Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

But then there were those who didn’t belong to either.

The forgotten ones.

The ones who existed only to fill the silence, to paint the illusion of a world that felt real. Their presence was nothing more than background noise, a flicker of colour that made the scene look full. You were one of them. A shadow dressed up in beauty, a hollow thing meant to stand still while others took the stage.

You were the smile in the crowd, the fleeting glance that no one ever remembered, the heartbeat muffled under someone else’s symphony.

And the cruellest part wasn’t being invisible. It was knowing you were.

Knowing that no matter how much you screamed, how much you bled trying to matter, your existence would always fade into the scenery. A prop in someone else’s story. A body without a voice.

Less than a character.

Less than a soul.

A ghost that kept pretending to be alive, just to give the world its depth. 

The thought of attention made you uneasy. You avoided leadership roles, shrank from praise, and ducked away from anything that might draw eyes to you. The spotlight wasn’t made for you. It felt like a scorching heat meant to burn people like you to ash.

So you lived quietly, tucked into the corners of the world. You existed in silence, where even your name felt like an afterthought. Sometimes, during the lonelier nights, you wondered if you were really alive at all. 

Had you ever even started to live?

Your job didn’t help. You worked in a sterile tower of glass and artificial smiles, a tech company so large that your identity had been reduced to a six-digit number. No one called you by name anymore. You had become data, like the files you processed.

Each day, you sat at your desk and watched celebrity popularity statistics rise and fall like tides on a screen. It was your job to log them, track them, feed them into a system that never stopped consuming. You were just a tiny cog keeping the engine running.

You hunched over your desk, the cold glow of your monitor soaking into your skin. As you adjusted your thick-rimmed glasses, you glanced toward the break room. A group of coworkers stood near the water cooler, laughing together, their voices light and easy.

You looked down at yourself. Your cardigan was frayed at the sleeves, the tan slacks slightly wrinkled from wear. Your shoes were plain and comfortable, chosen more for survival than for style.

And then there was Charlie. She was beautiful in that effortless, unreachable way. Her golden hair always fell in perfect waves, not a strand out of place. Her eyes were the colour of the ocean just before a storm, bright and endless. 

She was stunning.

Next to her, you felt like scenery. Not even a background character. You felt like the trash can behind the set, barely noticeable and better off unseen.

It was difficult to care about anything. You had no dreams, no goals. You just worked your hours, returned to your small apartment, ate the same food, and fell asleep to do it all over again. The loop never ended. You had lost touch with every friend you once had, and the idea of love or intimacy had become a foreign concept.

Still, this life was the one you had. It was what you knew. What else was there?

Your coworkers passed by again, laughing as they went. Not a glance. Not a greeting.

But you didn’t greet them either.

It was fine.

Living like this was fine.

You were fine.

At least, that’s what you kept telling yourself.

Until the day you met him.

Vox.

He wasn’t just famous. He was everywhere. He seemed to appear out of nowhere, a rising star who lit up every show he touched. He sang strange little show tunes that stuck in your head, charmed every audience, and left people wanting more.

He was breathtaking. A man carved out of bold lines and quiet danger. His hair was obsidian black, swept back with practiced ease. His eyes were dark blue, gleaming with something sharp and unreadable.

He was tall. He was magnetic. He was everything people whispered about in half-lit bars and magazine articles.

No one knew where he came from or how he managed to take over the popularity ranks so quickly.

And slowly, whether you wanted it to or not, your world began to shift.

It started innocently enough.

You would find yourself pausing in front of a subway poster, your train just minutes away. Through the plexiglass, his face gazed back at you, his eyes dark and unending, his hair slicked back like velvet shadows, and his lips curled into that self-assured, knowing smirk. He was beautiful. Irresistibly so. It was easy to look. 

To linger. 

Just a little longer.

But curiosity turned into fascination. A few clicks led you to his music—smooth, catchy, the kind of sound that lived in your bones long after the last note faded. And then there was his reality show, that sinfully addictive series in which twelve beautiful women competed for his attention, his touch, and his laugh. And he? He made every moment feel like a performance, like a game only he knew how to play.

You watched. And then you kept watching.

Somewhere between his sultry voice and his devil-may-care grin, something deep inside you stirred. Something raw. Something hungry.

The void that had carved out space in your chest for years suddenly started to fill. The world didn’t seem so muted anymore. Your days began to carry weight and meaning. Your mornings were no longer empty because there was always something new from him to look forward to. 

His voice. His face. His presence.

You began to fill your world of him.

Lunch breaks became rituals, a private hour spent tucked into the office corner, your phone screen glowing with his face. Podcasts with his low, lazy voice filled your ears on the way home. You played them on loop. You wanted to know everything about him, to consume every laugh, every pause, every breath.

Your little apartment started to change. Posters covered the walls. Some you bought. Some you begged for. One, the grocer gave to you with a sigh, his voice dry as he handed it over, like he already knew how far gone you were. You poured your savings into live shows, even if you sat in the farthest row. Just being near him—sharing the same space, the same air—was enough to make your chest ache with something close to ecstasy.

For the first time in your life, you felt alive.

This was happiness. This was love.

It had to be.

One night, after a long, numb day at work, you lay on your bed. The city hummed faintly outside your window. You turned to your side and pulled your Vox body pillow close, the printed fabric soft against your skin. His face looked up at you with that smirk, frozen but devastating all the same.

Your eyes wandered to his lips.

You swallowed.

What would it feel like to press your mouth to his? To run your tongue across the curve of that grin? You'd never kissed anyone before, never even been touched...but you knew your own body. And lately, every time your fingers wandered, it was his image behind your eyelids, his name whispered into the dark.

Tonight was no different.

You let your fingers drift across your chest, circling gently, teasing the sensitive skin before sliding down your stomach. The heat in your core pulsed with every heartbeat. You pressed your thighs together, already aching, already so warm.

It wouldn't hurt to feel good again. You weren’t hurting anyone.

Your hand slipped under your waistband, fingers moving slowly through the slick warmth between your legs. A soft moan escaped you as your clit throbbed under your touch. Your legs opened, inviting, trembling with the promise of release.

You imagined him beside you, that voice low and rough against your ear. His hands replacing yours, firm and commanding. His hot breath licking up your throat.

Your hips moved with each delicate circle of your fingers, the rhythm growing faster as your breath quickened. Your free hand clutched the pillow tighter, holding his image close to your chest like a lover.

You whispered his name again, and again, like a prayer.

Because here, in this small room, in the quiet dark, you were his.

And in your mind—he was yours too.

Vox would smell of mint and cologne, that perfect blend of sharp and sweet, like the first inhale of a luxury you’d never been allowed to taste. You could almost feel his breath ghosting over your neck, hear the low rumble of his voice murmuring filth and tenderness in equal measure. His thick fingers would part your folds with practiced ease, dragging slowly along your slick heat, coaxing your body to bloom for him.

A rough fingertip would press against your clit—just right, just enough—and your back would arch instinctively, lips parting with a soft moan as your own fingers mirrored the fantasy. You swirled over the sensitive bundle in steady, practiced circles, hips lifting to chase the sensation.

The quiet wet sounds of your pleasure were barely muffled beneath the layers of your clothes. Your other hand slipped beneath your shirt, finding your breasts heavy with need. You pinched a nipple between your fingers, squeezing, tugging, feeling the jolt of pleasure ripple down to your core. Your hips moved slowly and deliberately, going up and down like the tide.

"Vox," you breathed out. "Vox..."

His name left your lips like a dirty little secret. 

In your mind, his voice was rich and deep, laced with a teasing cruelty that sent shivers racing down your spine.

"You're going to cry for me, baby doll? You gonna soak my hand with that pretty little cum?"

"Yes... yes," you whimpered. Your legs tensed, heels digging into the mattress as your hips rose again, desperate for more. The rhythm of your fingers quickened, pressure building, pleasure coiling tight in your gut like a spring ready to snap.

You turned your face toward the body pillow beside you. His printed smile met you there—bold, knowing, wicked—and you pressed your lips to his. Your mouth trembled against the fabric just as the climax hit. A gasp tore through you, trembling and raw, as waves of heat pulsed through your body, rolling over you in heady bursts.

"Ah—yes... yes..."

Your wrist ached but still moved in slow, gentle circles, drawing out the final moments of release as your thighs quivered, and your breath came in ragged, uneven bursts.

Minutes passed in silence, broken only by the pounding of your heart.

Eventually, you exhaled. Deep and slow.

Your eyes opened to the familiar white ceiling, its textured popcorn pattern hazy with afterglow. You let them drift downward, scanning the surrounding walls—wallpapered with images of him. Vox in every possible form. Shirtless. Laughing. Leaning into the camera with hunger in his eyes. There was one photo that always stole your breath. A Calvin Klein ad where he stood in nothing but tight black briefs, the shadows artfully placed, the promise of a bulge just barely visible.

You stared at it, flushed and full, your skin still tingling from the memory you created for yourself.

You wanted to meet him. 

Just once.

To stand near him. 

Breathe the same air. Maybe shake his hand, hold his gaze for a heartbeat too long. You imagined him signing something just for you. Smiling. Maybe remembering your name.

And yet, deep down, you knew.

The world he lived in was one of glittering stages and flashing lights. Yours was made of dull floors, flickering fluorescents, gray mornings that bled into gray nights. There were no camera crews here. No red carpets. 

Just... routine. Emptiness. Silence.

Still, as you pressed your cheek back to the body pillow, your heart softened.

This was enough.

He didn’t know your name. He probably never would. But since Vox entered your life, there had been light again. A pulse. A reason to wake up, even if just to see his face on a screen.

And maybe you didn’t deserve more. Maybe asking for more would be greedy, dangerous. Because what if you got a taste and couldn’t stop? What if, one day, it all disappeared, and the silence came back stronger than before?

You couldn't bear that.

So you told yourself this was enough. Whispered it like a truth you had to believe.

You were happy.

Or, at the very least...you told yourself you were.