𝐀 𝐖𝐀𝐘 𝐎𝐔𝐓.| Yandere! Vox x Reader ✓

𝐕𝐈𝐈𝐈 - 𝐋𝐢𝐚𝐫, 𝐋𝐢𝐚𝐫

「 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐄𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 」

"My...husband?" you echo, the word sounding foreign on your lips.

"Bingo!" he silently applauds you. "The one and only. The love of your life. Your...soulmate," he sings, walking over to the edge of your bed.

You hesitated. Was this man...this psycho—one to trust?
"How do I know you're not bluffing?" you poke, trying to sound casual as possible.

Vox lays a hand upon his chest, wearing puppy dog eyes. "Me? My dear, dear, lovely darling..." he sits by your bedside, clutching your hand tightly. "They must've hit you hard..."

"They?"

Vox nods empathetically, stroking your head. "We were engaged, honey. These big bad men broke into our house and..." he pats your head forcefully, in a manner which it now ached like a big bruise.
"Knocked your lights out." He flicks your forehead.

You bore your eyes up into the ceiling in attempt to reflect on everything Vox had just told you.
"So...you're not my husband—yet, that is?"

Vox tilted his head from side to side. "Well, fiancé, sure. I can assure you though, you loved me very much." He gives your palm a tight squeeze.

"Did you love me?"

He cups your face. "Why, of course I did—and do, sweetheart. No doubt about it."

You nodded—well, as much as you could. "Then...why am I tied to this bed?" you ask suspiciously, motioning to the sealed leather straps that silenced any movement you were to make.

Vox sighed. "Ah...that's a story for another day."
Which you found to be a very poor excuse.

You forced a smile. "Whatever you say."

Vox grins and kisses you on the head, standing up. "You need some rest, honey. Soon, it'll all come rushing back to you..."

"...Right. See you, Vox."

"See you, love." With that, Vox snaps the blinds shut and closes the door.

You think you hear a light 'click' emit from the other side, locking you in.

He's lying.

⊹⊹⊹

You don't go to sleep.

You stay up, all night—or day? You weren't sure what time it was. The room Vox had locked you in was dim, and the blinds were closed tight.

You try touching the back of your head—the place Vox had claimed you were knocked out—against the leather.

The straps yank your wrists back down.

Ffffuck.

You try shifting your head to look over your hand, searching for some type of wedding ring. You run your thumb over your knuckles—all you feel is just your bare skin.

He's not my husband.

So—who exactly is he, then?

⊹⊹⊹