#reader x vox

Age Gap Romance, version 2

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⋆｡𖦹°‧★ You're too young for him. That's the first thing folks would say if they knew. Fresh into the studio world and still carrying hope. Vincent Whitman loves that. With a single sweep of his eyes, he's already decided what role you'll play in his orbit. He covets you.

⋆｡𖦹°‧★ You trail after him and gush to your friends about what a joy he is to work with. He's a legend, after all. A modern icon, if you will. “New kid,” he says one night when you bring him his coffee just how he likes it. “You have no idea what you’re getting into.”

⋆｡𖦹°‧★ He knows you fluster easy and gets off on it. The age gap only adds to the thrill. It's a power play, and he's all in. He cracks up over your naivety. “Young people,” he murmurs, leaning close enough for his breath to touch your cheek. “Always looking for somebody to worship. Lucky you found the right man.”

⋆｡𖦹°‧★ He calls you to his dressing room more often than necessary. Sometimes you get work done, but most times you don't. He likes to stand in front of the mirror while you stand behind him, fixing his tie. His hands clasp behind his back. “You’re shaking,” he says softly when he catches your reflection. “You don’t have to. I’ll only bite if you ask.”

⋆｡𖦹°‧★ The first time he kisses you, it’s in the empty studio room. The lights are muted after the show, but you're feeling electric. “Careful,” he mutters against your lips. “People will talk if they see you come out looking like that.” When you quirk a brow, he chuckles and wipes a smudge from your cheek. “I’m a star, sweetheart. They expect me to be a scandal. You don't have that luxury.”

⋆｡𖦹°‧★ Publicly, he keeps a polished appearance. Privately, he lets himself unravel. He guides your hands and murmurs praise. “You keep up better than I expected,” he tells you. “Don't let that change. It's why I keep you around.”

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Vox secretly watches old classic cartoons when he can’t sleep. If you catch him, he’ll deny it aggressively.

He pretends he doesn’t care about morning cuddles, but he always pulls you in tighter the moment you shift away.

He gets jealous of your phone because you “stare at it more than his beautiful face" ... so he takes it over with his face while waggling his brows. 

Sends you stupid little GIFs he made himself like pixel hearts, “good morning doll,” and tiny dancing TVs.

He memorizes your schedule and adjusts his workload so he can hover around you like an affectionate, extremely judgmental honeybee.

If you sit in his lap while he’s working, he becomes weirdly productive. “Don’t move. You’re my good luck charm.”

Lets you warm your hands inside his jacket. Complains the whole time. Secretly loves it.

Won’t say “I love you” first, but he’ll say “How's my favourite doll in seven rings of Hell!”

If you fall asleep on him, he dims his screens to a quiet black-and-blue glow and goes completely still so you don’t wake up.

📺 Read More? 📺

𝗌𝗎𝗆𝗆𝖺𝗋𝗒: you decide to play a trick you saw on social media on your boyfriend! It goes in an interesting direction...

featuring:  Vox x fem!reader

warnings: camera, thigh fucking, overstimulation, masturbation, voyeurism, dom-sub themes, humiliation kink, begging, degradation, possessive behavior, obsession themes, control and manipulation (within consensual context), emotional tension, cult references, digital voyeurism.

word count: 4.0k

synopsis: After an argument, you punish Vox—the powerful, prideful Overlord of Hell—by turning his obsession and need for control against him, forcing him to submit, beg, and worship you until he’s utterly undone.

masterlist link: zombie's kinktober 2025

tags:  @luc69666 @adam-3rdwife @gluestickcookie @michaelmarksgf @mikurayne @emmadellaposta-blog @izzytherealist @xochiitl @monkey-wren @l0ssttttt @alieneatingdoritos78 @sarahth2 @aurora0-0-0 @serotoninfade @zombiedixon89 @hauntedbybri @s0xlchu @arson-mp3 @bel-bel01 @anonymousnamedhera @moedoka @myede @jcluvelyyy @aw3somepossom @thesweetestkimberry @netsuk333 @kimixxq  @lostghoulz @ghostlybfgf @eleyanvy0 @cup1dschokeh0ld @lizziko @bottle-o-wonder @wh4tisg3nd3r

An: Sorry, this post was super late, guys. News flash: THIS WILL NOT BE THE LAST TIME. I'm going on a trip tomorrow or today, for whoever is reading this and your timezone, lol. So screw the schedule. Things will be coming out randomly until I get back home and can sit down and edit my fics. Hopefully, you enjoy this fic!!

You were still fuming.

Not the kind of light irritation that fizzled out after a few sharp words and a kiss, either—this was a slow burn, a stubborn, smoldering heat that curled in your chest and refused to die down. It wasn’t often that you and Vox fought—bickered, yes; argued with flair, yes; but fought? No. Fights between the two of you were rare, usually drowned out by the theatrical chaos of your relationship. Vox thrived on drama, and you thrived on letting him make a spectacle of himself before reeling him back in. Your routine, your ritual, the little cycle of tension and indulgence that had been yours since you were alive. A gothic opera of two people hopelessly entwined, collapsing again and again into each other’s arms, no matter how sharp the words, no matter how loud the static.

But tonight, something had snapped.

You couldn’t even remember what the hell the argument had been about anymore. Something stupid. Something petty. Something that had more to do with Vox’s temper than yours, though he’d probably spin it differently if you let him monologue long enough. Maybe it had been about control—so many of your spats with him boiled down to that. He was used to bending entire rooms to his will, demanding adoration, worship, and obedience. With you, though? You’d never given him the satisfaction. Not in life. Not in Hell. That was why he’d always crumbled for you, why he let himself fall into this pitiful, desperate orbit around you. He could order armies of sinners, command screens across Hell’s skyline, but he couldn’t get you to fold unless you chose to.

And tonight, you weren’t choosing to.

Your robe had swished behind you like a banner of defiance as you stormed into your bedroom—the one he had made for you. Not shared with you. Made for you. That was Vox’s love language: obsession dressed as devotion, control dressed as generosity. A whole room designed and decorated to your tastes, your aesthetics, your little rituals. Wardrobes full of silks and lace, all colors you adored. Shelves of perfume bottles and old trinkets he’d collected, insisting that they reminded him of you. A vanity lit with soft, flattering light, like the stage he knew you deserved. Mirrors everywhere, strategically placed to catch you at your best angles.

It was indulgent, almost suffocating—but it was also yours.

You sat there now, arms folded across your chest, pointedly pouting into the mirror as you went about your nightly routine. A performance of your own. Deliberately ignoring him, knowing exactly how it looked. Knowing exactly how it would gnaw at him.

Because of the course he was watching.

The cameras hummed faintly in the corners of the room, little red lights blinking with that electrical buzz you could practically feel in your teeth. Always there, always watching. Vox never missed a chance to keep his eyes on you when you were in this room. He had wired the entire space himself, and you’d allowed it—hell, you’d even teased him for it. It was pathetic, really, the way he got when he couldn’t see you. The way his screen-face glitched if he thought you were shutting him out. The way he needed the constant feed of you, the proof that you were there, breathing, moving, existing in front of him.

You’d indulged it before, sometimes even put on little shows for him when you felt generous. It thrilled him, made him glitch and babble and fall over himself in that way that was equal parts ridiculous and endearing. But tonight? Tonight, you didn’t so much as glance up at the lenses. You knew they were there. You knew he was there. And you weren’t giving him a scrap of acknowledgment.

That was your revenge.

You rubbed lotion slowly into your arms, making a point of dragging the motion out, tapping the excess against your collarbone. The faint sheen caught the light from the vanity, glowing against your skin. You glared into the mirror, eyes narrowed, lips pushed into that carefully crafted sulky pout. A look of controlled, deliberate disdain—the kind that you knew drove him out of his mind.

Because you weren’t just mad. You were mad and refusing to cave first.

And Vox hated that.

You could almost hear him in your head already, pacing in some dark control room. His screen flickered between fury and want, teeth clenched as he watched you go through the motions of your routine like he didn’t exist. The thought made you smirk, even through your stubborn scowl. He was probably muttering to himself, static spitting across his jawline, torn between zapping himself into the room to beg at your feet and trying to hold his pride together for five more minutes.

The truth was, you liked making him suffer like this. Vox was power and spectacle to the rest of Hell, all sharp lines and flashing lights, a tyrant wrapped in neon. But with you? He was something else. Something softer. Pathetic, even. And you reveled in it.

You smoothed your hands over your arms one last time, lifted your chin, and met your own reflection with a defiant little tilt of your head. You weren’t going to crack. Not tonight.

Let him stew. Let him twitch and sputter and watch you sulk until the static fried holes in his circuits.

If he wanted forgiveness, he would have to crawl for it.

And you knew—oh, you knew—that he would.

From his studio, Vox leaned forward in his chair, the clawed edge of one hand planted under his chin. The neon-lit command center around him buzzed with life—rows of monitors flickering, cables coiling like snakes across the floor, static humming in the walls. Screens stretched before him like a hundred glass eyes, each one showing a different angle of his empire. But only one mattered.

Your feed filled the central screen, larger than the others, vivid and intimate.

He hated how his chest tightened just looking at you like this—glowing skin lit by your vanity bulbs, silk robe falling just so, that perfect pout on your lips like you were daring him to grovel. You were pacing, then sitting, then pacing again, all coiled grace and irritation. He should be smug that you were sulking instead of storming back in to yell at him again. He should be irritated that you were still mad.

But no. Vox was pathetic when it came to you, and he knew it.

He’d follow you anywhere—he had, literally, from life into death, from cult leader to media titan. His obsession had only sharpened down here, where every sin found its true form. You’d been his high priestess in life, his wife, the only person who ever looked at him and saw a man instead of a brand. Even now, in Hell, you were the only one who could make him feel small.

“You’re really not gonna give in, huh?” he muttered to himself, fingers twitching restlessly against the console. Static hissed low under his breath. You didn’t look up at the camera. Didn’t acknowledge him. Not even a flicker. That stung more than he wanted to admit.

On the screen, you stood from the vanity, robe swishing like a curtain on stage, and walked—slowly, deliberately—toward the bed.

Vox’s screen-face flickered again, a sharp pixel glitch across his grin as he straightened in his chair.

“Oh, hell…” he whispered, leaning closer despite himself.

You stopped right in front of the larger wall-mounted camera, staring at it. At him. The look in your eyes was a challenge, a dare. You held it for a heartbeat longer than necessary. Then, with a languid motion, you undid the tie at your waist.

The robe slid open like a curtain, silky fabric slipping down, pooling at your sides on the bed.

Vox’s grin faltered. His jaw clenched. His claws dug shallow grooves into the armrests.

You weren’t quiet. Not subtle. You knew exactly what you were doing. Fingers deep inside you, putting this act on display even though you pretended you weren’t being watched. Like, Vox wouldn’t be stuck watching you. 

Your sighs filled the room, carried even through the tinny speakers to his studio. Soft moans lifting higher, your legs shifting just so, body arching in deliberate rhythm. Every tilt of your hips, every brush of your fingers was a taunt. You knew how he watched. You knew how it undid him.

Vox’s hands fisted tighter on the armrests. His screen-face flickered between static and the trembling grin he wore when he was losing control. His pants had gone unbearably tight, and he cursed low, voice breaking on the static.

He dragged a claw down his own face. “You’re killing me, baby doll. You know that, right? You’re absolutely killing me.”

He tried to lean back, tried to school his expression, but his body betrayed him: he was leaning closer, practically breathing against the feed. His face so close to the TV screen, watching every pump of your fingers, every small tremble of your legs, listening to all the small sounds you mustered out. He could tell you were purposely being quiet, knowing how much he loved your sounds. He barely got enough to have his cock twitch here and there as he watched. 

On the screen, you tilted your head back, eyes fluttering shut, lips parted as a soft moan escaped. You shifted your hips again, a motion so deliberate it might as well have been a command. The sheets twisted under you, catching the dim light. Your moans climbed higher, more ragged, your back arching just enough to make him bite back a groan. You cracked one eye open and looked directly at the camera. Directly at him.

That did it.

His voice came out wrecked, hoarse with static. “You’re doing this on purpose. You’re—” He cut himself off with a shuddering exhale, pressing the heel of his hand against his thigh. His hips had been grinding upwards into his desk like a desperate teenager for several minutes now, and he hated himself for it, but he couldn’t stop. The sight of you, the sounds, the deliberate way you were touching yourself—it was more than even he could handle.

And then you climaxed—arching, gasping, eyes fluttering right at the camera as you let out a soft, broken sigh. Your lips curled into a smug smile as you slumped back against the pillows, still glowing, still perfect, the picture of satisfaction.

That smile ended him.

Vox sat back in his chair like he’d been struck, his screen-face flickering wildly between static and red as he panted, claws flexing uselessly against the console. He could taste humiliation on his tongue, thick and electric. You’d played him like a violin, and he’d let you.

“Fuck this,” he snarled finally, his voice sparking into a burst of white noise.

He pushed himself up from the chair, screen-face a storm of pixels. His hand hovered over the console. He knew what he was about to do. He knew you’d see it as another surrender.

But he didn’t care anymore.

You’d won. Again.

And as his body dissolved into a flicker of pixels, zapping him out of the studio and toward your room, he was already whispering your name, already imagining himself on his knees at the edge of the bed, ready to beg.

In a flash of blue static, he zapped himself straight into the room. The air popped and sizzled around him like a blown circuit. He stumbled forward as if yanked by a leash you couldn’t see, the force of his own glitch dragging him to his knees before you. His faceplate flickered wildly, cycling through a desperate carousel of expressions—smirk, glitch, snarl, glitch—before settling on something raw and pleading. His jacket gone, sleeves rolled up like he’d run straight here without thinking. His shoulders heaved with ragged breaths, every line of his digital frame screaming with tension.

“You—” His voice cracked, splintering into static. “You wicked little thing. You knew exactly what you were doing.”

You barely shifted. You stayed sprawled across the bed like a queen on her throne, one arm draped lazily over the pillow, hair mussed, cheeks flushed with the kind of smug power you only wore for him. The soft glow of the TV behind you cast a flickering light over your bare body, giving a spotlight on your slick cunt and inner thighs. 

“Mm. Took you long enough,” you murmured, your tone soft but laced with challenge.

That was all it took. Vox dropped to his knees on the mattress, clawed hands braced on the sides of your head, trying to show he had some authority over this moment, but you knew he wouldn’t dare touch you without your approval. His screen-face flickered with pleading static, pixels flaring like tiny storms. His usual smooth, self-assured voice glitched low and rough.

“I’m sorry,” he blurted, hands clenching the sheets as if they could anchor him. “Baby, I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have said any of it. Please forgive me. Please let me—” His voice dipped lower, crackling into a hungry hiss. “—please let me touch you.”

You tilted your head, studying him. It wasn’t like Vox to crumble. He was a showman, an Overlord, always in control, always running the broadcast. But here, now, in your room with your scent thick in the air, he wasn’t an Overlord. He wasn’t even Vox. He was just a man, begging, screen flickering with static like a heart monitor going haywire.

And you were going to make him stay like that.

Your thighs closed firmly around him, a velvet trap he couldn’t escape. The fabric of his slacks dragged hot against your cunt, the friction making him shudder as he bucked forward like he didn’t care how humiliating it was. You didn’t move, didn’t spread wider, didn’t let him see more. He had to earn it.

“Look at you,” you murmured, reaching down with one lazy finger to touch his face. His screen-face flickered, pupils blown wide on the digital display. “A whole Overlord of Hell, reduced to rutting between his wife’s thighs like a desperate teenager.”

“Fuck–” Vox gasped, the sound splitting into a crackle of static as his hips snapped forward again. “I don’t care, baby. I don’t care how I look. I just–I need you. Please.”

You squeezed tighter, denying him any real stimulation from your cunt. His screen sparked, pixels glitching red like a warning light as he whined through clenched teeth.

“You’re pathetic,” you said, tone low, velvet, and cruel.

His claws trembled against the sheets. “Y-Yeah,” he groaned, forehead pressing to your chest, voice muffled. “Pathetic for you. Always. You know I am.” 

He thrust again, grinding harder between your thighs, shuddering as the slick friction caught him just right. His digital face went hazy for a moment, the image almost cutting out before it returned with a twitch. You felt him tremble and smirked, tightening your legs further so he had no choice but to rut in shallow, humiliating strokes.

“Beg prettier,” you whispered, letting your breath ghost against his faceplate.

“Please–my queen, my everything—” His words tumbled out like static-heavy worship, incoherent and frantic, each plea half-formed but honest. “I’ll do anything, I’ll give you anything, just let me—just let me finish, let me use you, please—”

You tilted your head back, savoring the sound of him breaking. It was a symphony—his gasps, his glitches, the hiss of his servos straining as he ground himself against you.

“Use me?” you teased, rolling your hips just enough so your thighs shifted against him, the change in pressure making his breath hitch. “No, Vox. I’m using you. You’re my toy tonight.”

His whole body shook, claws digging into the sheets hard enough to leave little scorches.

“God, yes, yes—fuck, I love when you say that—” His hips jerked faster, screen crackling into a storm of static. “I’m your toy, your pathetic little thing—”

You threw him a small bone, tugging his pants and underwear down, allowing him to rut his cock against your cunt. 

“You worship me, don’t you?”

His voice broke on a groan. “I live for you. I’d die for you all over again.”

Your smile curved sharply, dangerously. “Then finish like this,” you ordered, tightening your thighs around him like a vice. “No cunt. No mercy. Just you humiliating yourself all over me.”

He let out a broken, half-static moan, rutting faster, chasing the edge even as his screen glitched and flared. Each snap of his hips sent a shiver through your muscles, each desperate grind another note in his unravelling.

“Please, oh, fuck—don’t stop–baby, please—”

You leaned up, lips brushing the edge of his screen-plate, your voice a lethal whisper. “Pathetic little husband. Go on. Make a mess. Show me who owns you.”

He choked on a sound, part moan, part digital distortion, his whole frame vibrating with the effort to obey. His claws flexed, scraping the sheets but never touching you without permission.

You dragged your nails along the back of his neck, slow and deliberate. “After this,” you murmured, “you’re going to clean yourself up. You’re going to kiss every inch of my thighs you’ve ruined. And maybe—maybe, if I’m feeling generous, I’ll let you touch what you’ve been begging for.”

He whimpered, his voice almost gone, reduced to glitchy static and raw desperation. “Anything. I’ll do anything. Just say the word. Please.”

You tilted your hips slightly, watching the way he nearly fell apart from even that small motion. “Not yet,” you said, your tone soft but commanding. “Earn it.”

His screen flickered with a thousand expressions at once—lust, adoration, hunger, submission—before settling into a blank white flash of static like snow on an old television. He was unraveling for you, and you drank it in. He groaned into your chest, licking a stripe between your chest, pushing him further and further to his release, soaking in the small moans you gave him. He held onto the moans you let loose after holding them in and the slick sounds of your cunt.

Every breath, every sound, every twitch of his hips built the moment higher, a slow crescendo of control and surrender. This was what he craved, what only you could give him: the humiliation of power taken from him, the sweetness of it given back on your terms.

And when you finally let him, he’d break.

He collapsed against you after, screen flickering faintly as overstimulation wracked through him. It was like watching a broadcast sputter and glitch after going off-air—his pixels dim, his once-perfect composure completely gone. Every inch of him screamed undone. He painted your cunt and lower stomach with his release, shaking against your body, his ruts stuttering as he forced himself through his release. 

And yet, despite being an Overlord, he clung to you with trembling hands like you were the only thing tethering him to existence. His claws weren’t sharp now. They were careful, curling against your skin as though afraid you’d disappear if he didn’t hold on. His frame buzzed with low, electric tremors, each one echoing through your thighs where he’d left himself shaking.

“Fuck…fuck, baby…” he mumbled into your chest, voice static-rough. “You’ll kill me one of these days.”

You smirked, “You’d die happy.”

That made him laugh, but it wasn’t his usual, showboating laugh. It was weak, frayed at the edges, a glitch of sound that faded almost before it began. His screen flickered between a soft, digital grin and a haze of white noise. When he lifted his head enough to look at you, his pixels blinked sluggishly like he was trying to stabilize his signal.

“You’re not even sorry,” he accused faintly, but there was no real venom behind it. It was almost worshipful.

“Not even a little,” you said, letting your nails drag lightly along the back of his neck. He shuddered, head tilting into the touch like a cat leaning into a scratch.

He drew a shaky breath, sitting back on his heels. One of Hell’s overlords, cracked and trembling because of you. The sight made something dark and warm coil in your belly.

For a moment, the two of you just stayed there: you on the bed, legs still parted from where you’d held him, Vox kneeling between them, his breathing ragged, his screen flickering as his internal systems recalibrated. You could feel the heat radiating off him in little bursts of static, every shift of his body another reminder of how undone you’d left him.

Then, without a word, he fumbled in his pocket. His claws trembled, catching briefly on the lining of his slacks around his ankles before he managed to retrieve something. When he brought his hand up, he pressed a sleek, glossy black card into your palm.

You glanced at it, brows arching. It was heavy, the kind of material that screamed custom work. The edges shimmered faintly with blue light, like an old credit card fused with a circuit board. His sigil—his logo—was embossed on the back.

“And this is?” you asked, holding it between two fingers like a queen inspecting a tribute.

His screen flickered between a sheepish glitch and something close to sincerity. “Apology,” he said simply, voice rough but honest. “For fighting with you. For…everything.” His claws flexed against your thigh, careful not to scratch. “Just—please keep me.”

The words were soft, but they hit like a current. You stared down at him, at the ridiculous, powerful, desperate man kneeling in front of you, offering a black card like a medieval knight offering up a sword. And not just offering it. Begging you to take it.

Your smirk softened just a fraction. You turned the card over in your hand, letting the blue light flicker across your fingers. Power hummed from it faintly, a pulse like a heartbeat.

“As if I’d ever let you go,” you said finally, tone rich and slow. You set the card on the nightstand, then curled your fingers under his chin and tilted his screen-face up again. His pixels swam with something almost like relief.

“You mean that?” he asked, glitching a little at the edges.

You leaned down, your lips brushing the corner of his screen. “Of course I do. You’re mine, Vox. Mine to ruin, mine to keep.”

He shuddered so hard you felt it in your thighs. “God, I love when you talk like that,” he whispered, his voice dipping into static again.

Your thumb traced the corner of his digital mouth. “I know you do. That’s why you’re going to behave for me now.”

“Yes,” he said immediately, voice glitching on the s. “Anything. Just tell me how.”

You sat back, his screen flickered brighter, his claws twitching on the sheets. You didn’t give him what he wanted yet. Not the promise of release. Not your cunt. Just the view. The denial.

“First,” you murmured, “you’re going to thank me properly for what you just got. With your mouth. Every inch of my thighs. Make sure you clean up your mess.”

He made a sound somewhere between a moan and a crackle of static. “Yes. Yes, baby.”

You smirked, running your fingers down your front, teasing him. “Good boy. Take your time. Make it pretty. Make me believe you’re sorry.”

And as he lowered his head, his claws braced on either side of your hips, you saw his screen flicker again—this time not with desperation, but with a kind of hungry devotion that made you smirk all over again. The mighty Vox, fallen to his knees, static humming around him like a prayer, ready to worship at the altar of your skin until you decided he’d earned more.

You leaned back on your palms, letting him inch closer, savoring the moment. “Go on then,” you said softly, but your tone brooked no argument. “Show me how much you want to be kept.”

And when his screen dimmed and his mouth opened against your thigh, the sound he made was a broken thing, a static-laced hymn.

In his mortal life, he had affairs. Beautiful women constantly surrounded him at dinner parties. Yet he never truly opened up to them - not emotionally, and not sexually either. Perhaps he didn’t even know himself very well.

There were rare, barely noticeable moments when he allowed himself this kind of "play". Vincent loved giving necklaces, and especially bracelets. He liked to blindfold his girl before a surprise.

And he liked helping with getting dressed - fastening corsets, zippers, adjusting the collar of the coat, hiding the blush on his own cheeks.

Note: Written and banner designed prior to S2

More information Coming Soon!