#cheezefluff

“Vox?” The drowsy haze lifts, your eyes shooting open once you recognize the gruff voice in your ears. You turn on your side to find him laid flat on his stomach, flat screen occupying the expanse of the soft pillow.

A dim, cyan glow peeks through the vents of his bare back. “I‘m here, baby.” He replies, voice muffled. “You sound so surprised, was it someone else you were expecting?”

With a soft smile blooming on your face, you respond, “Already so mouthy, it’s six in the morning,” You wipe the remnants of sleep from your crusted eyes. “And, no, you were just who I was looking for.”

Vox’s drawling makes your heart sputter, sending a warm feeling that spreads throughout your abdomen. You couldn’t remember the last time you spent a morning together, and you’d forgotten how much you loved the sound of his voice in the morning. In fact, you’d almost forgotten how he even sounded.

This image of Vox — raw, homely, and heart-wrenchingly domestic — was exclusively yours to enjoy, and you couldn’t help but hope that you’d keep him like this someday, forever. Mornings like this were hard to come by, especially with your clashing schedules.

You’d quit working if it meant this would happen more often, but you enjoyed your job far too much. It was a blessing practically impossible to obtain if you weren’t an overlord, or at least a sinner more than privileged enough to enjoy the most simple of things, like working.

This was established early on in your relationship, when even despite Vox’s countless offers for you to just work under VoxTek so he could adjust your schedule to fit his, you stayed loyal to the following you’d amassed over the decades you’ve spent in hell.

Now, you watch as Vox raises his head, turning over so he could lay on his back instead. His screen’s dimmer than usual, ditching the bright cyan screen for a deep, dusty blue. He doesn’t respond any further and simply brings his arms out, a silent invitation to rest your head on his chest. Red eyes stare at you expectantly.

The smile on your face only grows, and you push yourself up to position your head over his pecs. “I have to get ready soon,” You say. Vox envelops you in his arms and places a quick kiss on the top of your head before replying,

“Who decided that?”

“I did, the charts need me.”

“You know I can just rig the fuckin’ leaderboard, right?” Vox raises an eyebrow, speaking like he couldn’t believe you haven’t thought of a solution as simple as that.

You knew he meant well, he always did. So, like any good partner would do, he offers you the next best thing the moment he notices your lips curving into a wistful smile, “Can’t I just kill your producer so you don’t have to come in today?”

At this, you laugh, throwing your head back on rest on the curve of his shoulder. Vox’s arm moves to rest around your waist, giving you a little squeeze. “Don’t laugh at my plans, I’m serious.”

“Vox! You can’t just kill someone to make me stay home!” You laugh against his throat when you feel his hands softly tickle your sides, pressing you closer against him. You could barely make any movement in his embrace, just what he needed to delay your schedule.

“I’ll only be a while, baby, then you can have me all to yourself tonight. I promise.”

He scoffs, “You slept at three, you’re passing out the moment you hit the bed.” One of his hands trails down your hip, softly scratching lines and shapes to busy himself; constant stimulation he needed. “Your phone was still on when I saw you. Blue light before bed isn’t good for you, y’know?”

You return the contact with a hand reaching up towards the edge of his screen. “Oh-ho, so that’s why you haven’t been coming home to me?”

Vox tenses, the hand on your hip stilling, and your name leaves his lips. His voice drops down to a whisper, uncharacteristically apologetic of him, “You know I don’t always mean to—”

“I know. Sorry, I was kidding, it’s not your fault,” You ease his worries and smile against his neck, thumb now rubbing back and forth on his screen. “Nor is it mine. We’re both busy, Vox.”

“I wish you didn’t have to be.”

You let the silence linger to take the moment in. You’d have to get up soon, already dreading the begrudging start of your morning. The sky outside his penthouse was as bright as hell could be in the mornings, just with a brighter red instead of the dark magenta it usually was.

You close your eyes, letting the soft whirring of his internal engines fill the air instead. The silence was cut short when Vox perked up,

“Actually, you aren’t.”

Confused, you push your head up to finally look at him. His screen was filled with windows of texts and emails, all addressed towards your record label. The windows exit one by one, Vox making a little show to let you see his multitasked work. When the last one, a simple ‘Reschedule.’ sent to your assistant, vanishes, his smug face fills the screen again.

“You’re busy tomorrow.” Vox says, as if he didn’t just let you in on everything he adjusted for you. “Right now, you're all mine, how does that sound?”

You blink. You couldn't even complain, the studio owner was being an ass about your scheduling today, and the last thing you wanted was to waste a morning with Vox and have to wait for Satan-knows-when.

Sighing, you give him a soft smile. “More than good, you’re the best.”

“So I’ve heard,” The hand on your hip now cradles your head. “Come give me a kiss if you really think so.”

For the first time since you’ve known him, Vox is silent. From what you could ascertain from the look on his face — a mix of understandable disgust and increasing worry — you probably looked a mess.

He’s quiet, too quiet, and you shift uncomfortably under his gaze. Whether he was angry about your injuries or at your dirtying of his control panels, you had no idea.

You look down at the droplets you left on his desk and press your lips into a thin line. “Right. I’ll just- I’ll head out—“

”You didn’t think to fucking call me instead of showing up to my office uninvited?” He rasps.

The sound of crackling static registers in your ear, paired with a fuzzy sensation that raises hair all over your body. Vox is gone for a split second before he appears in front of you with a hand on your shoulder to hold you up.

Prepare for the most extensive interrogation.

“Who the fuck did this to you? Where were you? Why in HELL did you ever even think about going there? Last I checked, you had a brain, didn’t you?”

He’s frantic, substituting his arm for his cables to support you, just to pull up screens of CCTV footage around the bar’s streets, already searching their faces up on the Pride Ring Sinners Database he’d perfectly curated.

It almost seems as if Vox is more frustrated at himself than he is with you — seen in the way his hands clench and unclench the longer he stands staring at the indoor footage of you getting your ass handed to you.

He's too preoccupied with the screens that he's barely even looked at you since he brought them out.

You had to remind him that yes, the person he is looking at in 480p is in fact right in front of him, barely being held up by his cables.

“So fucking stupid.”

“Don’t have to tell me twice.”

His hands tense around your shoulders. “I— you’re not— it’s not you.”

“You, then?”

“It’zZZ- not me either! You’re… fuck, if it weren’t for that shitty meeting, I would’ve kept a better eye on you. I leave you by yourself for zZZT- one day and look at what happens.”

“Hey.” You snap your fingers in front of his face when you notice his attention straying to one of his screens again. “You’re here now, right where I need you to be. That matters more, okay? Not if you were behind some screen watching me like I’ll explode the whole of Pride if you weren’t.”

He softens, not by a whole lot, but still. “You’re joking, but that’s a real possibility. Don’t speak it into existence.”

Surprisingly enough, he actually offers to tend to your wounds the best he could.

With wires for veins and arteries, you obviously didn't expect him to be all that well-equipped with any knowledge of first aid, especially with a regular Sinners' anatomy.

When you ask him if he knows what he's doing, he tells you to shut up and faces away from you.

The bright flash of light reflecting off his tiled floors was what gave him away, as his screen filled with browser pop-ups of multiple step-by-step tutorials.

You couldn't complain, not with how he's cleaning your face with a wet rag, sharing your pained expression whenever he put too much pressure or if he grazed over an open wound.

If your “relationship” with him hasn't been going on for too long, don't expect to be babied. He's only concerned, not a saint.

But with his constant need for things to be as perfect as needed, his own version of solicitude was the closest you would ever get to V.I.P. treatment.

You won't get a pat and a kiss on your boo-boos, but what you will get is the most secure suture you've ever seen in Hell.

That comes with having to act like you don't see the cyan glow of his screen with a loading tutorial video looming behind your shoulder.

He’s not at all gentle, but you can tell he’s trying his hardest to be.

When you’re a man expected to lead with an iron fist and a silver tongue, it’s likely that you forget just how malleable iron and silver really are.

It’s not at all unfair to imagine that letting his guard down would terrify him. He’s already forgotten what it’s like to be soft, so of course he doesn’t know how he’d ever stop himself from starting to actually care about things again. Especially about you.

Though no matter how much Vox thinks he’s put it all away in the past, it’s built into him — the art of quiet (though more often, extremely un-quiet) observation.

You even so much as tense up, he stops what he’s doing with your wounds and looks up at your face, waiting for any other signs of pain before he continues with his ministrations.

He’ll remember all of the bandages that would need to be cleaned daily, all the sore spots that need to be watched, and all the muscles that hurt if you moved a certain way. Vox says he has to remember.

You know, for updating his creepy database.

And if you offer to clean up after him when you both know you could barely bend over without your back hurting, he rejects it, claiming that you’d only dirty his office more, so it’s best to just stay in one place so you he doesn’t have to haul you over his shoulder if ever your legs failed you.

Vox really can’t help but care.

So now he keeps you stuck to his side for the whole of your healing period, working on upgrading your tech to the latest software, definitely not to put tracking devices on them.

He crosses his fingers and hopes that you find the flashing lights of cyan in the CCTVs pleasant every time you venture out into another dangerous part of the ring.

He sounded even better up close and personal, without the static of the television muffling the melodic cadence of his voice. It was muscle memory for him at this point, to speak to you like he was delivering the morning news.

At first, you paid it no mind, thinking that hours of shooting and broadcasting live gave him no choice but to keep his on-air persona up continuously. Then he just wasn’t giving it up when he was talking to you with more… romantic intentions. You had to keep reminding him that he was out of work hours, but gave up once you realized that was just how he was.

It was a little charming. Weird as fuck, but still charming. Vincent kept you engaged throughout your entire date, even if he was the one doing most of the talking (and happily so), so you couldn’t help but point out -

“Have you ever considered hosting a radio show?”

Vincent straightens up in his seat, staring at you like you just told him you burned his house down.

“… Excuse me?”

“Your voice is just so-“ You move your hands, trying to find a way out of the drastic mood change. “You know! It’s nice to listen to, I’m sure you’ll be making numbers on the airwaves.”

“And waste this face? Sweetheart, I’m not stooping that low.” He laughs it off, but there’s genuine offense in his tone. You watch as he tidies himself up and smooths his hair back into place. “People sit down and watch what’s on television, and I’m making sure they’re sticking to one channel. Radio is filler for dead air on a Sunday afternoon or when you’re stuck in your car. I’m not an expert in blandness.”

It’s clear your comment struck a nerve. You sheepishly put your hand out, resting it atop his. “It was a silly question, Vincent. I just like hearing your voice.”

“Well I’m glad you know it was silly. It’s absurd, really.” Vincent huffs out, moving his hand so he could lock your fingers with his. His lips jut out in a soft pout, and you knew if you pointed it out he’d try to convince you it was an angry scowl. You could almost laugh at how much it affected him.

Vincent Whittman, one of the most important faces in television, was reduced to a pouting mess by just the mere idea of switching mediums. After this night, you thought, you would never let him hear the end of it.

Au contraire, he never let you hear the end of it.

“I still can’t believe it,”

You were staying over at Vincent’s place more frequently now, and tonight was one of many where he put his last bouts of energy into talking. To your terrible, terrible luck, you were teetering past half-asleep when he started a conversation you knew would end one of two ways. One, he falls asleep mid-sentence. Two, you fuck it out. The former was the only thing your energy would keep you up for.

“That was months ago.”

“How do you even know what I’m talking about?” “It’s the only thing you keep bringing up.” “Oh, how could I not?”

Slowly, you open your eyes and veer your head to his side of the bed. He’s staring at the ceiling, glowering at it like it was the one at fault. You’ve barely opened your mouth to respond when he starts monologuing.

“It’s great that you like hearing me talk. Really, really great. That’s my whole thing, y’know? I would trademark it, if I could. What isn’t great is that you think I’d be well off stuck in an in-between local news segment sandwiched by pop music. Do you know how pathetic it would be when you’re down in squaresville while all the real journ-” yawn. “While all the real journalists come into work and get a kick out of seeing all the people fawning over them? People hear the radio, but they’ll listen to what’s on television.” Vincent ends his speech with a big yawn, finally turning to face you.

You, who’s now well-past asleep. Vincent’s expression softened at the sight of you, an ease he rarely felt finally overcoming his body. Stiff shoulders now sagged, and the tension in his jaw cleared. He thought you were just so cute when you looked at peace like this. With no one (awake) to listen and the day’s exhaustion finally catching up to him, he leans over your head and presses a soft kiss on your forehead.

“Goodnight, sweetheart.”

It was only after you woke up the following morning that you added to the list of endings one that you never considered. Three, you nod off early and Vincent continues rambling over your morning coffee.