#voxtekoverlord

I used to love watching Vincent work. Back when he was just a weatherman with a nervous smile and too many index cards in his pockets. He’d wave at me from behind the glass with this boyish excitement, like sharing the five-day forecast was the greatest honor in the world.

Back then, everything with him felt easy, natural. He’d finish a segment and jog over to me with that crooked grin, breathless with some small story about a coworker or a malfunctioning prop. He’d talk with his whole body, hands everywhere, shoulders bouncing as if his excitement couldn’t fit inside him.

We had routines, little ones. He’d scribble doodles on his weather cards while I pretended not to watch. I’d bring him cheap coffee in a paper cup, and he’d claim it tasted better just because I handed it to him.

He’d drag me into empty hallways during commercial breaks just to steal a kiss. We’d laugh at nothing, truly nothing. There was a lightness to him, a softness, like everything ahead of us was possible.

On our nights off, we’d crash on my couch with takeout cartons and whatever VHS tape he found in a bargain bin. He’d lean into me without thinking, head on my shoulder, hand finding mine under the blanket like muscle memory.

Sometimes he’d fall asleep halfway through the movie, his breath warm against my collarbone, and I’d swear the world had stopped spinning just for us.

And on the good nights, on the nights where the city hummed instead of screamed, we’d climb onto the studio roof after closing and he’d point out constellations he pretended to know the names of, making up stories for each one just to make me laugh.

He used to talk about the future in small ways. Us getting an apartment with better water pressure, us taking a road trip with no plans. Us, always us, woven into every daydream.

Before the glow of screens claimed him. Before ambition rewrote him. Before “us” became something he didn’t remember to say anymore. Success changes people. And Vincent? He didn’t just change. He acted like a god.

Every promotion drew him higher, pulled him farther, until I could barely recognize the man I used to curl up beside on the studio roof. But tonight? Tonight was different. Tonight wasn’t just important to him, it was his chance to make history.

The company granted him near-total creative control. He took that power and ran with it. Screens everywhere, floor to ceiling. Rows of them behind his desk, four suspended above, angled like watchful eyes, and two more lining the wings.

He called it a “statement piece.”A manifesto in LED. “Broadcasting is too small.” He told me, weeks ago, excitement glowing in his eyes. “Too flat. Too stale. People want to see the world differently, bigger, brighter, more immersive.”

If the executives followed his lead, it would transform the entire network. They knew it, he knew it, and I had never seen him so alive. But the more he chased this vision, this future only he could see, the more he faded from everything else. Including me.

He stood in the center of the stage now, surveying his design like a king examining his throne. Technicians ran final checks. The hum of electricity from the screens filled the air like static before lightning.

I stepped up behind him, smoothing a wrinkle in his jacket collar. “You’re shaking.” I said quietly. “I’m excited.” He corrected too quickly, too sharply. He wasn’t wrong. His hands trembled, but not with fear. With anticipation. Obsession. Hunger.

“This is the night that changes everything.” He said. “If they see the potential, if they trust me, everything else falls into place. We move forward, we innovate, we evolve. Broadcasting becomes something new. Something—”

“Brighter.” I finished. He smiled. Not warm. Not soft. Brilliant, too brilliant. “You get it.” He said. But I didn’t. Not really. Not anymore. “Vincent.” I finally said, the words uneven. “You’ve been distant. You come home in the middle of the night, you barely sleep, you don’t even look at me unless I’m holding your equipment.”

He blinked, slow, as if processing something trivial. Something insignificant. “I’m building something monumental. Of course I’m busy.” He said. “That’s all you ever say.” The sentence comes out of me breathless, defeated.

“Well, it’s the truth.”He eyes me as he says this. He wasn’t cruel or dismissive. Just… indifferent. I swallowed, throat tight. “Do you even see what this is doing to you?”

“I’ve never been clearer.” He replied. There was no reaching him tonight. Maybe not ever again. But when he touched my shoulder there was a flicker, just a flicker, of the man he used to be. The man I fell in love with.

“After tonight,” he said softly. “We’ll take a night for ourselves. I promise.”It was the first promise he’d made in weeks to me. As much as I wanted to believe him I couldn’t.

I nodded, trying to smile, and he leaned down to kiss my forehead before walking toward the set. That was the moment the idea lodged in my mind, a dangerous, stupid and desperate idea.

He won’t stop unless somebody stops him and I was losing him piece by piece. I couldn’t lose all of him. If he wouldn’t slow down for himself maybe fate could force him to. Just an injury, a scare. Just something crazy enough to force him to rest, to come back to me.

While the crew prepared for the live segment, I slipped into the side wing, toward the hanging screens. They were old, heavy models repurposed for dramatic effect. One in particular had always sat wrong in its bracket. Just a little pressure, just one loose bolt.

Nothing fatal or serious just enough to fall awkwardly, hit the floor, maybe knock him a little off balance. A small hospital visit for a small injury, forcing him to rest, have a small reset.

I loosened the screw with trembling fingers, not all the way, just enough for it to fall at just the right time. The TV shifted a hair’s breadth and I step back away from it, my chest tight. This will save him. This will bring him back to me. I believed it and that was the worst part of this idea.

“We’re live in five!” The studio fell into that familiar hush. Crew held their breaths, cameras found their angles, screens flickered to synchronized life. Vincent stepped into the center, illuminated by dozens of glowing rectangles; his kingdom made of pixels and possibility.

He looked radiant, powerful, and untouchable. My heart twisted as the red on air light sparked to life. “Good evening,” he began, voice smooth as polished glass. “Tonight, I want to show you a new frontier in broadcasting.”

“The other studios want to feed you the same old crap everyone has seen before.” He stepped forward. Only an inch. Barely a shift in posture, but enough for this small planned injury to become something much worse.

“You want newer. You want bigger. You want brighter.The loosened bracket gave a single metallic groan above him as I froze. “I will be your voice and we will redefine what it means to rule the airwaves.” He wasn’t supposed to step up that far towards the cameras. He never walked that close in any practice runs before.

“Trust me and your future will be brighter. Now who’s ready to be baptized into a new era of entertainment?” The world slowed. He pivoted slightly, still talking, still lost in the brilliance of his own vision and the TV fell.

The screen crashed down with brutal force, crushing him beneath its weight, sparks bursting across the stage like fireworks. The studio erupted in shouts as equipment clattered as I heard a crew member yell into their headset.

I didn’t move. I couldn’t move. I stared at the wreckage, at his body surrounded by shattered glass and cables; at the blood darkening the polished stage floor.

His body twitches as the old TV sparks one more time before going still. The man who wanted to make broadcasting brighter died under the weight of the very screens meant to prove his brilliance.

And no one, not the crew, not the technicians, not even him, would ever know the truth. It was my hands that loosened the bolt, my fear that pushed me, my desperation that killed him.

I stepped backward, shakily exhaling, vision blurring. He would never come home. Never slow down. Never turn back into the man I loved. I thought I could save him, I didn’t want him dead. I wanted him alive, back how he used to be before the fame. Instead, I dimmed his light forever.

My eyes flick around the room frantically as I watch the screens he worshipped flicker, one by one. Brighter, brighter, brighter until finally, they went dark.

The moans were artificial, but the desperation wasn’t.

You were leaned back, one leg tucked under you, eyes glued to the screen as the actress squirmed under flickering LED lights. The room in the video was lavish—gold-accented, soft red hues, collars and wires, and slick skin gleaming under a camera’s gaze. Valentino’s signature: overstimulation, opulence, and control.

Your face was flushed, lip caught between your teeth. You weren’t touching yourself—not yet. But you were close. Just watching. Curiosity, boredom, arousal—blending.

You didn’t hear the door open. You didn’t need to.

The screen short-circuited for half a second—barely visible. A flicker of static.

Then the voice, smooth and sharp as a cut-glass screen:

“Oh, darling…”

Your stomach dropped.

“…you watching Val’s shit to get off?”

You froze. Eyes wide. Busted.

You turned slowly, caught in the act like a kid with a hand in a cookie jar—except this cookie jar was filled with sultry porn and power-play.

Vox stood in the doorway, lips curled into a smirk that didn’t reach his eyes, static crackling faintly at his fingertips.

“You know,” he said, strolling in with the smugness of someone who absolutely knew he was hotter than the guy you were watching, “I didn’t peg you for a fan of synthetic overstimulation and fake tears.”

You swallowed. “It was just… curiosity. I wasn’t—”

He tsked. “You were curious about what, exactly? How many times she can cum before crying? How long he keeps her on that vibrator? Hm?”

You looked away.

“Sweetheart.” Vox’s voice dipped.

“He doesn’t even do the work. He scripts it, funds it, sits back, and collects credit.

That girl? Probably passed out after the third take.”

You blinked. “You sound jealous.”

He grinned. “Oh, I’m not jealous. I’m offended.”

Vox moved to the bed, climbing on with all the slow, deliberate confidence of a man about to prove a point.

His hand slid behind your neck, tilting your chin up. “You want to get off?” he purred, mouth brushing your ear. “You could’ve just asked me.”

Static danced across your skin, playful and dangerous. His free hand moved to your thigh. “

Vox’s fingers traced lazy circles just above your knee, each one buzzing with faint electricity—teasing, threatening. He leaned closer, eyes locked on yours, the screen behind you now long forgotten, still frozen mid-moan.

“No cameras,” he whispered, his voice dropping low—lower than you’d ever heard it. It felt like a current across your skin.

“No scripts.” His lips brushed your cheek, smirk curling at the corner.

“Just me.” His palm pressed flat against your thigh. Warm. Possessive. Unrelenting.

“You.”

The lights in the room dimmed with a flicker, and you knew—you knew—he was about to ruin you beautifully.

Muahahahahahhah.....

I just had to, I love this man so much.

I was rewatching the season and I slowed it down to read the news scroll he had on the screen lmfao

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What kind of fashion does Valentino wear, like from what I’m seeing it’s either masculine or feminine/lingerie outfits, but at the same time what genre of fashion do each fit under;

Masculin;

Feminine;

I want to draw him, but I also want a versatile selection of outfit to do so, so I’m looking a general idea of the styles names he wears.

Same for Vox (bro has only one outfit)

So please comment or reblog, you can even dm me, I just want to know!