#a screen

just a cute little thought i had based on the fact that the dude is almost always wearing some sort of hat (including in the non-canon voxtagram posts!)

character: vox genre: fluff words: 374

vox has an impressive, extensive hat collection that he is exceptionally proud of. it’s obvious; easy to guess, based on his ability to produce the perfect hat for any occasion, but not many have actually had the privilege of seeing his collection in the flesh, in the full.

because that’s personal, that’s special, that’s not just for anyone to view.

it takes a while for him to finally show it to you, a second room wedged deep within his walk-in closet with tall, floor-to-ceiling shelves built into the walls, housing his wide array of hats.

it’s immaculately arranged, but you wouldn’t expect any less from vox. they’re categorized by event, he explains to you as he leads you further into the room, one of his hands in yours. and then organized by colour. it’s the most efficient way to display them, i think, because it makes selecting the ideal accessory hassle-free.

and it’s kinda cute, how excited he is about it, how excited he is to share it with you, each and every hat having a story of its own; a purpose, a past, a reason for being in his collection, packaged with sweet little anecdotes and memories—where he got it from, who made it for him, why he needed it, what happened when he wore it. 

throughout it all, you hum and ooh and nod, thumb rubbing rhythmic caresses across sharp knuckles; a silent encouragement. he meets your questions and remarks with enthusiastic responses, words bouncy and crisp, smile stretched from edge to edge, so wide it almost looks painful.

“maybe i’ll let you wear one of ‘em, one day,” he muses near the end of his showcase, placing a white snapback on your head gently, then tilting his head in observation. 

eyes dimming to a tender glow and smile relaxing to something languid, he grips your chin between a forefinger and a thumb, tipping your head one way, then the other, pupils sweeping in time with your motions. 

“cute,” he murmurs to himself as his grasp releases, the tips of his fingers, then edges of his claws, brushing along your jaw. “i’m sure the press would have a damn field day with that.” 

In my head there is a street with lavenders I like to greet, yet I think I always hurt their feelings.

In my heart there’s kings and queens that people mistake for heartstrings.

They order fucked up things from me it stings, you know what I mean.

Honey, why don’t you come home?

I’ve been waiting for you.

Why don’t you come home?

You know it’s getting cold.

It’s the middle of September, I know.

So, why don’t you come home?

Honey, why don’t you remember?

In your heart I know it bleeds

So, you’ve desensitized it and taped on wings.

Now, it’s growing out dead weeds

with the ring you promised me.

I see it sinking to your feet,

But it still whispers sweet things to me

that’s how I know it still beats.

Laying down staring at the ceiling,

Thinking this time I’m really healing,

But my kings and queens tell my skin

that it needs pealing.

Your greatest love is the tiny screen.

Every day for you is like a looped movie scene.

You promised me I’d be your wife.

So, I know you’ll stitch me back to life.

My lavenders are dying,

My kings and queens are rotting,

My street is covered in rust,

I’m still here, right where you left me.

Alone, my body covered in dust.

Honey, why don’t you come home?

I’ve been waiting for you.

Why don’t you come home?

You know it’s getting cold.

It’s the middle of September, I know.

So, why don’t you come home?

Honey, why don’t you remember?