#love song is really good | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

plush-rabbit · 3 months

Text

Dating Vox Headcanons

I have opinions again!! It's been forever!!

A/N: its kinda on brand for me to fall for a tv headed demon

It comes to no surprise that Vox is obsessive when it comes to things that interest him. Taking note of you, is both a blessing and a curse. It’s cute- He’s cute. When he attempts to speak to you in the beginning, he’s mauve, not skipping a beat in his attempt to make himself bigger and better than anyone you’ve ever known. However, the moment that you take interest in him- that you actually encourage him to talk more about himself- he might actually short circuit a bit. His screen freezes and he might even flash SMPTE colors on his screen.

As cute as he can be in the beginning, his obsessiveness also leaves you with no privacy whatsoever. He needs to know what you’re doing. It’s almost more than a need. It’s a want. It’s a desire to check in on you no matter what he’s doing in the meantime. He checks on you constantly, and sometimes it's for the worst. Hearing you laugh with someone that isn’t him, knowing that you’re having a good time when he isn’t around, is enough to have him claw at the table. He won’t confront you about it- at least not in the beginning of the relationship. At some point, you just become aware that he’s there. That as long as there’s some sort of screen- a camera, a television, a watch, anything- he can be there in no time flat.

He needs you close to him. He doesn’t want to wait a second more without you, so he’ll hire you as his personal assistant. It’s great pay and hours, and the benefits are reserved to you and only you. At first, you’re grateful- you’re in Hell and your partner is someone who holds power, honestly, it could be worse. He gets the benefit of seeing you everyday, practically 24/7, with you at his beck and call. You scurry beside him, take your lunches beside him, he takes up your entire time. The few times that you are allowed to go eat with others in the building, he’s keeping an eye on you. He needs to make sure that he can trust the others around you- that they won’t set you up for failure.

That being said, any relationships that you have outside of him and the other Vees, is monitored. Thanks to technology and addictive personalities, everyone has some sort of device on them at all times. He needs to make sure you aren’t with people who will whisper misguidance into your ear. He needs to make sure that you’re okay. However, the minute someone gets a bit too cozy with you, he’ll make sure to take care of the problem. Whether it's stitching an audio together to make it sound like they’re badmouthing you, or anything of the sort, he’ll do it. He just needs you with him. He can’t risk someone else starting to tell you how suffocating the relationship sounds.

It’s gifts here and there for you! Whatever you want- whatever you’ve even browsed online, he’s sending it your way via express shipping. It’s wonderful at first- you get what you want and all you have to do is tell the television demon how wonderful he is and how much you appreciate him and how you’ll never leave him. It’s sweet at first, you get nice things, but then you have an argument with him, and you realize that his gifts aren’t just that. What he gave you was expensive- would it kill you to just be a little kinder to him? You can’t just smile and admit you’re wrong at least once? Especially after everything he’s done for you?

Whether you’re tolerated by Velvette or Valentino or not, you’re stuck in every meeting that Vox has with them. Lunches, dinners, conferences, attempting to calm Valentino down after a tantrum, overseeing Velvette and her fashion shows- you’re right there, next to Vox. His hand claws over the top of your head, patting you, or raking his claws down your back or over your arm in an attempt to soothe him. The way he sees it, he soothes everyone else, and there’s no one to settle his nerves except for you. You’re an accessory at times- dolled up, perched at his side, and only speaking when you’re given permission to. You’re paraded around the office, following him close at his heels, making sure that where he goes, you follow. You can’t be left alone- what if something were to happen to you? He needs to be close by to make sure that you stay safe.

He hates getting upset at you. It breaks his heart- or whatever he has inside of him- to see you snap at him. You curl your lips, bare your fangs and with tears in your eyes, you tell him how you’re exhausted and how you don’t want to be some accessory to him, how you’re tired of being stuck inside the damn tower. You never listen to his warnings of it being so dangerous outside, and when you do make an attempt to walk away from him, you remember that he’s an Overlord, and you are not. He’s horrific, mean, and much stronger than you are, and he has no trouble putting you in your place if you even make an attempt to leave him. He really does hate yelling at you. You’re terrified of him days after, flinching and tensing when he reaches for you. But you’re just a bit dense and while you’re pretty, there’s not much going on in that head of yours, so you have to understand that he just has to be assertive sometimes.

After an argument, he doesn’t necessarily say he’s sorry, but he is softer around you for quite some time. His hands caress yours, and he adorns your wrist in jewelry, letting the tips of claws bump over every bridge of charms and rings. His claw traces over your fingertips, and he mumbles sweet things to you. He tells you how pretty you are, and how sweet you are to him. He takes a day off to just spend with you, to make up for everything that happened before. An apology will never be spoken out loud, he could never admit that he went too far, but he would tell you that maybe you two can leave the tower, go someplace nice and see all that he doesn’t let you see alone.

Considering who he is surrounded with consistently, he needs attention that isn’t cruel. He craves your attention. He likes how kind you are to him. In those moments where everything is still, and the lights aren’t so bright, but coloring you both in a golden hue, he likes the quiet when it's with you. It’s interesting to watch him be so apprehensive with his movements. He slowly rests himself on his stomach, the back of his screen facing upwards, as your hand starts to scratch up and down his back. You can feel him shiver, you can feel his breath, the tapping of his claws against you- the stillness that he tries to hold just so you won’t stop. If your phone buzzes, or your attention is taken away, he buries himself further into you, a low hum emitting from him. It’s the few times you see him so mellow.

There are times when Vox can be sweet. When he has the time- usually during a lunch, or one of your breaks- he’s right beside you, listening to you rattle on about this or that, showing him a video on your phone. He’ll nod and laugh, be attentive and ask follow up questions so you know he’s actually paying attention. You’re pressed close to him, his arm over your shoulders, your legs over his, bodies pressed so close together, it’s a wonder you two haven’t melded into one. Even if his screen makes certain things difficult, it doesn’t stop you from seeking him out. Despite how malicious he can be, you return to him, you adore how he talks sweetly to you, how he calls you his one and only, his dear, his sweetheart.

360 notes · View notes

starry-bi-sky · 18 days

Text

Stuck in the middle of a forest made of

Flesh and bones and they're all scared of

A lost little boy who has lost his heart

Fear's not enough, they have to

Tear him apart —-------

There are two things Daniel Fenton knows that his family knows as well:

He’s adopted.

He can’t remember anything else before that.

‘Adoption’ is a loose term, implying that they went through the official legal processes and troubles of adopting a child into their home willingly, and with the full intention of doing so going into it. That is not what happened. What happened is that Jasmine Fenton found a half-dead child, in strange clothing, in the middle of the woods at her Aunt Alicia’s cabin, and then she went and got her parents.

What happened is that a twelve year old Danny woke up in the same cabin, wearing clothes much too big on him that didn’t belong to him, and with very little memory of before that moment. He wakes up like a spring being set loose, sitting up so fast he scares the daylights out of Jasmine Fenton sitting next to him. He wakes up, reaching for his sleeve for something that isn’t there, and when it isn’t his mind stutters, like he’s tripped at the top of a steep hill.

When they ask him for his name, he tells them, clearing muddled thoughts from his mind; Danny. He’s twelve.

(He thinks that’s his name, at least. It sounds right; it feels right. If he thinks really hard about it, he thinks he can remember someone calling him that, utter adoration in their voice. So it must be his name.)

The Jasmine girl convinces her parents to take him home with them, and they give him the spare guest room upstairs. He has nothing to fill it with.

It’s… a strange experience, to go to a ‘new’ home when he doesn’t even remember his old one.

The official adoption process… happens. He can’t say it’s easy, or difficult. He’s oblivious for the most of it, Jasmine intends on helping him settle in and Danny can’t say he enjoys the smothering. He learns that he is stubbornly self-independent, that’s one new thing he knows about himself.

His adoption papers say ‘Daniel J. Fenton’. Danny remembers staring at the name ‘Daniel’ for a long, long moment, something curdling sour in his sternum. His name is Danny, that he knows. But it’s not Daniel. But he doesn’t know any other way of saying it, so he keeps his complaints to himself.

(Jack Fenton boisterously claps his hand on Danny’s shoulder and jerks him around, grinning wide as he welcomes him into the Fenton Family. Danny’s mind blanches at the touch on his shoulder, an instinct snapping like the maw of a snake, telling him to cut off the man’s fingers for daring to touch him.)

(He keeps the thought to himself, tension rising up his shoulders the longer Jack Fenton’s heavy hand stays on him.)

They found Danny in the summer. It’s a perfect coincidence, Maddie Fenton says before she goes back into her lab with Jack Fenton. She says it’s enough time to allow Danny to adjust; that they’ll enroll him into the school year in the fall. Then she stuffs a canister of ectoplasm onto the top shelf, and disappears like the ghosts she studies back down the stairs.

(There’s something eerily familiar about the ectoplasm sitting in the fridge, something unsettlingly so. Danny knows what that stuff is, but he doesn’t know where. When the house is empty, he takes a can from the fridge and inspects it.)

Jazz wants him to leave the house. Danny doesn’t want to step foot outside of the FentonWorks building until he has something that quells the feeling of vulnerability he gets whenever he does. He tried to once, and he felt exposed. Unsafe.

He turned back around and went inside.

—-------

Where do we go

When the river's running slow

Where do we run

When the cats kill one by one

—------

One day, when the house is empty — or, as empty as it can be; the Fenton parents down in the lab, and jazz out with friends. Danny is making a sandwich, and he caves into the urge to flip the knife in his hands between his fingers. A childish impulse, but one he falls for nonetheless. It comes to him easily, like second nature, in fact. The slip of the blade between his fingers is seamless, flowing with an ease like water running down the wall.

He’s almost startled by it; his body holds memories that his mind does not. Muscles that know which way to move and twist, limbs that know how to hold and how to throw. He continues twirling it, fascinated, as if he were a scientist discovering a new species of animal.

It’s not for a handful of minutes when a new thought hits him; an impulsive thought that pops in the back of his mind like a firecracker; Danny moves without thinking.

He turns, and throws the knife. The pull of his shoulder, the flick of his elbow, is familiar like a hug. He knows when to let go, and the blade flies through the air in impressive speed, embedding itself into the wall with a hearty, loud thunk. Sinking into the drywall like butter.

Danny stares at it in shock, he feels relieved — about what? — before he feels the guilt. He scrambles across the kitchen to pull it out, heart racing in his chest at being caught, and prays no one notices the hole it left behind.

(He runs up the stairs before anyone can find him, food forgotten, and hides the knife beneath his mattress like a guilty murder weapon.)

After that, he leaves the house more. It’s more out of fear of being caught than the desire to leave. But Danny is quickly learning that among all things, he is someone who was dangerous, before he lost his memory. Even with his mind in fractures, he is still dangerous.

He’s not sure how to feel about that — he thinks he should be scared. He feels a little proud, instead.

—------

Hazel beneath our claws

While we wait for cerulean to cry

Unsettled ticks run through time

Enough for the hunt to go awry

—-----

There’s another thing he learns about himself. That he knows about since he woke up. He knows that he left someone behind. He doesn’t know who, but he knows they must have been close; he’s always looking down and finding himself surprised when the only shadow he sees is his own.

He thinks that he must have sung to them a lot; he finds himself humming familiar melodies when he’s lost in thought. Lullabies lingering at the tip of his tongue, an instinct to turn and sing them to someone beside him. He can’t remember the lyrics, but his mouth does, it tries to get him to say them when he’s not thinking. He can’t.

Danny’s found himself humming under his breath more times than he can count, trying to recall whatever it is his mind is trying to claw forward.

(“That’s a pretty song, Danny.” Jazz tells him at breakfast one day, Danny screws his mouth shut. He hadn’t realized he was humming. “What is it?”)

(Something mean and possessive rears its head on instinct, uncoiling like a snake from its ball. His shoulders hunch defensively, he bites his cheek to prevent himself from baring his teeth. He doesn’t know what song it is, but it’s not for her. “I don’t know.”)

He misses his person. Dearly. He knows, the longer he is without them, that they must have been close. Otherwise, he wouldn’t feel like he’s missing a chunk from himself. He wouldn’t be turning to someone who's not there; reaching for a hand that’s missing, birdsong on his tongue, a story to tell.

A dream haunts him one night. Warm and familiar, he’s holding onto someone smaller than him, they’re tucked into his side like a puzzle piece. He’s humming one of his songs that is always playing in the back of his mind, an unfinished tale of a harpy and a hare. Danny can’t remember their face, not all of it. He remembers green eyes, hair dark like his own, skin brown like his.

He loves them more than anything else in the world, a fact he knows down to his soul. He loves them so much it fills his heart with sunlight. Danny squeezes them tight, nuzzling into their hair; he makes them laugh. Then, he proudly boasts something. That when he takes something of their father’s, that his person — a sibling? That feels right — will be… the word fades from Danny’s mind before he can make sense of it.

His person hugs him tight, his… brother? And their mother — a woman whose face he can’t remember either, but who he loves like a limb nonetheless — appears, smiling. Her hands reach for them both, voice calling them, ‘her sons’. There’s ticking in the distance, it sounds like the fastening of chains.

Danny wakes up cold, tears streaming down his face. The details of the dream already fading from his mind like the cold pull of a corpse.

—-------

Harpy hare

Where have you buried all your children?

Tell me so I say

—-------

When school starts that Fall, Danny joins the sixth grade class, and quickly learns more things about himself. One of those things being that he’s smarter than the rest of his grade, whatever education he had before, it was better than the one he’s getting now.

Everyone knows he’s adopted right off the bat. He tells them when the teacher forces himself to introduce himself, but it’s not like they needed him to tell them for them to know; he never existed in their little world before now, and the Fentons are pale as they come. Danny is not.

He befriends Sam Manson and Tucker Foley; they ask him about the scars fading up and down his arms, they ask him about the scar carved diagonal across his face.

Danny, as politely as he can, tells them he doesn’t remember. He thought kindness would come second nature to him, his dream burned into his mind where he hugged his brother so sweetly. Apparently, his sweetness is only second nature to people he considers his own.

(It becomes even more apparent when Dash Baxter tries to bully him later that day, and Danny ruffles like an eagle threatened. His mind whispers, hissy and agitated, sinking like a shadow at his shoulder, several different ways Danny could kill him for talking to him like that, and fifteen more ways he could cripple him.)

(Danny ignores those thoughts, up until Dash Baxter tries to grab him. Then he breaks his nose on the wood of his desk. It’s easy how quickly the rest of his grade sinks him down to the status of social pariah.)

(At least Sam and Tucker still talk to him after that. When Danny goes to the principal’s office later, he wisely doesn’t mention the worse things he could’ve done than break Dash Baxter’s nose.)

—--------------

It clicks and it clatters in corners and borders

And they will never

Hear me here listen to croons and a calling

I'll tell them all the

Story, the sun, and the swallow, her sorrow

Singing me the tale of the Harpy and the Hare

—-------

More dreams come, of course they do. Each one halfway to forgotten whenever he wakes up, ticking faint in his ears. He is many different ages. He is young, shorter than a table. He is older, holding onto his little brother. He is singing in almost every single one. He is singing to his brother.

Danny can barely remember the lyrics, he’s begun leaving a journal by his bedside so that it’s the first thing he can write down when he wakes up. He’s a storyteller, he learns. He feels like a historian, trying to piece together a culture long dead and forgotten.

His most vivid dream-like memory is not a happy one, and for once he’s almost relieved he barely recalls it. He is somewhere that isn’t home, but his mother and brother are there. He is dressed in black, blades keen in his hands.

They are atop a moving train. They are fleeing something. His brother is struggling to keep up, he is small, and young. It’s beautifully sunny, they are somewhere green and lovely.

It is a fast dream.

His brother stumbles on something, and Danny, fast as a whip, snatches him by the back of his shirt and hoists him up to his feet before he can fall. “Watch your feet, habibi.” He murmurs low, a hand on his back. It’s hard to hear, there is wind in their ears.

His brother, face obscured in all but his eyes, which are green as emeralds, nods.

The dream blurs, but Danny falls behind. His foot catches on air — impossible, it should’ve been, at least. He never trips. — and he lands against the roof with a thud and a grunt. His mother and brother stop, and turn for him.

The train hits a turn before Danny can get up, and he shouldn’t have, something pulls on him, he swears, but he slips. He can’t find the purchase to pull himself up, cold fear hits him as his nails scrape against the metal.

His mother and brother’s horrified faces are the last thing he sees before he disappears off the side of the train.

(The ticking is at its loudest when he wakes up, pounding against his inner skull. He only manages to write down ‘train fall’ in his journal, before he’s flipping over to press his head into his pillow to get the pain to stop.)

—---

She can't keep them all safe

They will die and be afraid

Mother, tell me so I say

(Mother, tell me so I say)

—-------

When Danny is fourteen he is still humming songs he can’t remember, his mind still in a broken puzzle. But his room is now decorated with stars and plants in every corner. He has a guitar he keeps in the corner of his room, and he plays the lullabies in his head on the strings over and over again.

The ectoplasm in the fridge still unsettles him, still reminds him of a past he can’t recall. The knife beneath his mattress has returned to the kitchen — he doesn’t need it. He found a box in the attic last year, it had his name on it, and inside he found familiar, strange clothes, and more weapons than he thought was possible to carry on one person.

(Even without knowing that the Fentons prefer guns to blades, Danny knows, instinctively, that they were his weapons. He was — was? Is — a dangerous person. He takes the box down to his room to sort through. The weapons all fit into his callused hands almost perfectly — the grooves worn to fit his palm. They’re just a little small.)

(He tentatively takes a small blade with him to school one day, and feels much more comfortable with it sheathed beneath his shirt. He’s kept it on him ever since, like he’s reunited a lost limb to himself.)

Danny doesn’t have a name for his person, his little brother, nor does he have a name for his beloved mother. He’s haunted by dreams every few weeks, many of them repeating. He’s ingrained the words he can remember to memory, and the ones he doesn’t, he writes down in his journal. His little brother; Danny calls him a bird, he can’t figure out what kind. His little bird of some kind; when Danny takes something from their father — what, he can’t remember what — then his little brother will be a little bird.

(He doesn’t have a name for his brother, yet, but he’s calling his birdie in his head. It’s better than nothing.)

—------

Seeker, do you ever come to wonder

If what you're looking for is within where you hold

Will you leave a trail for them to follow a path

You'll soon forget

Home

—---------

When he’s fourteen, Danny dies. It does nothing to fix his fractured memories, much to his consternation. It just confirms something he already knows; that he was someone dangerous, and that he still is.

When the shock of death has worn off, Danny inspects his ghost in the metal reflection of the closest table. It’s blurry, hard to see, but shock green eyes pierce back at him, green like the portal. Lazarus, Danny’s mind whispers, and he blinks rapidly.

‘Lazarus,’ he mouths to himself. It’s familiar. Sam shows him with her phone what he looks like, joking that he looks like an assassin. Danny doesn’t think she’s that too far off.

He doesn’t tell her that. He tucks the thought away with the rest of his secrets, and fiddles with the hood gathering at his neck, attached to a cape with torn edges swinging down to his ankles. He pulls it over his shock white hair. It shadows over his face impossibly so, until all you can see are his green-green eyes peering out like a wolf hiding in the brush.

He ends up calling himself Phantom.

(Maybe now he can start putting lyrics to his lullabies; his memories may not have returned, locked away with the sound of a clock, but the dead can talk. One of them may just have answers.)

----------

Home is where we are

Home is where you are

Home is where I am

-----------------

Dedicated to @gascansposts for being the one who introduced me to the band Yaelokre, and thus being the whole reason I was inspired to write this in the first place >:] Those lyrics at the line breaks are all from their album Hayfields.