#non-vox

[radiomogai]

If I may, I would suggest changing vox to fully-vox or something similar. Elsewise, it posits full-verbality as the default.

Coining Post

Terms for Alters/Headmates with different speech capabilities than the collective/body

So as to not use verbal/speaking/vocal, which refers to permanent states tied to the body's/brain's capabilities

Vox -> Latin for voice

Non-vox/Nonvox 💭🌑 - an alter/headmate who is entirely unable to speak, whether the body can or cannot

Demi-vox/Demivox 🗯🌗 - an alter/headmate who can only speak under certain circumstances, whether the body can or cannot

Semi-vox/Semivox 💬🌘 - an alter/headmate who can only speak sometimes and/or partially, whether the body can or cannot

Vox 🗣☀️ - an alter/headmate who can speak, whether the body can or cannot

Vox-flux/Voxflux 🗣🌓 - an alter/headmate with fluctuating ability to speak, whether the body can or cannot

Hyper-vox/Hypervox 🗣🌕 - an alter/headmate who (involuntarily) speaks using more words than necessary to communicate (effective or not), whether the body can or cannot

The definitions are general guidelines, with exact meanings personal to each system/member -> vox labels are umbrella terms and a spectrum

Some examples :

A semi-verbal system with non-vox alters

A fully verbal system with demi-vox alters

A verbal-flux system with vox alters

A semi-verbal system with hyper-vox alters

Made by an endo-safe, semi-verbal system

[gwendolynnderolo]

critical role ships as hozier songs

vax / keyleth : francesca

percy / vex : work song

pike / scanlan : foreigner's god

fjord / jester : nobody

beau / yasha : as it was

caleb / essek : from eden

imogen / laudna : NFWMB

orym / dorian : like real people do

ashton / fearne : dinner & diatribes

specific lyrics that i feel like represent the pairings under the cut!

vax / keyleth : francesca

how could you think, darling, i'd scare so easily?

my life was a storm, since i was born, how could i fear any hurricane?

if i could hold you for a minute, darling, i'd go through it again

it was too soon, when that part of you was ripped away

i would not change it each time, heaven is not fit to house a love like you and i

percy / vex : work song

when my time comes around, lay me gently in the cold dark earth, no grave can hold my body down, i'll crawl home to her

and i was burning up a fever, i didn't care much how long i lived

but i swear, i thought i dreamed her, she never asked me once about the wrong i did

if the lord don't forgive me, i'd still have my baby and my babe would have me

in the low lamplight, i was free, heaven and hell were words to me

pike / scanlan : foreigner's god

she moved with shameless wonder, the perfect creature rarely seen

her eyes look sharp and steady into the empty parts of me

wondering who i copy, mustering some tender charm

breaking if i try conveying, the broken love i make to her

fjord / jester : nobody

i'd be appalled if i saw you ever try to be a saint, i wouldn't fall for someone i thought couldn't misbehave

but i've had no love like your love from nobody

if i had the choice between hearing either noise, the excitement of a thousand, or the soothing of your voice

and on the other side, why should we deny the truth? we could have less to worry about, honey, i won't lie to you

beau / yasha : as it was

and in a few days i will be there, love, whatever here that's left of me is yours, just as it was

the lights were as bright as my baby, but your love was unmoved

tell me if, somehow, some of it remains, how long you would wait for me and how long i've been away

the shape that i'm in now, your shape in the doorway, make your good love known to me or just tell me about your day

and the nights were as dark as my baby, and half as beautiful too

caleb / essek : from eden

there's something tragic about you, something so magic about you, don't you agree?

honey, you're familiar like my mirror years ago

innocence died screaming, honey, ask me, i should know

there's something broken about this, but i might be hoping about this

a rope in hand for your other man to hang from a tree

imogen / laudna : NFWMB

give your heart and soul to charity, cause the rest of you, the best of you, honey, belongs to me

ain't it a gentle sound, the rolling in the graves?

if i was born as a blackthorn tree, i'd wanna be felled by you, held by you, fuel the pyre of your enemies

ain't it the life of you, your lightning of the blaze?

orym / dorian : like real people do

i will not ask you where you came from, i will not ask and neither should you

i know that look, dear, eyes always seeking, was there in someone that dug long ago

honey, just put your sweet lips on my lips, we should just kiss like real people do

ashton / fearne : dinner & diatribes

i knew well from our first hookup, the look of mischief in your eyes

your friends are a fate that befell me, hell is the talking type, i'd suffer hell if you'd tell me what you'd do to me tonight

honey, i laugh when it sinks in, a pillar i am, upright

now that the evening is slowing, now that the end's in sight, honey, it's easier knowing what you'd do to me tonight

oh, let there be hotel complaints and grievances raised and that kind of love

[dol--blathanna]

I have mixed feelings about Zerxus in season 3 of TLOVM, but I’ve gotta say hearing him give a Totally Unbiased Account of EXU: Calamity with Definitely No Omissions Whatsoever was kind of funny. Like “ooh I thought I could count on my friends….they condemned our civilisation….” Ok Zerxus. Buddy. Last time I checked, Nydas was actually the only one trying to stop Laerryn from blighting the tree. You sat there like a chump and did not help whatsoever. And uh. “They condemned our civilisation with their hubris” ummm pal I think you’re missing an important detail there. Like yes the point of EXU: Calamity is that everyone played a role in the disaster, everyone was responsible in some ways for that ship crashing into the iceberg, but uh. Zerxus I think some people were maybe a little more responsible than others. Like, for example, the certain someone who pulled the Lord of the Hells into Exandria. I think that individual’s hubris is maaaaaybe a little bit more important than some of the other hubris on the table here.

And like, this isn’t me bashing the writing, I think it is in-character for TLOVM!Zerxus to say this, since he’s been a jaded miserable devil for a thousand years. But omg when he had the CHEEK to be like “in the chaos I found myself face-to-face with the Lord of Torment himself” like EXCUSE ME??? Buddy you just happened to “find yourself” face-to-face with Asmodeus huh??? Just coincidentally, on accident??? You were just taking a stroll around Avalir and he ran into you without warning??

Zerxus. Please. Be serious for a moment. Would you like to explain to Pike the exact circumstances of HOW you found yourself face-to-face with Asmodeus, hmmmmm? A certain “pulling Asmodeus through the tree and unleashing him upon the world” situation?

Like, I know it was meant to be a serious moment with lots of Calamity-related hype but like, it was really giving “Girl what were YOU doing at the devil’s sacrament” energy. In the most literal way possible

[brisquad-unit-4402]

luxiem and noisy sex

hey guys sorry i was mia for a while you see it was because i was [DEAFENING EXPLOSION AND AFTERSHOCK FOLLOWED BY COLLAPSING DEBRIS, THUNDER CRASH, BICYCLE HORN SOUND EFFECTS]

tags: established relationship, gender neutral reader, smut, bottom/top or sub/dom not specified

⚠️ blow job mention in shu's entry

⚠️ mature content under read more. content under read more is not intended for minors

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

🖋 Ike Eveland

relatively quiet. ike doesn't make a racket often— it's more likely that he'll either tease you with dirty talk and come-ons

but once his brain gets too fucked out to stay coy, he's all shaky breaths and little whines

you can hear him quivering under his breath, as if getting caught would be a problem

which it very much isn't

invite him to get a little louder if you want an adorably flustered, adorably hard novelist. he'll feel so dirty if you do, but at the same time, he feels like making noise proves how much he trusts you

if you're noisy:

even though he doesn't make much noise, sex with you isn't complete without coaxing such sweet squeaks out of you

he takes it as a challenge, trying to figure out which part of your body is most sensitive by how loud you react

it makes him feel so sexy, and desirable, and powerful no matter what position he's in

prefers when you can't form words anymore, only helpless cries. oh, and if you actually do cry? god, he'll remember that forever

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

🦁 Luca Kaneshiro

brings a whole new definition to "loud in bed". like seriously, even if you've had noisy partners before, luca puts them all to shame without even trying

he reacts to almost everything, and it doesn't take him a lot to get there. sometimes you wonder if he's faking it, but no, he's just that aware of everything he feels

he starts out with exclamations, and somehow forms words all the way until the end of the night. the sentences stop making sense halfway through, and by the time he climaxes it's a miracle if he can even get through his words without tripping up

if you're noisy:

is he the luckiest guy in the universe or what? it feels great to have someone that gets what it's like to be loud

doesn't even care what you say or do as long as he can hear it. just being able to hear those noises has his engine revving

then again, when you're lips are pressed up to him and he can still hear the muffled sounds and your vibrating throat, he just wants to fuck until you both white out in the afterglow

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

👟 Shu Yamino

shu doesn't take sex too seriously and just wants to have fun above all else, and you have to wonder if it's because he always laughs at least once when you sleep together

he's actually quite ticklish, and his moans sometimes end in giggles. they sound so sweet even though what you do under the covers is anything but

this is one of the few things he's actually insecure about. he's so worried that it might kill the mood or make his partner feel self conscious

don't take it personally. he whimpers plenty when he's not giggling, and the last thing he wants is a misunderstanding just because of how his body expresses pleasure

if you're noisy:

sometimes he wishes he could commit every one of your noises to memory. they're easily his favorite part of going down on you

he fantasizes about your voice getting excited often. if you're ever apart, he'd love to listen to you masturbate and call his name over the phone

hell, even hearing his name from your trembling lips has his cock throbbing, ready to fill that pretty mouth and give you something to really choke on

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

👹 Vox Akuma

tends to make more guttural sounds. growls, hums, and purrs galore. vox doesn't even try to make them sound sultry, they're just so low and irresistible, as expected of the voice demon himself

but if you catch him off guard you might just make him squeak in surprise and satisfaction. he even stutters and trips over his words

which is something he gets embarrassed over, especially since all his other noises are still on the low end of the spectrum, but calling attention to it gets him even more aroused

great sex usually ends with high-pitched whimpers and gasps, and the best ones have him screaming as he orgasms

if you're noisy:

your noises make him so unbelievably horny, you have no idea. the second he realizes you're loud, he wants nothing more than to hear you all night

it's a huge ego boost and fuels him to keep pushing his limits. anything to keep you crying out for him

he'll goad you into responding to his dirty talk just so he can hear you whimper in-between your words

whether you want to be praised or degraded, he tries to mention your voice and noises as much as he can since it's all he can think about

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

✧. ┊ masterpost ✧. ┊ kofi

[bunsihunsi]

Some moneystatic art that I don't like because I hate traditional art and I can't resize anything, I drew Vox too small..

Also here's a silly wojak Vox

[kamiraart]

PRIDE VOX ❤️🧡💛💚💙💜

[breadheads-wife]

(Please don't use without my permission)

[aj-lenoire]

this is legitimately a fantastic moment of acceptance and platonic love between percy and vax, doubly important for how vax clearly didn't really like percy (particularly because of percy's closeness with vex) but i am slightly amused by the immediate smackdown of any romantic implications between these two bisexual men

[gabrielsbubblegumbitch]

A follow up to this post

When I think about Vox's former husband I like to imagine that he wasn't a bad husband. He was a very okay guy, some rich Richard, not so terrible for the 50s standards. Vox wanted to hate him so desperately. Yet Richard wasn't easy to hate; he wasn't abusive or particularly oppressive. He was just... condescending. He didn't take Vox being cold or mean or aggressive seriously enough to mind it. To him Vox was just his silly, little wife going though some mood swings, while Vox dreamt about them becoming mortal enemies because that would mean that he is finally someone equal to the other man. That's why it pisses him so much when Alastor pretends he doesn't care. Even when Richard caught Vox once trying on his clothes, contrary to Vox's fears he didn't got mad, called him a freak or even realize that something is "wrong". He was like Aw baby, you liked that Dietrich's look so much? You should have told me, you know I'm an open-minded man. Oh, stop crying, we will get you a nice pair of pants tomorrow, how about that?

Vox was crying because he was scared as hell of being punished but also because something that was his private, happy ritual when he felt truly at peace was taken away from him and turned into a feminen fad.

[redladydeath]

You know that theory where Niffty is a former overlord who Alastor chose to brainfuck instead of killing for whatever reason?

Someone make an AU/fic where he does that to Vox

[plague-and-creatures]

I like RadioStatic but only when it's completely one sided and Vox both hates and wants to fuck Alastor, hates that he wants to fuck Alastor, and also hates that he can't fuck Alastor

This is the best interpretation of them in my opinion

[probably-bianca]

as much as i have tentative hopes for the d20 webtoon, i feel like it would’ve been better if they had explored a time post freshman year pre sophomore year spring break. instead of just retelling/reimagining a story that we’ve seen and become very familiar with.

i don’t want to bash it before it comes out but it could’ve been more compelling story wise to have some of the development and relationships but explore an adventure we haven’t seen yet alla the boys night or live shows.

i fear that adapting this beloved story will leave it in limbo of being too familiar but simultaneously too different.

[deeply-unserious-fellow]

Y'know how sometimes you see a character and just KNOW that, if you decide to engage with their source material, they're gonna end up being your new fixation for at least a month? That's how I feel about Dev and Peri from the Fairly Oddparents reboot. Like, I haven't watched a single episode of the show yet, hell I haven't even seen the ORIGINAL, but jfc if those 2 aren't exactly my type when it comes to favorite characters. I love horrible little shits that have secret soft spots and vaguely non-binary coded Tumblr Sexyman types so much.

Edit: Also Peri gets bonus points for having the same voice actor as Master Frown lmao

[bunsihunsi]

TW SH and blood

.

.

.

Vox mental breakdown

[camarocarfight]

Blissful Ignorance, Ch. 1

Adrenaline, that temporary shield against horror, was beginning to wane. As the realization dawned, the fragile relief fractured, replaced by a consuming dread that tightened its icy grip. Abruptly, your senses sharpened to an unbearable degree. The deliberate ticking of the mantel clock, the sickening plink of blood hitting the floor, the monotonous buzz of the radio in the corner – each sound clawed at your awareness. Your mind raced, a chaotic echo to the frantic pounding in your ears and the shallow, rapid breaths escaping your lips.

One phone call had life-obliterating consequences that would unravel everything you knew.

Also available on Ao3 here!

New Orleans, 1932

The sharp, metallic tang of blood hung heavy in the thick, humid air, drifting through the house on an otherwise pleasant, earthy breeze that stirred the curtains at the open windows. Silence had fallen over the house, its walls recent witnesses to extreme violence and chaos. What was once a cozy and welcoming lounge was now a mere expanse of wrecked furniture and splintered glass, remnants of pictures that once adorned the walls.

There you stood amidst the wreckage of the battle fought within your own home – battered, bleeding, and in complete shock. Blood trickled from your hairline, tracing paths down your cheeks like phantom tears, yet your eyes remained dry. The wellspring had run dry. No empathy, no guilt, only a peculiar, unsettling relief lingered.

Adrenaline, that temporary shield against horror, was beginning to wane. As the realization dawned, the fragile relief fractured, replaced by a consuming dread that tightened its icy grip.

Abruptly, your senses sharpened to an unbearable degree. The deliberate ticking of the mantel clock, the sickening plink of blood hitting the floor, the monotonous buzz of the radio in the corner – each sound clawed at your awareness. Your mind raced, a chaotic echo to the frantic pounding in your ears and the shallow, rapid breaths escaping your lips.

Numbness enveloped you as you moved dazedly towards the kitchen phone. The thunder of your own heart drowned out the sound of your footsteps, and you didn't register the bloody heel prints you left in your wake – incriminating evidence yet to register in your fogged mind.

With a trembling hand, you lifted the receiver, waiting in strained silence for the operator, a desperate hope that it wouldn't be a familiar voice clinging to you.

"Operator – who may I connect you to?"

"H-Hartfelt residence. Seven-one-seven Malecon Avenue," you managed, the words betraying a tremor despite your attempt at composure.

The operator offered no verbal response, only a series of clicks and switches confirming the connection. A fresh wave of fear washed over you. Could the operator sense your guilt in the tremor of your voice? What if you confessed everything to a stranger, and the horror was not real? Trauma overwhelmed you, and panic began to claw at your throat, quickening your breath and blurring your vision. Lightheaded, you squeezed your eyes shut, a futile attempt to quell the rising hysteria. Perhaps calling the police and admitting the truth would have been wiser. There was no escape, no one to pull you from this abyss. You had leaned so heavily on one person, but his apparent hostility now loomed like a dark cloud.

"Hello, Hartfelt residence."

The voice that answered was the last you expected to seek solace from. A fleeting, unbelievable comfort flickered within you as the least likely person offered a response. Yet, the crushing weight of your reality swiftly extinguished it, leaving you to grapple with what Alastor might truly offer. No one could justify the atrocity you had committed, so why would he? The chasm of hostility between you felt insurmountable, and kind words a rarity.

"Hello, is anyone there?"

Just hang up, a voice screamed in your mind. Words failed you as you stared at the phone, willing it to speak for you. "W-wrong number," you finally choked out, severing the connection with a harsh click.

"Christ, you're a fool," you whispered, stumbling back into the lounge and running a shaky hand through your blood-matted hair.

The house had to be cleaned, and quickly, before suspicion took root. But the enormity of the task crashed down upon you as you surveyed the destruction. The most immediate, insurmountable obstacle was the body of a man nearly twice your size. The logistics of moving and burying him unnoticed seemed impossible for your petite frame. You couldn't even fathom dragging him out the back door without slipping in the slick, crimson aftermath. And then there was the head, unseen since the moment of its severing. The thought alone churned your stomach. This was the man you loved, your husband of only four short years. The betrayal that had driven you to this unthinkable act still felt surreal.

The thought burrowed deep, hardening into a chilling certainty: only fire could offer true release. To watch it all turn to ash, to obliterate even the echoes of cherished memories, seemed the only path away from this suffocating agony. The love that once filled these walls now felt like a suffocating weight, too agonizing to bear. The very structure of the house seemed to groan with sorrow, rendering the prospect of staying unbearable. Any tears that might still fall would be solely for the irreplaceable loss of what was once home.

The silence in the halls pressed in on you, thick and heavy, each footfall a morbid echo of what was to come. You moved like a ghost through your own life, your gaze clinging to each photograph – a desperate attempt to preserve memories about to be reduced to nothing but ash. The weight of your actions settled in your stomach, a cold knot of dread. Escape? Confession? The question clawed at your thoughts. The world, so quick to dismiss a woman's capacity for violence, would surely offer initial sympathy for the widow of such a brutal slaying. But how long could you maintain the charade, the lie festering within? When would the guilt, currently a numb absence, finally awaken and devour you? Consequences loomed, a dark and undefined threat. You hadn’t wanted this, hadn’t asked for the desperate act of self-preservation. Yet, in this world built by men, your truth felt fragile, easily shattered.

Your wedding portrait hung like a mocking reminder outside the bedroom door. The faded black and white barely hinted at the incandescent joy you’d felt standing beside him. A ghost of a smile touched your lips as you studied his image one last time. You wished the photograph could capture the intensity of his dark hair, the chilling brilliance of his blue eyes – eyes that once stole your breath and would later fill you with unimaginable terror. If only you could have foreseen the horrors that day held, the path that would lead you to this blood-soaked moment.

A frantic energy seized you. You fled through the back door, the daylight a brutal spotlight on the crimson staining your clothes. The shed offered a grim purpose: the fuel can. Back inside, the metallic scent of gasoline began to permeate the air as you soaked the lounge, a final act of obliteration. Freedom lay just beyond the threshold, a desperate, undefined elsewhere.

Then, the knock.

It was a sharp, insistent sound that ripped through the suffocating silence, freezing you mid-pour. Your breath hitched. The can wavered in your trembling hand, the liquid sloshing ominously. On the blood-slicked floor, elongated shadows danced beneath the door – a silent, looming presence on the other side. Another knock, louder this time, sent a jolt of pure terror through you. Your lungs burned with each ragged gasp. The reality of the scene crashed down with brutal force: your husband’s severed head, the crimson tide seeping into the floorboards, down into the unseen depths of the basement. How could you explain this? Standing here, drenched, about to set it all ablaze. If it was them… the police… the image of your bloodied reflection flashed in your mind – a monster staring back. They wouldn't ask questions; they would simply shoot.

A strangled whimper escaped your lips as the knob rattled violently after a final, deafening rap. The world seemed to shrink, the ticking clock, the relentless drip of blood, the pounding on the door – all amplifying the frantic rhythm of your own heart. It was too much. You squeezed your eyes shut, dropping the fuel can with a sickening thud, hands flying to your ears in a futile attempt to block out the encroaching nightmare. The splintering crack of wood echoed through the house as the door burst inward.

Silence.

Slowly, fearfully, you opened your eyes, bracing for the cold steel of a gun, the condemning faces. But it wasn’t them. Alastor stood in the doorway, his face a mask of stunned disbelief. His chest heaved with ragged breaths, his gaze locked onto yours, unwavering. He seemed oblivious to the carnage around him as he stepped cautiously into the room, each crunch of shattered glass under his shoes a deafening intrusion.

“Y/n,” he whispered, his voice thick with disbelief, his hand reaching hesitantly towards you. “What happened, cher?”

Your hands remained clamped over your ears as his fingers closed around yours. A tremor ran through you, a mixture of shock and a desperate need for human contact. His touch, amidst the horror, was strangely gentle.

“I-I don’t know,” you choked out, the words catching in your throat. “I can’t… I just got so angry, Al,” a sob escaped.

Alastor shushed you, his free hand producing a pristine white handkerchief. “Let’s get you out of here,” he murmured, dabbing at the sticky wound on your forehead.

You flinched, clutching his hand tighter, afraid to let go of this unexpected lifeline. “What about all the blood… the body?”

“I know people,” was all he said, his eyes dark and unreadable as he steered you out of the house towards his waiting car.

72 Hours Earlier

The radio host's booming pronouncements filled the lounge, each word a dismissive wave of the hand regarding the disappearances plaguing the city. "In my opinion, everyone, this idea of a serial killer is absurd! If the police truly cared, they would be more effective in pursuing this troublemaker. The Bayou Butcher - HA! These killings and disappearances are simply the result of gang violence and bootlegging operations! Labeling someone a serial killer serves as an excellent distraction when you’re trying to keep the public at bay while allowing the alcohol to flow freely.”

"Turn it off," you stated, your voice low.

Vox lifted his gaze from the papers strewn across his mahogany desk – scripts, news clippings, the detritus of his broadcast ambitions. He found you in your armchair, a book open but forgotten on your lap. Your eyes, however, were fixed on the Philco lowboy in the corner, your eyebrows arched with a silent demand. Your simmering annoyance was a tangible thing, and with an exaggerated sigh, Vox abandoned his work.

"What was the purpose of buying you a radio if you never listen to it?" he questioned, his footsteps echoing in the sudden quiet. But the satisfying click of the off switch never came. Instead, the volume merely dipped, a deliberate act that tightened the knot of your frustration. The host's voice, even muffled, was an unwelcome intrusion, a constant reminder of Vox's peculiar fascination – a fascination rooted in his rivalry with Alastor. For years, Vox had chafed under Alastor's shadow, envying the effortless connection the other man forged with his listeners. Even off-air, Alastor possessed an uncanny ability to draw people in, a natural southern charm that consistently eluded the admittedly handsome Vox.

That very charm irritated you. You did enjoy the radio, and Vox's gift had initially sparked genuine joy. But his insistence on tuning into the station where he and Alastor worked had quickly soured the pleasure. The prospect of Alastor's honeyed drawl filling your evenings had transformed your treasured radio into a source of dread, haunted by the most grating voice in New Orleans.

"If he keeps gossiping like that, he'll be the Bayou Butcher's next victim," you murmured, your fingers tracing the familiar lines of your book, a futile attempt to reclaim your focus. You nudged your chair with your foot, a rhythmic rocking against the hardwood, a small act of rebellion against the intrusive broadcast.

"Doll," Vox cautioned, his tone losing its playful edge. He placed a hand on the arm of your chair, stilling its motion, silencing your small protest. "Let's limit any hostility towards my partner," he added, a quick kiss pressed to the top of your head, a gesture that felt more possessive than affectionate.

You considered the term 'partner' a flimsy pretense. Alastor, in your estimation, merely tolerated Vox, using him as a sounding board, a gauge for his own soaring ambitions. Vox, meanwhile, remained blissfully unaware, his gaze fixed on surpassing Alastor in the narrow confines of their shared profession.

Just as Vox turned back to his desk, the insistent shrill of the kitchen phone sliced through the strained quiet. His shoulders slumped with a sigh of irritation, another unwelcome interruption to his carefully planned evening. It was only 7:30 p.m.; the hour he had envisioned with a glass of illicit whiskey in his cigar room. Prohibition might reign, but their private reserves offered a sanctuary of indulgence.

You saw the tightening in Vox's jaw, the unspoken desire to return to his work. "I'll take care of it," you offered, closing your book and rising. But Vox held up a hand, a silent command to stay.

"No, I got it," he grumbled, reaching for a cigarette from the pack on his desk, the flare of the match momentarily illuminating the sharp angles of his face. "Turn the radio back on," he called over his shoulder, his footsteps quickening towards the relentless ringing.

Confusion flickered within you. You glanced at the radio, now blessedly silent, the annoying voice finally absent. You hadn't even registered its silence until Vox spoke. Only a faint static hummed from the speaker, the yellow light on the dial a deceptive indicator of its operation. A faulty tube, perhaps? But that usually brought with it a noisy sputtering, the acrid scent of burning components. You approached the radio, twisting the volume knob, a reflex to check if Vox had inadvertently silenced it earlier. As you cranked the dial to its maximum, the static intensified, a thin, unsettling hiss, but the host's voice remained stubbornly absent. A furrow creased your brow. "Hello?" you murmured softly to the inanimate object, an absurd expectation of a response hanging in the air.

"We apologize for the interruption—"

"Applesauce!" you exclaimed, your hand flying to the volume dial, the unexpected voice jolting you.

It wasn't Alastor's familiar drawl that filled the room, but a voice unknown, unsettlingly close.

"Our scheduled program will resume in 30 minutes. In the meantime, enjoy some of our favorite music. Coming up next is Mr. Vaughn Vox."

Oh, really? Your hand rested on the cool wood of the radio, your fingers tapping a silent rhythm of disapproval. Your gaze remained fixed on the unsuspecting device, not even glancing at Vox as he re-entered the room.

Vox lingered in the doorway, his hands casually tucked into his pockets, a cigarette dangling from his lips, a predatory stillness about him. "I have to—"

"I know," your hand dropped from the radio to your thigh, the unspoken tension thick in the air. Your evening with your husband, a stolen moment in the shadow of Alastor's looming presence, was now irrevocably altered. "This isn't like Alastor to abandon a show midway," you stated flatly, your eyes meeting Vox's over your shoulder, searching for something you couldn't quite name.

"His mother passed away," Vox said, the words surprisingly devoid of emotion.

But you weren't taken aback. Only death, you knew, could pull Alastor from his beloved microphone, and his mother, his singular vulnerability, had been ailing for some time. You remembered her fondly, a sweet woman who frequented your favorite cafe, her voice brimming with pride as she recounted her only child's achievements. You had listened with a polite smile, secretly bristling at her blindness to Alastor's arrogance. Eudora had lauded her son, but Alastor had never offered you a single genuine kindness. There had been a time when you admired his talent, a fleeting admiration that had vanished the moment you met the man behind the voice. Indeed, losing a parent was a profound loss, especially an only parent, yet in that moment, you felt no flicker of sympathy for the man who had always treated you with cool indifference.

Turning to Vox, you offered your most practiced pout. "There goes my evening."

Vox rolled his eyes, but a smile tugged at his lips as he pulled you close, his hands settling on your waist. "Just until midnight, and besides, this could be my chance," he murmured, a flash of something calculating in his eyes.

"Of course," you said, snatching the cigarette from his lips and inhaling deeply, your gaze deliberately lingering on his. A flicker of raw desire ignited in his eyes as he watched you. "Take advantage of him when he's vulnerable and steal his job."

Vox took the cigarette back, extinguishing it with unnecessary force in the ashtray on his desk. His hands slid down your back, his grip tightening as he captured your mouth in a sudden, possessive kiss.

The kiss was charged, urgent, but Vox, ever mindful of the clock, pulled away with a reluctant groan. With barely half an hour before he needed to be at the station, you watched him hurry out the door, a subtle, uncomfortable bulge shifting in his trousers. You settled back into your chair, a fragile sense of relief washing over you. For the next few hours, at least, the airwaves would be filled with your husband's voice, a welcome reprieve from the unsettling presence of Alastor Hartfelt.

As the night deepened, you lost yourself in the pages of your book, a small smile gracing your lips as Vox's voice, smooth and familiar, filled the room. He read Alastor's script with a practiced ease, and as the minutes ticked by, the sound of his voice, usually a comfort, began to lull you towards sleep.

If it weren't for that infernal phone ringing again in the kitchen.

With a sigh, you closed your book, your gaze drifting to the mantle clock as you rose. An hour had passed since Vox had left. Who could be calling now? It couldn't be him; his voice still echoed from the radio.

"Alright, alright," you muttered, striding into the kitchen and snatching the receiver, silencing the persistent shrill. "Hello, Vox residence."

"Ah, you must be his charming little esposa," a smooth voice interjected, laced with a subtle, unfamiliar Hispanic accent.

Your eyebrows shot up. You pulled the receiver away from your ear, scrutinizing the Bakelite as if it held the answer. Either the phone line was crackling with interference, distorting the voice, or a complete stranger was calling at this late hour.

"I beg your pardon," you replied, a sharp edge of frustration in your tone. "Could I ask who is on the line?"

"Valentino," the man whispered his name, drawing out the syllables with a tenderness that sent a shiver of unease down your spine. "I need to talk to Voxy."

Valentino? The only Valentino you could place was the notorious pimp, a figure frequently whispered about by the police, his name synonymous with exploitation. If it was indeed the same man, what possible business could he have with your husband? And why the intimate nickname, 'Voxy'?

"Vaughn isn't available," you retorted, your voice hardening. "Also, I'd prefer if you didn't call him Voxy."

At the other end, Valentino exhaled loudly, a sound heavy with something you couldn't quite decipher. "Tell him I called," he muttered, the line going dead with a sudden click.

The rest of the evening was a blur of unsettling thoughts. Valentino's call replayed in your mind, a discordant note in the familiar melody of your life with Vox. He had gone to work at the station, as always, to fill in for Alastor. How would this Valentino even know him? Vox always told you if he had plans outside of work. A cold tendril of suspicion began to snake its way around your heart.

After Valentino's abrupt departure, you retreated to the lounge, switching off the radio, Vox's voice now a source of discomfort rather than solace. You began your nightly routine, the familiar motions offering little comfort against the growing unease. Slipping into your silk nightgown, you climbed into your shared bed, instinctively moving closer to Vox's side, seeking the familiar comfort of his scent. But an ache had taken root in your chest, a hollow yearning for the reassuring touch of your husband. Perhaps you were being irrational. Surely, Vox would have a logical explanation, a way to dispel this creeping dread. For now, you tried to banish the intrusive thoughts, surrendering to a restless, uneasy sleep.

[breadheads-wife]

My family: what's your type

Me: objects

(I'm not saying I'm objectum, I'm joking about how most of my F/Os have an object for a head)