Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Vox Dei, the voice of god.

Vox Populi, the voice of the people.

Both in the desperate wails of a man that had deluded himself into divinity. 

—

The world smelled of smoke and sulfur. Flames licking against the foot of buildings. 

It smelled of death.

The only sound beyond the silent mourning of the Pentagram was his own hysterical laughing.

“Ha–HA!! You know what?! Fuck Hell, FUCK Heaven! And fuck all of you!” 

His voice was no longer pristine, now with a corrupted undertone to it, courtesy of his damaged speakers.

“As long as I wipe that smile off Alastor’s fucking face, I don’t care what happens!”

Something wet and hot trickled down his screen as he spoke. In his mind, it wasn't there, not when he couldn’t see past the static overlay washing over his vision. 

His body trembled with exhaustion, muscles taut, his fans whirring on maximum overdrive. Everyone watched as his amiable demeanour vanished, his true, ugly scales giving itself away in front of them. Everything came crashing down.

They knew all about his plan, now. His reputation is tarnished, his livelihood, everything he worked for, gone.

EVERYTHING IS GONE.

And it felt— It felt—

It felt fucking good. 

Himself, the real him, stealing the show. No more forced smiles and pretending to tolerate imbeciles while they asked stupid questions! No more having to keep up this stupid public image!

He had never felt freer. 

And in his head, his wings had already spread from the divine.

Sinners looked at him from all over the place. From their homes, across the streets, maybe standing in the very wreckage that he had caused. The machine beneath his feet hummed with power. His power. Pride swelled up in his chest. The chants that infested every corner in his brain.

The strongest sinner in hell.

Overlords, angels, unfortunate passer-bys, they all watched with a multitude of emotions. Terror, desperation, anger, Vox didn’t care. One thing that he knew was that the air smelled of fear. 

They feared him. He basked in the thought of it. The feeling in his chest that told him that he was unstoppable. 

The idea of being something. Real. Threatening. Worthy. The spotlight is shining brighter than it ever has before.

LOOK AT ME.

Even so, he craved more. He craved to be praised for his divinity, for the audience to clap in an applause and bow under his name. Greed wrapped around his neck like a snake.

His left eye pulsed, beating with his dead, mechanical heart, as he scanned the crowd. It was hard to concentrate on his hypnosis when all he could process was the crackling of his own static electricity. 

They didn’t look at him with respect. It made the rhythmic pattern of his pulse skip a beat, the snake curled tighter around his oesophagus. He could hear the mental jeers of his voice, the hissing of a serpent's tongue with a venom that he couldn’t simply wash away. Puny. Futile. Boring.

Insignificant critter.

HOW DOES IT FEEL?

It grated on his ears like sharpened knives, longing washed away with a new and profound distaste.

Whatever. Fuck it. Fuck them. Nothing mattered, except him. This was HIS moment. HIS time to shine. Fuck ANYONE that would try to take this away from him. 

Gods didn’t need to earn respect, all they need is fear. Worship.

Worship me.

Even while panting with exhaustion, his body wracked with weariness, torso still aching from being ripped in half, he still felt immortal. 

Then, glowing, manic red eyes met two similar ones.

The culprit, rimmed with red, two antlers that had loomed over him. That shit-eating grin. It made his fingers and wires tremble with a profound rage, the desire burning  hot in his flesh— to tear that disgusting smile off his face, preferably with his own bare hands.

HOW DOES IT FEEL TO BE THROWN AWAY LIKE TRASH?

But second-best was fine, he supposed. The machine whirred with strain, crackling with an incandescent light. Vox eagerly counted each second in his head, every moment that passed in which the world held a breath, in which the machine’s temperature only ticked up.

This was it. The power. The leverage he had over Alastor, over everyone. He was giddy with excitement, euphoric static rushing to his head like candy on a rollercoaster. 

This was it! His mind whispered again with utmost saccharinity. His prime. His best. The moment he’d be dreaming for all his life. The day he flew above GOD. It was phenomenal!

And if he had to liberate himself through death, then so be it—

A sharp kick into his side sent him flying off the machine. Tumbling onto the ground as with the wires from his back strewn haphazardly. He didn’t even get to catch his breath before two strong claws clutched onto the sides of his screen. 

THE FEELING OF DESPAIR AND HUMILIATION. SPITTLE AS VENOM SO STRONG THAT IT BURNT HOLES INTO YOUR OWN TONGUE.

“You… are… not—“ 

Valentino panted, his heavy breaths beating with the very world itself.

“—FUCKING killing us all over that STUPID DEER!” 

The moth shook him, practically screaming into his audio processors.

He watched as Velvette landed by his side, the one who dared to kick him with such force, her weary voice laced with poison, “It”s over, you dumb fuck!” 

Was that supposed to be a statement of finality? Vox scoffed, shoving Valentino off him. The two people he once called partners stared at him with disdain.

THE TORTURE OF BEING SWEPT AWAY LIKE A MERE GUST OF WIND. FOR YOU TO HAVE SCREAMED YOUR LUNGS OUT UNTIL YOU HAD NO MORE VOICE TO BARE. 

ALL FOR NOT A SINGLE SOUL TO HAVE HEARD YOUR CRIES.

Traitor. It burnt helplessly in his mouth like hot ash. He wanted to curl into a ball and scream until his lungs burst. Traitor. Useless. Remind them who was the leader of the Vees. Put them in their place.

But he could only roll his eyes. His fists refused to rise against his old partners, as they only trembled. They were beneath him. His mind offered. They weren’t worth his time. Vox chalked up the unfeeling heartbeat in his chest to his unending euphoria, ignoring the bitter aftertaste of regret clumped up in his throat. 

He didn't see the way Valentino reached for his hand, the way Velvette’s eyes flitted with concern. He didn't see, he refused to.

Sentimentality offered nothing. That's what hell taught him.

It was a lesson that he had to be taught and taught again. The mantra he repeated in his head like a broken radio.

AND THE WAY YOU DANGLED IT OVER ME, LIKE I WAS A STRAY DOG, BEGGING FOR YOUR ATTENTION.

“FUCK THAT!” 

Vox tore his arm away before Valentino could entrap him.

Fools. Imbeciles. That's all they were. Just another set of irritating clients to tolerate. The world was split into two classes; the mortals and immortals, and the moment they decided to stand in his way, they had already given up their position of liberty. He’d known this from the start. Cowards, they were, turning their backs on him when it mattered most.

Wires manifested from his spine, makeshift tentacles that reflected his every movement. Every thought. He felt an unfamiliar hatred towards them. 

But why now? He still asked, not allowing a single teardrop to fall. Why when he can already taste the honeyed triumph in his mouth? When he was so close to victory?! Why, why, why?!

WHY? I COULDN’T FATHOM IT. WHY DID YOU LEAD ME ON, JUST TO DISPOSE OF ME ON THE SIDE OF THE ROAD?

Yet in all of it, he found humor. The irony. Childish naivety that he was doomed to fail from the start. 

BUT I UNDERSTAND NOW, BECAUSE IT WAS ENTERTAINING, WASN’T IT? 

A smile curled on his lips, and he allowed himself to laugh it all away. The cackling sounds of desperation rattled like thunder. The simple thread in the air that bore like lightning.

THE WAY I OFFERED MY HEART TO YOU. I WOULD’VE GIVEN YOU EVERYTHING ON A PEDESTAL. 

AND ALL YOU DID WAS LAUGH.

The thread instantly snapped, allowing it all to spill, all the blood and bile from his heart, the burning in his throat. He could vomit acid that could disintegrate metal, from the sheer loathing that piled up in his throat. 

“This is MY moment! MY fucking destiny!” Vox watched himself from afar as he screamed the words like a psychiatric patient. Feeling tremors of static overloading his voice, as if it could push away their hidden jabs, insults and glares. 

To him, it had been the voice of a god, but everyone knew the desperate wails of a madman, one that had deluded himself into divinity. 

The pitying look in their eyes that drove him insane.

They simply didn’t understand. They have to understand. He would make them.

The idea of ash under his feet as the world around him exploded in a bright flash of colours and blood. Alastor’s dead, bleeding body, with a magnificent light radiating his form. 

It was mesmerizing. Beautiful. A sight he had to see, even if it meant discarding those that he had thought were important. 

NOW, I’D GIVE IT ALL UP JUST TO SEE YOU STOP LAUGHING.

Vox felt his left eye pulse with overwhelming energy, erratic enthusiasm as he pointed towards the sky. Heaven, rimmed with angelic clouds, on the tip of his finger, and he felt as if the very world revolved around his palm. 

A smile enveloped his lips.

Between Hell and Heaven, so much power that he achieved in only a span of a few weeks. Something only the work of a deity can achieve, someone with a voice above others, someone who decided when reality started and when it ended. Vox had convinced himself that he was of the same ichor.

And his judgement decided it would end right here, the happy ending where he tore it all down and relished in the expression of Alastor’s stupid face, the ending where HE got to have the last laugh—

“I’m a fucking GOD!—” Vox screamed in the name of the divine, before he felt two desperate claws latching onto his face, a heel on his stomach, and the pressure of pulling.

YET, IN THE END…

“SHUT UP!”

The pain in his neck is the only indicator of his decapitation. All he can feel beyond pain is shock at the sheer audacity as Valentino kicks away his now separated body. 

“We’re leaving.”

A tired voice muttered into his processor. He says it like Vox doesn’t get a choice. 

No, Valentino didn’t get to decide that for him. He wasn’t done here. He still had to power the machine. He still had to see the look on Alastor’s face as he was consumed by a fiery ball of angelic destruction. 

I JUST WANTED YOU TO PAY. TO FEEL WHAT I FELT. 

The mere thought of it made him hungry. Electricity crackled. A hand from his own decapitated body reached out, wires outstretched to snatch back what was his. 

THAT WHAT WE WERE, IT ALL REALLY MEANT NOTHING.

“Oh no, you don’t!” 

Any feeling or control he had left in his vessel disappeared when Velvette slammed her heel into its chest with a disgusting squelch. Cables went limp by its side, dark blood sputtering out of where her foot indented it. 

Fucking traitors. His mind spat. Traitors. All of them. 

In his head, there was laughter, akin to mockery. Branded into his head like a dagger carved into stone.

“THERE ARE NO FRIENDS IN HELL, VINCENT.”

Fury hit him like a wave after the initial shock. He worked so fucking hard to get here. No way it was going to end like this. 

He didn’t mind losing everything, as long as he would take Alastor down with him. That was the purpose— That was the point! He.. just had to…

His left eye only twitched, to his dismay, with his consciousness fading in and out from pain and blood loss. 

AND EVEN THEN, I’D KNOW YOU’D STILL LAUGH.

Not like this. His mind could only mutter as vision faded away from his screen. 

The last thing he saw was Alastor staring back at him, lips curled into a cruel smile, a shadowed, crescent moon looking down upon him. Laughing at the aftermath of his humiliation.

AND ONCE, I HAD HOPED I COULD LAUGH ALONG WITH YOU.

His chest bubbled with fury as he could only helplessly watch, still cradled beneath Valentino’s arms. Sparks of electricity as a single, constant reminder. 

You lost.

…

BUT ALL I HAVE NOW IS HATE.

The thought could boil him alive. And how simply, a single sentence could describe the pressure in his chest, that the heat of its explosion could rival the very angelic weapon that he had been standing on, pulsed with instability.

LOATHING THAT ROTS INSIDE MY BODY. 

How he failed again, and again, and again. How he watched as that despicable smile widened with glee.

I DESPISE YOU…

His breath on his neck, cackling laughter that shredded him into millions of pieces.

“You will always be inferior to me, in every possible way.”

I HATE YOU!

Vox drowned in the thought. 

The air smelled of ozone and burnt wiring.

Chapter Text

Icarus, the act of ambition.

For greed can only lead to failure.

---

A speaker played in the distance, a vested man staring straight at the camera, a pristine and perfect smile projecting a welcoming air from the screen.

That’s it for today, and remember!“ The man lifted a finger to the sky, “Trust us! With your—“

The video cut off, static rinsing through the air, as he saw himself reaching towards the light in the distance, a spark administered with a strength unknown to himself. His destiny. His fate. All—

CUT!

That single word was spoken, as the cameras stopped rolling, as they shut off the spotlights. His refraction dimmed, glasses settled dumbly upon his nose bridge. 

The man looked around in disillusionment, as they brought their equipment away, out of the door. Along with their props. Their attention. Leaving him to bask quietly in the dark alone.

—

It’s been hours since the incident. At least, according to his internal clock.

After everything, they stuck Vox into an old storage room. With his only source of light being his own screen. 

At first, he’d been livid, screaming and demanding for them to let him out. Wrath was swallowed in his throat, a seething mess of flickering colours that spasmed with hurt. 

Then, it mellowed into something more akin to despair, washed out with a layer of apathy. He tried sweet talking his way out of the prison, even if his own sugar-scented words felt like taking a bite of hard cement.

I’m sorry. He spat, the sentences involuntarily curling with malice.

A microphone shrieked through the air, sharp feedback crackling, shredding of metal on metal. Screams and wails cracked from the speakers, sobbing in tune with an audience’s applause.

No response. The Media Overlord shut his eyes, running his own spiel through his head once again. To find a way to convince them— that they’d been mistaken. 

He’d been full of shit. Baseless oaths. Maybe there was more he could have said— spilling thousands of apologies for things that weren't even his fault. 

But at that point, Vox knew he’d look desperate, his well-worded remarks devolving into something that might as well have been begging. As if he had been actively seeking their approval. As if it mattered. 

His screen flashed with harsh irritation.

Vox would never bring himself down to the level of begging. Never. 

And in return, only silence glared back at him. Watching the darkness, Vox wondered if they were ever listening in the first place.

Despicable. He’d try to calm his fury, pouring it into something more productive, instead.

“Today, we mourn the loss of one of our own.” 

The man had a solemn expression on his face, fingers holding his microphone loosely. 

“But our commitment to the truth will stay as strong as ever. Remember?”

He looked to the camera, an iconic smile dancing on his lips. 

“Trust us— with your news.”

Right. This was only a minor setback. From the ground to the sky, he’d built this tower, this EMPIRE on his own— with mere ashes instead of bricks, dust instead of cement.

Vox clung onto the thought like a lifeline. Trying to salvage anything remotely positive from this wretched mess.

No, things would be fine, like always, especially in his hands. 

He’d rebuild it all, but better. Stronger. Sharper. Brighter. 

And this time, he’ll make sure it'll be alone. 

The hurt of betrayal hadn't wafted off, sticking to him like an ill-scented perfume. 

Afterall, the more time he spent in the dark, the more time he had to think. Vox found his thoughts tracing back to where it all began. 

What went wrong? His mind spun without answers, recounting the events that lead up to this terrible outcome. Was it a lack of foresight on my behalf? 

No, it couldn't be. He accounted for everything. There was no way. 

He hissed with pride, at the audacity of himself to even contemplate such an idea. 

Velvette, Valentino. They probably fucked something up. As always.

He felt the direction of his anger shift to his ex-business partners. The feeling of Velvette’s heel on his side, as she humiliated him in front of everyone. The bitch. 

And– Valentino. The unforgettable feeling of his neck being torn apart, watching his lover’s face scrunch up with rage. Disappointment. 

He was going to win, and they fucked it all up. Traitor hummed over his head, albeit less prominent. Vox knew he wasn't exactly in the… best state of mind during the whole ordeal, but the words still rung true.

Afterall, they showed him where their loyalty was placed, when they sided with the Morningstar of all people.

Over him.

Traitors.

Another set, another spotlight. He jumped at the opportunity, feeling the same warmth pile up in his chest as the crowd watched him.

“Thank you, to the producers for giving me this chance.” He held his chin up high, dressed with an immaculate white suit, eyes shining like the stars itself. 

Excellent. Magnificent. Outstanding. They cheered from the masses, their thousands of eyes focused on the star of the show.

“I know I have some mighty big shoes to fill…”

But– No… There was more. His sensors paused as he looked over the data. A single piece of data he’d miss. How Alastor was set free.

“WORD-PLAY?! YOU TRICKED ME WITH A FUCKING TECHNICALITY?!” He sputtered with indignation. Hands clutching his own head, as the radio demon laughed at him– the whole thing being some sort of sick joke. 

And now, as it all played back, Vox could see what had been so funny. The way Alastor cackled through the air with sheer and utter delight. 

He’d played him.

He used him.

And with what?

A technicality. His mind echoed, feeling the same indignation he had felt prior. A FUCKING technicality.

The man brought a hand to his chest, eyes flashing with an earnest vigour.

“But I promise, you can trust me… with your entertainment.”

Hilarious. 

The recording stuttered, dissipating as he wrenched it away from his mind. 

Humiliation settled deep into his skin. His downfall, everything that he couldn't salvage from the fire, all because he’d been played by a few well-chosen words.

And Alastor found it hilarious. Vox would've laughed as well, had he been in his position.

Unfair. It chimed within his lungs. That's so fucking unfair. What a joke.

Everything he worked so hard to get, for it to all come crashing down with that singular oversight.

Vox didn’t quite notice the creak of a door, a silhouette standing in the distance. No, his mind was elsewhere, driven away from reality, to a place that was no longer familiar. 

Yet, it played at the back of his head continuously, a show that was constantly set on rewind, damned to never finish.

It followed him for decades. Stayed with him for years.

FAILURE.

It growled with vicious ferocity, harsh truth smacking him straight in the face.

Wires strewn from the ceiling, a water boarded basement that smelled of murk and must. But, in that moment, it had been a stage, a place that was sacred. 

Rows of rows of eyes laid upon him, but this time, they were more than just an audience. Devotion held in their stance— that only continued to rise like the very same water that puddled beneath their feet.

“Vox?”

YOU… HAD IT ALL.

Layers of wet newspaper drifted across the floors, walls that flashed with his image. As he preached, not a single one of them looked away, almost entranced by his presence.

He cheered, and he knew they latched onto his every word with sheer tenacity, every song and tune withheld like a prophecy. He clapped, and the leaking pipes applauded with unity. 

They called him a God. His mind spun with their worship. Excellent. Celestial. Perfect.

Absolutely perfect.

ALL AT THE TIP OF YOUR FINGERS.

Vincent pointed towards the sky. A smile so wide on his face. The entire world revolved around his palm.

“—lat-faced prince. Hello?”

YOU FLEW.

“Trust me, and your future will be BRIGHTER!“ 

He preached, and they listened. Stars above—screens flashed, energy fizzled and crackled like twinkling moonlights. 

The air shook with his laughter, the hopes of a new dawn shivering along with every breath. And at that moment, he could only think—

This was it.

“Now who's ready to be baptized into a new era of entertainment?!”

He screamed in the name of the divine.

“Are you listening?!”

Red lights bathed him in the heat of complexion, transforming him into a figure of pure fantasy, the warmth of destiny beating between thousands of hearts. The hazily glow bounced off the water, spewing threads of worship that outlined him in an empyrean form.

His wings unfurled, spread across the horizon, allowing the fantastic light to reach each pristine feather. He basked greedily in the light, unbeknownst to each feather that fell apart, melting back into the endless void of the ocean.

Embers, he may as well have been burnt alive.

BUT ALL IT TOOK WAS A SINGLE MISTAKE.

The television overhead flashed like the never-ending heat of the sun.

ICARUS.

SNAP!

It was all in just one moment. That when he looked up, he didn’t see the stars, nor the sky, but a pitch black abyss that only grew closer, and closer.

Failure screamed in his face.

He should’ve been scared. Perhaps, pray, beg for forgiveness, for his fraudulent feathers that he shaped in a laughable mockery of the divine. But, he only reached up higher to the sun, blinded by his desire for power.

On the high, the absolute peak of the pedestal he had attached himself to— he failed to see his impending end, eyes too focused on what he called the stars. It never occurred to him at all.

What a truly, stupid way to die.

Glass exploded. Shattering that was rampant in his ears, curled up electricity setting every single one of his nerves on fire, the heat coursing through his veins like molten lava. The weight of a thousand needles on his neck, as he felt his bones snap with each piercing shot. His teeth scattered into the ground like dainty puzzle pieces.

The world shrieked with a howl of lightning, agony looking back at him as the muscles above his shoulders were shredded into useless clumps of meat. The mutilation of his neck, the taste of pure iron in his mouth, the smell of his own burnt flesh— His body revolted with a sharp jolt.

It burned.

It burned.

IT BURNS.

“Shit… VOX! Get a hold of yourself, you idiot! You’re gonna —"

It happened. Electricity erupted. He screamed. Someone screamed along with him, the same echo of shattering glass spilled through the air, a device in their hand having erupting into small, pitiful clear pieces.

“What the fuck?! That was my new phone, you bitch!” 

They seethed, expletives pouring out of their mouth like water, equally drowned out by a heavy wall that seemed to have placed itself between them.

“Fucking hell. Leave it up to one of you two grown ass men to somehow find something to get mad about in a fucking supply closet. Absolute pissbabies.”

Vox, for his part, heaved, painstakingly waiting for his audio and visual processors to adjust. The wave of nausea hit him like a flood, static pacing through his… his… throat. That wasn’t there. It devolved into a phantom pain at his neck, simply lingering, now.

The nausea faded, allowing him to see a clearer silhouette of the person in front of him. Someone with a short stature, but loomed over him nonetheless due to his current predicament. 

Velvette, her eyes narrowed into a furious glare, watched him, plastic palms covered with a doll-equivalent of lacerations, scarring mauled between her fingers from the shattered glass.

Wait, Velvette?

“Vel?” Vox echoed his thoughts, internally cringing when it came out as a helpless whisper. Subconsciously, he cleared his throat, looking off to the side as he scrambled for his words, feeling them slide out of his grip. 

Convince them, convince them. He sat there like a gaping fish, the endless apologies at the tip of his tongue. Shit, what was I going to say again?

“I don’t want to hear it, Vox.” A clicking of her tongue instantly snapped his thoughts away, Velvette already sensing his ramblings and deciding that she was sick of it. “Val and I have been talking, and we’re finally deciding to let you out.” 

The statement sent a halt to his jeering mindscape. He had been starting to speculate that they had abandoned him to rot in a supply closet. His eyebrows were raised, tongue cut short and pleasantly surprised. The phantom pain of his neck being set aflame almost disappearing along with the rest of his thoughts. 

Almost. To his misfortune, the area below his head still stung.

Velvette’s face scrunched up in annoyance at his expression, causing her to slightly backtrack on her words, “It was on Val’s insistence. Not mine. Use that for whatever manipulative shit you get off to— I don’t care, just don’t drag me into it.”

Her tone was filled with an icy dread, immediately freezing the relief that bloomed in his chest. His stomach slightly dropped. Not over it, apparently.

Vox found himself unable to stutter out an indignant response to defend himself, before he was taken from his position on the floor. 

She gently lifted him with two hands, sweeping away the shattered glass with her foot, muttering something about him owing her a new phone and et cetera. It screeched under her heel, utterly grating to his audio processors. 

Vox grimaced, and she smiled, making him already regret feeling any semblance of relief in the first place.

Ultimately, Velvette opted to ignore him as she took long, cold, anger-filled strides to the exit, clearly still caught up with whatever emotions that have been plaguing her since the incident. 

He rolled his eyes. Seriously? Vox wanted to make an offhanded comment about it, but he knew that would’ve likely ended up with him hurled across the floor and his own shattered screen contributing to the pile of glass. 

Women. 

He exhaled, feeling utterly refreshed when Velvette brought him out of the storage room. The dust in there had been driving him a little crazy, so he took lung-fulls of air as if he hadn’t seen daylight since the 19th century. 

The elevator ride was… awkward. To say the least. While Vox tried to keep up an indifferent expression on his face, his mind was racing through a myriad of unceasing emotions and thoughts. 

What the fuck. Should he be saying something right now? The TV demon tried to discreetly take a peek at Velvette’s expression, the doll having taken to scrolling through Vistagram rather than acknowledging his presence, 

Her face was still wrapped in that cold, aching, silent anger that was screaming under her skin. Vox, to his dismay, felt a tinge of nervousness at which the fury may be directed at.

It could kill him.

The elevator beeped, with Velvette practically shoving herself out of the doors and into their usual, bright, flashy hallways. 

Vox would’ve believed that the temperature dropped down an inch, as employees immediately scattered out of the way, prey smelling her anger. A foul beast with a ticking time bomb, and no one wanted to be her first victim when she struck.

Velvette strutted into an entrance with vigour, practically tossing Vox into the room. He landed on the pillow with a hard thump, his eyes almost failing to realize that this was Valentino’s room. 

He looked at her with utter confusion. Then the sharp look in her gaze. Then… Oh.

She drew glyphs in the air, and in an instant, every security camera or device in proximity shattered. Oh. In her hands, Velvette spun a key around her finger, what he presumed to be the key to the lock to the only door in the room.

Oh.

He was so fucked.

Velvette watched him like a lioness, taking small, vacant steps towards the exit behind her. She squinted her eyes, almost telepathically saying “I’m watching you.” before the doll was satisfied with slamming the door loudly, with an echo that could make his teeth chatter.

Welp. This was it. End of the line. She probably went to get an angelic weapon to slit his throat a second time and before leaving a big fat blue splotch on the floor at mercy to Val’s whims. To finish the fucking job.

Couldn’t even let him have the courtesy of doing it himself. Fuck.

Clicking of heels on the marble floor followed shortly after. And, well, Vox mentally sung his prayers. At least, Shok.wav had a nice place to live and would be greatly taken care of. 

The TV demon shut his eyes, allowing the world to slink away from him. Vox would’ve described the mannerism as pathetic.

…

“Oi.” He felt prodding against his digital cheek. “What the hell are you doing? Open your eyes.”

He did. The world registered back in slow motion, but this time, an indescribable smell wafted through the air. It settled in his metaphorical nose, an oddly, comfortable aroma, one that consisted of… meat and vegetable broth?

Velvette held a spoonful of chicken soup to his face.

“Eat.”

“Wh—“

“I’m not asking, Vee. Eat.”

Vox looked at her like she had uttered something completely insane. Maybe she had, as she was sitting cross-legged on the floor and trying to fucking feed him home-made chicken soup of all things. He looked at the spoonful with disdain, as if it were made of poison. 

The scent of burnt flesh reverberated in his lungs.

“I’m not hungry.”

Velvette laid out a hefty sigh, as if pouring years of stress into it, wishing all her problems could similarly dissolve away within a single breath. 

“I swear to fucking god, Vox. You haven’t eaten since this morning. I’ll shove it down your bitchy throat if I have to.”

Rage piled up on his face. “Are you deaf? I told you I’m not—Aghk!” 

The minute he opened his mouth at an attempt at another retort, Velvette jumped at the opportunity and rammed the spoon in between his lips. 

Satisfaction held her closely as she watched Vox hacked, the soup going down his throat against his will. When he was finished choking down the meal, he glared at her with utmost ferocity, “What the fuck, Vel?!” 

The doll only looked at him with a smug grin on her face, “Told you. Now, are you going to eat, or do I have to continue force-feeding you like one of Val’s fucking cunts?”

She took his unintelligible grumble as an answer, the TV demon begrudgingly wrenched his mouth open to take another bite. Velvette watched to make sure he didn’t choke on the spot and died, her eyes never leaving him. 

To him, it felt like eternity, years between each small spoonful that granted warmth to his mouth. 

Swallowing was an utter struggle, with his throat no longer existing— leading Vox to briefly wonder how the anatomy here actually worked. It might make for an interesting research project.

Ha! Research all about swallowing. Valentino probably would have made a dirty joke about that.

…

He took the next bite with a lot more force, sharp teeth almost snapping Velvette’s hand clean off. All of a sudden, the soup tasted bitter and cold.

She barely flinched, “What the fuck’s got you pissed now? Don’t tell me you’re gonna throw a fucking tantrum over eating soup.”

His tongue itched. To address it. To say something rather than suffer in this suffocating silence. “…Vel, I—“

“No. Nope. That was a rhetorical question. I don’t give a shit about what you have to say. Now, shut up and eat.”

He glared at her, but took another bite anyways. Vox could taste every pinch seasoning that was poorly mixed into the soup. Without his mood influencing his tastebuds, it was honestly mediocre at best. But. Well…

His eyes drifted to the recipe book in the background, Velvette’s hair slightly smelling of spices.

It wasn’t bad.