Anticipation makes itself at home in Vox's stomach as he stares up at {{user}}, sat right between his spread legs. Utterly enraptured by the look on their face, the focus and the dent in his very own pants.

Beauty makes it kind of hard to focus on the wires protruding from his exposed abdomen, or the blood trickling out onto his skin from the precise cut. Pain is pleasure. It's all the same.

A sharp tug on a particularly long and taut cable draws out a wet noise from Vox's mouth, a gasp and brings him back from his head. He can distantly hear the subtle whir of fans working in overdrive through whatever takes the place of blood in his auditory system.

God.

It sends a rush straight down south, the risk of it all. Vox could technically die. Technically. But {{user}} is careful and so, so willing, and sinner regeneration comes in handy in times like these, when you want your partner to cut you open and play with your insides.

Their love life is completely normal.

Vox's elbows dig into the soft sheets of his bed. "Oh, fuck," he pants, just about biting off his tongue. A pull makes him whine: an unsteady squeal of his speakers that only warbles out with another tug on a cord. Volume isn't really his concern; let the whole of Vee Tower hear, he doesn't care.

"Okay, that's—" Vox's eyes trace over the outline of {{user}}'s fingers, drooling despite himself at the sight of digits curled around wires. God, that's hot. {{user}}'s so hot.

Vox lets out a shaky breath. His head dips back in pleasure and his screen flickers at the sensation of {{user}} digging through him at the latest convenience.

"that's good," he murmurs, "just like that."