his eyelids fluttered or if his entire display just glitched. either way, he can't help but buck upwards, chasing that delicious friction like his life depends on it.
"i what?" you insist.
vox swallows, hips shuddering at each lascivious, harsh roll of his hips, as though he aimed to have his cock inside your cunt regardless of the fabric that separated the pair of you. the commotion is but a mute, irrelevant thing as vox rock back and forth shamelessly, trying to rub the head of his cock against your knee even as he feels the ache of his own erection, where an honest-to-god wet spot is forming.
he can feel how smeary-wet he is, and vox feels like a fucking teenager all over again. everything slick, messy. this is so foul and should be nothing compare to all the things he does on a daily basis, but it already feels like too much, like the pleasure is building towards some unhinged, explosive ending.
it almost hurt, how much he wants you.
"you have any idea," his thighs are so tense he's scared he's going to cramp. "you keep— nobody ignores me like this."
you tilt your head slightly. you lighten your grip, just slightly—enough that vox doesn't have to force his himself to speak. "so this is about your ego?"
"no— yes— maybe—" vox doesn't know what he's babbling. he might agree to anything you say, actually. his brain is clouded, his body tilting forward towards the flame like a moth drawn to its own demise. his cock throbs, and he doesn't want to touch it, but he wants you to touch it, that's for sure. he wants to be sitting against you right now, head lolling back against your shoulder, legs spread so you can jack him off, all careful and tender.
he shouldn't think of you like this. all soft and round, all warm under his touch. he gets flashbulb images— the column of your throat, the curve of your thighs, the dips between your knuckles.
your hands.
( your hands your hands your hands. how they would feel against him, everywhere, anywhere. he imagines begging— you'd be too nice to press, grip, pull as hard as he needs. )
"it's always been this way, hasn't it?," you hum. vox does whimper this time—the sound of a prey animal ready to throw itself into your maw and thank you for the honor.
"n-not like— not in a weird way," vox manages, panting. he's staring up at you, dizzying static playing through his eyes as he struggles to focus. "i mean, obviously in a weird way, but not—"
you tighten your hand around vox's throat, and the words cut off. it's mostly a testament to vox's willingness to humor you, or else he's just very horny to care. it's not like he needs to breathe.
"you're really very pathetic, love box."
eventually vox finds a particularly maddening back-and-forth thrust that rips the pitchiest, most frenzied cries out of his throat. all the while you do nothing. regardless, he's gasping in a rather overwhelmed sort of way as you adjust your thigh, hitching his hips against you with every movement.
"ah—" vox gasps, his vocals are fritzing out on occasion. there’s a trail of red trickling from the corner of his mouth. "oh, fuck—i wanna—"
sparks are flickering up his spine. vox is sure your thigh is getting damp with his wetness, the grind growing more slick, making him squirm and grind down harder, suddenly desperate and oversensitive. you slide your leg forward, pressing his length against you, and moans out loud as the sudden stimulation makes his hips jump.
"—touch you," vox finally says. "just let me—"
"no," you hiss, low and pitying, and slap his hand away like he's an annoying fly where they hover against your waist. "you don't deserved it after all you put me through"
"c'mon," vox says, the words practically dragged out of his throat loud. to no one. to the you that lives inside him. "you're so—oh fuck—i've had fantasies about this—i hate you, you don't know what it's like, you don't know what you look like—"
"beggars can't be choosers, vox."
"fu-uck," vox cries, trying and failing to grind his hips into the motion when you press your knee harsher into his crotch for a firmer grind. "at least touch my dick! oh, god, touch my dick—it hurts but i'm so fuckin' hard—"
"at some point," you muse absentmindedly, drawing back in a slow glide that sends vox scrabbling, "you're going to realize what the only answer i'm going to give you is."
it doesn't even makes sense, in the context of him listening to you of all people. it should be the other way around, it should be vox making you beg and cry and making you want this. he'd felt you beneath him, once. moving together, pushing toward something fast and hot. would you like touching him the way he likes touching you? yould you want more and more and more like him?
and just like that, vox's hands snaps to the armrests again, clawing and gripping for dear life as his face flush, fizzing over with static.
he buries it in your chest, and he's so grateful you don't shove him off. he feels so good here, like this. god, he wants to smother himself in it. in you. he imagines burying his face against every part of your body, he imagines the weight of you on top of him, your thighs squeezing him, your hands holding on.
your hands your hands your hands.
"aw, sweetheart," a hand lands on his head, petting over the hard casing, and tickles up one of his antennae. it's condescending; it's the firts time you call him that, "i will give it to you, though, you're pretty proficient at humping—it's gonna make me think you're a bit of a slut for me, sir."
( vox knows you're making fun of him, but he also can't help the way it turns him on. fucking condescending. he wants you to call him sweetheart forever. he wants to drown in it. )
"fuck you," vox pants againts your clothed chest. it's not as good, but he's so close that it doesn't matter, hips kicking into the air blatantly and shamelessly. he can't let this go, he can't, he can't— "fuck you, asshole, fuck, fuck, oh, please—fuck—doll—"
"no?" you ask. "you are not?" your voice is quiet, raspy as your dainty hand roughly rubs at his dick print, back and forth, back and forth. you might really kill him. he might die here with you smiling up at him every time he twitches to life underneath your fingertips and he'd die happy.
vox keens, tilting and shaking his head back against the chair frantically. palming him harder and faster, you smooth a finger over the outline of your his leaky tip and watch as precum seeps through material– and earning yourself petulant moans and whines from vox. pretty sounds that just barely escape through gritted teeth. your face is so close—so close, vox wants it—he needs it—
he wants you to be looking at him with more than an unreadable expression but with the same pathetic, maddening hunger he feels for you.
like a hibernating beast waking up ravenous to storm and devouring everything in sight, a mandate lurches to attention inside of vox, beyond logic, beyond self preservation. to make you really look at him. he braces himself with a single hand on your thigh and reaches for the bow tie with the other one, ripping open his shirt. he must look like an animal but there's sweat beaded on his sternum and he wants—
"or are you going to prove me right?"
and vox comes just like that, damp with sweat and gasping with frustration and humping your thigh as you stare down at him, imagining you're straddling his thigh with your arms thrown round his neck. it's not the thought of you spread wide over his slacks that sends him over the edge, but the thought of you looking down at him there to see it. staring, wanting, unable to resist.
it's not a screaming orgasm—not like the one he most certainly would have had on any other circunstances—but it's certainly up there with his best ones.
"fuck," he says, very quietly, so maybe he doesn't say it at all. vox doesn't know because his eyes are closed and his head is thrown back and the blood is pounding in his ears and so it feels like he's drowning.
vox's claws are digging into your thigh like he couldn't stay upright otherwise— his hips won't stop twitching, working back and forth in tiny, minute motions, like he's trying to shake more out or just hump your leg like a dog. there's nothing left—but the phantom of the pressure is still there.
you slide your fingers along his neck before cupping the side of his screen. then, before he can recover enough to start talking again, you lean forward and press a brief kiss against the corner of his screen.
"you're such a fucking tease," he makes a gutted sound, though there's no real venom behind it. vox squirms and writhes in place, squint his eyes halfway open and meet your gaze as he finally shudders to completion.
you pull back before he can chase it.
one smooth movement and you're off his lap, straightening to your full height. your clothes are mostly intact save for the shallow scratches dragged across your trousers where his claws had caught. beneath them, a darker patch stains the fabric slightly from his own fluids, which makes vox's stomach lurch so powerfully he whites out for a second, vision nothing but static.
"velvette wants the reports finalized tonight," you say calmly, reaching for your tablet atop the desk. vox is still trying to process the fact that you're talking about work.
"what—" vox coughs once, voice rough and wrecked. "you're just gonna—"
"hm."
"after that?"
"you finished, didn't you?" vox groans dramatically, throwing his head back against the chair as you step around the desk, "i'll tell ethan to bring you a change of clothes," you add.
vox hates how quickly panic sparks in his chest at the sight of you leaving. after months of wanting and wanting and wanting, now that he's finally had a taste of your attention, the thought of losing it again feels unbearable.
"you're seriously leaving?" he blurts before he can stop himself.
you pause by the door. you look at him properly then, and vox doesn't dwell in the way his entire body immediately perks up under the attention like a dog.
"yes, vox." that small smile appears again. vox swears his nonexistent heart stutters. "and next time you want my attention, try asking normally first."
the door slides shut behind you.
and vox stays there alone in the silence, slumped in his chair with your warmth still lingering against him and that stupid little forehead kiss looping through his mind like corrupted footage.
